BOYS DON'T QUEEF--Part Two by ZUIDERZEE zuiderzee@yahoo.com m,ff,(?),1st,cbt,size,interr,oral,teen,va,viol. Disclaimer: This here tale's meant for them growed- up folks that don't mind none havin' a tale of sinful goings-on told to 'em. Amen. Tomboys--an acquired Taste I was fed up. Things were going too good. I was growing up too fast. Childhood, for all its disadvantages spared me the pain of being tried as an adult if I ever got into the trouble I was anticipating. Sex, I'd had. And so far, it had been more than great. I'd played the kissing games of various sorts, and then there had been some horny feel-ups, prankish flashing, strip- poker games, skinny-dipping and peeping--in short, all the things a straight boy is supposed to see, feel and brag vaguely about before he is pushed into Junior High School. Crushes? I'd gotten sweet on a few pretty faces in my class, but my eyes and hard-on always swung in the direction of my girlfriend's older sister, a young teacher or substitute or the girls in upper classes who came in to help grade the written tests. My favorite was DD-cupper Tamora Quinn of 6th grade. I was still in 4th, but upwardly mobile... On Valentine's Day, just as mom was picking me up from school, Tamora Quinn, "Queenie" by then, held my arm, mashed both her sweater-bound gazongas into me and kissed me full on the lips, inspiring a level 3 boner. Queenie never did any more than that, but I saw her in a one-piece on Independence Day. She had thick legs, a waist heavier than I preferred, and a tummy, but her tits were HUUUGE and her nips were like thimbles in her Old Glory patterned swimsuit. This time, I gave her a real patriotic salute that she didn't miss. I thank God I wasn't wearing swim-trunks then. Her folks and mine weren't there, but a host of horny teens and preteens were and my Hawaiian shirt hid my monster erection from sight. A genuine tomboy might have dared to hit the ol' water hole in a pair of cut-off deinms and a shirt knotted at the belly and just maybe a bra to settle parental worries, but the comic-book Amazon look sans lasoo was still classic. She gave me another big hug which pushed her melons under her chin and drove my hard-on into her fleshy belly. Our onlookers oohed and ahhed and giggled. It was a clash of titans. The biggest boobs and biggest dick had met for another tussle. I had precum oozing out all the rest of the day. The evening fireworks show was a metaphor for what I would have treated her to if she hadn't left early. I was in full frustration. I jacked off for a whole week thinking about her--she must have been preparing for that day. Queenie was my first taste of tomboyhood, but in all fairness, she barely qualified and by years end, she had blended in nicely with all the other girls. My mother suspected, but didn't know for sure that I'd done much more. When I saw how violent and messy ejaculations were, I had to go to certain lengths--to make sure the stains and smell of my cum weren't in my clothes. The sight of a kid buying his own underwear was strange, but I'd had to do just that a few times. Not at Schneer's--they knew me too well over there--but at Sav-O-Rama, the discontinued brand outlets that snapped up the wares the pricier stores couldn't get rid of. I carried two pairs of shorts around in my backpack after I was given my first hand-job at 8. I didn't have the angle on pants and shirts worked out, so I made sure I never got globs of spuz on them. I forget who recommended tonic water as a stain remover; I still haven't tried it. My first blow-job was sweet, and the yield of that whopping load all went into a nimbly-applied handkerchief. I was so transported in bliss, I didn't find out until later that the lip-balm-smacking angel of the ski slopes who'd given it to me had thought enough to put another one down my shorts to collect whatever might seep out later on. Taking a chance, I flushed that cum-sponge down the nearest toilet and made myself scarce. There were other vices, but I wasn't as physically or emotionally equipped to handle them as I was obviously was in the arena of lovemaking. I had reached and surpassed the foot-long mark in the cock department before I was in my teens. Food was already beginning to bore me and I dreaded a future of dinner dates. Liquor, even beer, tasted like mouthwash or piss or watered-down oven cleaner. Having an overabundant supply of hormones and overactive glands, I didn't need the systemic confusion of a full bladder getting in the way of my torrential ejaculations. I steered clear of drugs except for appetite suppressants until my mom found out and tantrumized me away from them and back into home-cooking. I began to think she was spiking my meals with Lecithin and Horny Goat Weed. My hard-ons under the dinner table made getting up a real pain; I finally learned the trick of setting a crammed ice-bag on my lap to quell the heat. Commercial shoots and auditions for them kept me out of school for semesters and under the watchful eye of Buzz Deerhardt, my paternal grandfather--my only real grandparent--who was just qualified enough to fill the post of chaperone, guardian, tutor and confidant. A horn-dog in his day and not impotent by any means yet, Buzz was only 49 and refused to be called "Grand-pa" either by me or my mother. There was no fooling Buzz; he knew only too well about my erection attacks and bouts of horniness, but he never pushed me into following my urges. He didn't need to. I was hung, young, handsome and in line to make and inherit close to 2 million dollars. I chiefly had to make it to the age of 21. The circumstances involving my sister and I being conceived had ripped two families apart. In whatever place he'd hidden himself, dad had been bypassed in Grand-ma Deerhardt's will, so had mom. Her bitter divorce from Buzz had hurt him, but not too badly and he'd since moved into a small house just a half mile from ours. A combination stroke/heart-attack felled Grand-ma, and not for the last time did I wonder if dad had passed along to me some of her seething intolerance. I could joke though, having clearly all of Buzz's quick wits. The Kray side of the family had seemingly passed along to me only a sexy, sex-oriented body. A good gift, I supposed. The guys at summer- camp really gave me the once-over when we changed clothes for swimming. "Sheez! Where the fuck did you get that foot-long dork from? Does your dad have a dork as big as you?" "This..." I answered, holding up my dick with both hands, "Came special delivery...courtesy of my mom!" * * I had money in the bank, money in investment firms, money in the stock-markets, property--I was making money while I slept--and my wallet was crammed. It was difficult to know who my friends were--I was always looking for those who didn't know me or the details of my portfolio. I didn't forget my real friends, but I quickly learned to sniff out the phonies who "knew" me back when. The bullies stopped bullying and the girls learned to kiss a whole lot better. Buzz had bought me a useful present. I wasn't supposed to ride the motorcycle until I had a permit, but with a garage cluttered with toys and the burden of a lightning-fast maturity putting abusive words in my mouth at every turn, I gassed it up, and took it out for an early morning spin until I knew how to handle it on hills, turns, train-tracks and around auto-drivers who have it in for cyclists. It was only late May, but in my system, it was mid August and I was burning hot. My over-active nuts were sending out spam messages of lust and horniness enough to cram the biggest mailbox my self-control could afford. Walking down the street, I could only jam my fists in my pockets to avoid knocking the hats off the heads of anyone within reach. On a motorcycle, I figured I could keep those hands of mine occupied. The trouble was, riding a motorcycle with a package as big as mine was only slightly less worrisome than riding a horse. Unlike the scooters I'd fooled around on, I had to straddle to ride. Bumps lifted my nutsack even with a reliable jockstrap and the vibration factor made my cock into a semi-erect tuning fork. And girls? No. Wherever I was going, I was going alone. It's a trait among the Deerhardt men, just to break away, to answer the call to adventure. And no mom, sister, half-sister, lonely neighborhood housewife, lunch-counter cutie or Mona, the new voluptuous manager of MEGAFLICKS 21 theater complex was going to lure me back--even though she had personally rearranged the marquee over the box-office to read (You'll always get an eyeful and a refill)--she gave me her idea of Midnight Madness in her office on a slow, but memorable night. The appropriately-named Mona Strong had been my latest fling with a tough chick. Unlike so many others at the theatre, she didn't hassle me about buying Junior admission tickets even though I was over six feet tall at the age of 13. Not really a tomboy, either, what Mona Strong had going for her in my book was a mannish, "take-charge" attitude, a blocky build that still looked great in pants suits and an unpretentious haste. She gave titty-fucks better than my mom and swallowed my cum to the last spurt, never besmirching her tie, shirt or jacket which she only loosened and moved aside. She wore front-closing bras which she could wrestle closed after titty-fucks with careless ease and always popped a breath mint afterwards with a wink that told me she could get me into her office, get me to cum and be out again with no visible evidence in only 10 minutes even on a busy night. She even assured me a double feature. I hadn't been in a movie in years, but the image people still wanted me to pitch their wares on the Boob-Tube. With two commercials back to back, I didn't want to be anywhere near a TV. Krangle's Soup and O.G. Ripsnort's Bronco- Bustin' BBQ sauce had paid off bigtime and there was my over-lit mug prominently displayed in both of the 30 second spots. Truth be known, the pantry in mom's house wasn't filled to the gunwhales with either product. It soon would be, however; the Krangle's Soup Company of Offramp NJ had a thing about giving lifetime supplies to its pitchmen, and as long as I was on their payroll, the Kray household would never be wanting of canned bounty. O.G. Ripsnort's was also their product, and even though we didn't have an outdoor grill, we'd get that tongue-tingling glop by the case in a week. In all fairness, I did find their recently-acquired Pilgrim Brand vegetable oil very useful in a tight spot sometime later. All I needed to keep my blessed privacy was a 35 foot delivery truck emblazoned with KRANGLE'S pulling up in front of our house. In fact, mom's house wasn't good for much of anything except for screwing her when she got romantic. To complicate matters, we had a telescope toting voyeur move in next door. Phil Hanscombe was 50, a loner, had a job in designing cabin-cruisers and never went out except to go to work. When I found out about his high-power lens habit, I had endless fun throwing red herrings for him to find while my real sex antics took place elsewhere. But that is another story. It didn't take long for Buzz to find out about my secretive adventures on the motorcycle. In a conversation I never heard, he arranged for it to be kept in his garage rather than at mom's. Buzz went so far as to buy me a whole cycling outfit. I avoided it at first. Black, white, gray, silver and with dashes of yellow thrown in for visibility, it looked freaky. With the whole space-age, abrasion-resistant ensemble zipped and clasped around my body, I looked like a sci-fi convention geek who'd forgotten his ray-gun and communicator. The helmet wasn't as objectionable as I'd thought. My camera-friendly face was masked. With everything including the boots and gloves in place, my age was superbly hidden. Then there was what we studs call, "The Basket Factor". With the understanding that the high-way colored cycling outfit was not a suit of clothes in and of itself, I had to contend that the loose, roomy fit I had originally enjoyed was going to be mitigated by the wearing of lightweight street pants and a shirt, I immediately thought of what my dick does best. With underwear and cargo pants, I could snake my limp dick out to piss with no trouble. If I had a semi-erection, the difficulty was tripled. With a hard-on, I had to drop the pants, yank down the shorts and try pissing into sink or the bathtub instead of the toilet. I even had a wide-mouthed carafe for emergencies and that was sweet. Our beloved, pampered astronauts can drain their bladders into a special collection unit in their spacesuits without the bother of disrobing or returning to their spacecraft. A diver in a wetsuit can piss into his suit, comfortably warming himself in the cold water. It's unlikely males in either of those situations would find anything to get aroused over, but I was only a cyclist in the everyday world with teenage horniness making a havoc of my accouterments. My bladder and my nuts weren't on speaking terms. When one needed desperately to let go of its collected load, it didn't want any complications. Certainly not restrictive clothing added to the limits of anatomy. Properly dressed, the pants cramped my package and when I got thinking of Mona's titty-fuck technique on a whim, my balls and cock expanded to absurb proportions and I knew I was steering for disaster. It was like trying to play the trombone in a phone booth. Since the cycle pants were elasticized, I dug around in Buzz's garage, finding a pair of highly-adjustable wood vises. Dropping one in low and one in high, I cranked them as wide as they would go and left them for two weeks. The vises, crude as they were, could take the place of my lower abdomen and my waist while I made do with a pair of Buzz's old leather pants and sharpened my cycling skills on the local roads and trails. At last, the pants were ready, they fit great. I took a leak with them on and hardly spilled a drop. I just had to watch out for sudden erections. Booted and suited, I donned the face-hiding motorcycle helmet and vroomed out of suburbia for the mountains with a thousand bucks and a hard-on that would endure until the last stretch of concrete slipped away under my tires and was replaced by asphalt. Concept cars vanished to be replaced by stake-bed trucks from decades prior to mine and my mother's birth. Rednecks replaced Pakistanis and other Easterners at the little stores and gas stations in the foothills. Yup, this was Yarborough country, and the men-folk and wimmerns too was a puffin' on them cigarettes like there weren't no tomorrah. A disgruntled exchange student from Melbourne, Aggie Sykes, had sourly referred to this charming, unspoiled bit of America as "Yobbo Country" and couldn't compare it to anything back home, even the Outback. "Mate, that whole bloody place of yours must have got it's start as a home for bloody prison convicts is what!" Like she could talk. In the end, I came to take Aggie's side. It was Yobbo country. My Japanese motorcycle garnered a host of suspicious stares and mean looks when I stopped for gas before taking on the steep switch-back roads. I didn't think too much of anyone's ill will, I was feeling too liberated from my usual routine. I even got a seductive smile from the trashy cashier who sucked deeply on her red lollipop after I got my change. "Y'all come back now, ya heear?" she said. "By cracky, I is a aimin' to do just that, ma'am." The countryfied words came out of my citified mouth fairly easily. Even if the syntax was fifty years behind the times, I thought it best to be sociable. And I was getting a free hearing test. No one had asked me to squeal like a pig, either. My next stop for gas was the real kick-off to my tomboy adventure. I had underestimated the fuel capacity of the motorcycle and bypassed several hick gas stations along the way, trying to avoid the clusters of rough-looking locals gathered around them. Gas stations and diners always seemed to go together here. It wasn't late, but the sky was dark somehow. I stayed behind a cattle truck until it turned off the road and I saw lines upon lines of vehicles in the opposite lane streaming down the road, many of which I remembered from earlier on. Fire. What I guessed was a deputy sheriff had the road uphill blocked off. Without my permit, I wasn't going anywhere near him. He had every vehicle turning around. The alternating lights on his car stood out against a smoke-blackened sky. Over the PA system of his car, I could hear him announcing the road was closed. The gas station I needed to hit was just two miles up. I was dangerously low--already into the red--I was in a pickle. "You're just gonna hafta turn her around. Turn her around that's all. Just turn her around..." The deputy's voice boomed over car roofs and around truck beds. Another deputy was coming up behind, just visible in my side-view mirror. Wanting to avoid him too, I crossed the broken yellow dividing line in the asphalt and zoomed back down the hill, hoping I could coast a little and save gas and make it to the station I'd passed up six miles back. I didn't make it. The engine gave out with a long cough and died. With the threat of traffic behind, I pushed it off the two-lane highway onto the shoulder and then partway down a footpath I'd noticed on the way up. With a fallen branch, I rubbed out the tire-tracks and then took a last look to make sure the bike was hidden before I struck out for the gas station. If this place was as thick with thieves as the Aussie girl had said, I shouldn't take a chance. Big B's Hive was a hillbilly entrepreneur's notion of a city shopping plaza. It had everything an insular population could want, but all I cared about was that it had a gas station. Only one person was on foot. The rest were seated on benches or chairs or on porches, smoking and muttering. "The Stinger" was their bar, but the place I needed to buy the little gas can I had in mind had to be "The Bee Keeper's Shed" a general store just across the parking lot which was filled with American made cars and trucks from 1930 to 1970, nothing beyond that. I doubted either of my two cellphones would work here, but I kept them hidden and didn't make the call that moms always want to get. Soon all eyes were upon me. If I looked like I came from outer space, the local population was now convinced I had come to spy out the place for a full scale invasion. And I had to piss. It had been a long time since I'd shopped in a store where the floors creaked and stuffed deer-heads were mounted on the walls. A pot-bellied stove surrounded by pot-bellied men in chairs dominated the center of the emporium. They were smoking Yarborough cigarettes, pipes and cigars with nicotinian abandon and reading porno magazines. "Whad'ja think about these new silly-cone implants they's puttin' in thar tits these days, Earl?" "Don't like a woman with scars...no siree-bob. How 'bout you, Roy?" "I's got a length of wood-timber over this gal here. I's down in Atlanta a while back and seed a stipper who I couldn't believe could stand up. She had those goddamned fakes in her, but I wasn't askin' for my money back. Bart?" "I'm an ass-man, you know that, Roy." Their conversation got me thinking of things made to strain my fly. They went quiet when they saw me. Then they went back to puffing and page-turning and ignored me. My dick had gotten stiff as I imagined strip clubs and big tits. Trying to think of what I really came in here to get, I snatched up a road map a gallon-sized plastic fuel can and clomped out with my helmet under my arm to trudge to the gas pumps. In black and yellow, I looked somewhat like a bee, but didn't feel anywhere at home. There was something odd about the fair-haired, unsmiling kid in bib overalls who stood by watching me with a towel, no doubt wondering where my vehicle was and chagrined there were no windows to wipe. With my single gallon of gas safely in the container, I asked him where the men's room was. A thick-thumb gestured the way to the pair of doors in an outbuilding that shared a wall with the general store. The doors were both painted yellow with black stripes. MEN featured vertical stripes, WOMEN horizontal. And for those too dumb for plain English, there was a painted woodcut of a fuzzy bee in overalls on the door marked MEN and another of a much smoother bee with long eyelashes in a dress on the one marked WOMEN. My first real tomboy--and an old man with a gun--were waiting for me inside. TO BE CONTINUED please leave feedback: zuiderzee@yahoo.com www.geocities.com/Area51/Dungeon/4535