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... back memories of a youth named "Stephen" - his full name fondly remembered, but it would not be politic to repeat it here, in fact I could hardly ever forget it, as you'll come understand why - who was seated directly in front of me in my grade-9 English "Grammar" class, this being way back when languages were still taught (at least in Canada anyway) in two separate, and very distinctly different daily sessions, namely Grammar and Literature. I had turned age-13 that August, with his being a little more than year older, having been held back a year.
Stephen, for want of no other purpose than to distract the class, and an attempt to send the teacher into a tither, would once or twice a week sit and stack on the desktop in front of him "his" Sheiks. He seemed to have an almost unlimited supply of them buried somewhere in the loose fitting clothing about him, with him likely having 40-or-more of them placed in nearly arranged piles which he would cut down and rebuild into a continuing visual display of little skyscrapers. The teacher was a truly remarkable lady named Mrs. Robertson, and not long retired from her position as Editorial Directrix of The Toronto Star, and to whom I owe a supreme debt of gratitude for her instilling in me a life long passion for language. This lady, then in her early 60's never, ever, missed a beat - the stories she might have been able to tell us had we ever thought to ask her - pinning his ears back each and every time with some pithy retort about his real, or imagined, sexual prowess, and blithely then sending him off to the Principal's Office "On Report".
This was a period when condoms as often as not were not individually wrapped in foil, or polyethylene, packaging; nor were the widely available in pre-lubricated form. These were just that: plain rubbers, pinched at the sides, with a narrow cardboard sheath-like tube slipped over them to hold the rubber into a more or less rectangular shape. They came packaged "3 to a box", whose size corresponded to that of the old "Nickel" wooden matches with the strike-stip down the one side. This was by design, and intended solely as a convenience, as the same vending machine that dispensed cigarettes (and of course matches should they be required) dispensed condoms for a small additional fee of 25-cents. You could of course - if you so desired - purchase them in units of 12, 24, and by the gross, but you had to go to a Pharmacy for quantities over and above those available from the vending machines.
To say that Stephen was every man's (and woman's) preverbal "wet-dream" would not be stretching the truth, although I called him "Stephen One" because he was "the first" of three boys named Stephen that I knew, each having the same first-letter to their last-name, one other of which, Stephen three (someday I just might tell you about him too), figured in other youthful fantasies.
Stephen One was awe inspiring. I would daily suffer wave after wave of vaginal contracts and spasms, seated as I was directly behind him, a position that afforded me great opportunity to inhale his scent, and Lordy what a scent it was. He stood at 6' 2" (190 cm) weighing in at about 150 lbs (68 Kg) with short, wind-blown spiked, blond hair the colour of whipped butter, French-vanilla ice-cream coloured near translucent skin with nary a blemish, indigo-blue coloured eyes so deep you simply wanted to dive into them and never again surface, two dimpled cheeks and a smile that stopped traffic in it's tracks, wearing always the then derivative of today's "Cargo" pants, low-slung long before the 1980's saggin' fashion trend, showing the top 4-inches or so of his plaid boxer-briefs, pant cuffs clumped about the heels of his "Keds" sneakers.
I seemed to be in a perpetual state of lust for that boy; and he knew it; thriving on it. I bided my time. I was bound and determined I was going to have him; to do more than simply inhale his scent. I was going to "taste" him; to fill him and have him fill me. Little would I know at that tender age, "Lady Luck" would one day be home, and my desire for him would be sated in a manner the likes of which I would never again see.
Ironically enough my conquest of the ever lovely and talented Stephen One, or maybe it was his of me, but frankly I didn't care, was somewhat by way of a fluke, occurring some 18-months later. I had for several years, two or three times a week once spring had broken and long into the late fall, been frequenting a notorious, but well hidden water-hole known as the Dixie Trestle, located quite a bit to the north of my family home and a reasonable hiking distance to the northwest of my school situated as it was at the apex of the dead-end to the 3rd Concession-line where it met the dead-end of Dixie Road, neither able to continue because of a fault-line in the moraine that bisected this particular Section-line. An abandoned CP Rail single-track line traversed this gorge over an antiquated stone-set multi-span "Trestle-style" bridge with the nearby intersection lending it name to the structure, and to the spring-fed pools of water that flowed through the area, and collecting under the bridge, before moving on further down the rift. There he found me, one late May afternoon, both of us it seems having played hooky from school. He later told me later that day, well after the circumstance I describe here, he'd followed me when he spotted me sneaking away like a thief into the night, wanting to know why I was been so furtive in my behaviour.
Shucked of all my clothing, I lay spread-eagled, floating face-up in the largest and deepest of the pools beneath the rail-line, letting the ebb and flow of the current propel me about the surface of the water.
"Is the water nice?", he said to me, shocking me out of whatever reverie I was then entertaining. I had not heard him arrive, although it was apparent he a ridded his motorcycle, as there he stood holding his helmet in one and his leather jacket in the other, scuffing idly at my cloths, with the toe of one sneaker, where I had cast them aside on the sandy shoulder of the creek-bed.
I remember saying "Yeah, just about right, and it's lookin' to be a real nice day if it doesn't rain", not at bit embarrassed to have been discovered naked, and open to public scrutiny. He continued to scuff about with his feet, shifting from one to the other, wringing his coat and helmet back and forth, head, and eyes slightly downcast, with his face deep in shadow.
"Err, ummph, you want some company in there?", came his somewhat bumbled rejoinder, to which I hollered "Sure dive right on in". Oh my, without hesitation, proceeding to wrench all and sundry clothing from his body, he did just that.
Now you have to understand something here. I had, until that moment never, ever, seen this boy without his clothing; he and I having shared only the one daily class throughout just the one year before, and no other, especially not PhysEd, and therefore I had never before had the opportunity. I simply thought I had "done died and gone to heaven".
He broke surface inches in front of me, slipping his arms around my waist pulling me into him, one hand rising quickly up my back to anchor my head as he awkwardly angled his mouth over mine and proceeded to tongue-kiss me. He had taken me so completely unawares. Further the impact of that luscious kiss had so weakened my inner soul, it was necessary for him to support me in his arms, and escort me from the water where he lay me down onto his leather jacket, lithely slipping down right next to me, all the while continuing to hold and caress me.
Stephen One and I met often at the "Trestle" over the coming months, whenever time permitted, sharing too many a satisfying sleep-over at either his or my home, loving one-another long into the night and early mornings.
Sadly this all came crashing down one fated November morning, just five months after our first loving embrace. He, and his entire family, were killed in the crash of an Air Canada airliner, in what would become known as probably the worst sir disaster in Canadian history. It would take a youth named "Jon", arriving out of the blue as he did some two years later, to bring the necessary healing and my recovery from Stephen One's absence.
Warren C. E. Austin
The Gay Deceiver
Toronto, Canada
"... comme recherché qu'un délice callipygian"
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