Bobby’s Tale

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Hi! I’m desertmac, and I want to give you a little setup for this story. It is a vignette from a novel I’m writing made up of vignettes linked together, about a group of teens who hang out at a game room called Kelly’s Cue. This is the shortest of the vignettes, and they cover more than just the sexuality of these guys, with several storylines going all the while; so, this story might be a little different than you expect– though it stands on its own– and characters from other parts of the story are mentioned here, but not explained or described.

This is my first submission to Literotica, I’m a virgin to this voting thing… so I’ll see how it goes, lol.

This story has: MM, group, drug use, and violence that is not sexual. I suppose I should look up the codes for those, lol. This particular vignette is completely from my imagination.

Disclaimers: This story is copyrighted and may not be reproduced or sold or charged for in any way shape or form without my express written consent. If it is illegal for you to read this for age or where you are, or if your delicate sensibilities are offended by explicit depictions of gay sex, then get the fuck outta here, ya stupid Bitch!

Everyone else, enjoy!


You all knew guys like me back in high school: the social misfit, pretty much blending into the background. I was quiet most of the time, because I knew that most of the crap that came out of my mouth when I did talk was just plain annoying to people. This had been reinforced constantly over my eighteen years, pretty much anytime I talked to more than one person at a time; with snide retorts and rolled eyes that were meant for me to see. So I had a self imposed gag order that was, unfortunately, forgotten whenever I got fucked up.

‘People skills’ is what they call it, and is what I didn’t have. So I mostly just tried to keep my mouth shut. Being socially inept, and nothing special in the looks department– not at all ugly or anything, just average I guess– on top of only living about a year so far here in LaPorte, southeast of Houston; I didn’t have what you’d call a full social calendar. Ok, well, I was 5’11”, around

40, with brown hair and brown eyes. My body was trim and fairly fit, though I played no sports. I was just average, hard to picture just because it’s actually hard to picture anyone so average, isn’t it? My best friend was Jimmy Small, which he wasn’t. He was only sixteen, chubby, bordering on fat, and just as socially inadequate as I was; so we got along great.

I discovered Kelly’s Cue, the game room/poolhall that was the center of our universe, right after I moved here from Tulsa with my family last year. It became my home away from home. And it wasn’t like I was a total outcast or nothing; nobody was hateful toward me in general. They all knew my name and all; they just didn’t notice me much when I wasn’t irritating them.

I did everything I could to fit in and be un upstanding citizen of Kelly’s Cue. I grew my hair as long as my folks would allow– a little past my collar– and smoked pot and did other drugs on those occasions I was able to tag along when there was something available. At least I had some money to spend, and that gets you included in some things, and you can bribe your way into other things. I played a pretty decent game of foosball, too.

I had been gradually realizing something was wrong with me. And that something was: I had a thing for boys. I had tried like hell to ignore it, but found that impossible. The more I tried to ignore it, the stronger the urges got.

I fought, debated, and reasoned with myself all through my seventeenth year– having nightly raw, steamy fantasies about guys the whole time. By the time I was eighteen, I was just starting to accept and feel ok about how guys turned me on, when one fateful night changed my life in ways I couldn’t possibly have anticipated. It was early in that momentous summer of 1977, a steambath of a Texas summer night in the suburbs of the polluted boomtown, close to the Houston Ship Channel and Galveston Bay, where LaPorte, Pasadena and Deer Park all come together at a smoky pool hall…

I’d been hangin’ at Kelly’s on a really slow evening, playing foosball with a kid called Skunk, when Jimmy Small came in and told me there was a party at Kevin Landry’s house– and most importantly, he could get us a ride with Donald Dryer. Donald was pretty cool like that. He didn’t seem to play the ‘I’m cooler than thou’ game like most people.

Now Kevin Landry was what you call white trash. Jimmy called him a thug. Yeah, probably a majority of us would be considered white trash, or lower middle class at best; even though we mostly lived in brand new houses. Where else would you see bumper stickers all over town that said, “Oilfield Trash And Proud Of It!” even on Cadillac’s and the like? It was a point of pride for the locals. But he and his clan poker oyna walked the walk and talked the talk. The cool thing about his family though, was that you could get away with anything at their house.

It was hopelessly trashed out from raising the six wild delinquent boys of drunk parents who had given in long ago. Plus, with the occasional wife or girlfriend of this or that brother, and their spawn, you couldn’t really find anything that hadn’t already been damaged– except their stereos, and GOD HELP YOU if you fucked with their usually battling stereos! His parents always passed out around eight, on valium and beer, and couldn’t be roused by anything less than a ‘category three’ hurricane until 5am.

Kevin was near the top of my pantheon of guys I fantasized about regularly. He could easily have been number one if I’d been around him more.

He was wired, violent, hot headed and sexy as hell; which scared me enough to steer clear of him most of the time, but kept me intrigued and salivating over him for some of those same reasons.

He’d been in jail more than once, just like all of his older brothers had. The one I’d never seen was doing fifteen years in Huntsville State Penitentiary for aggravated armed robbery. The ‘aggravated’ part was that the clerk resisted, so he pistol whipped him so bad– after he gave him the money– that the guy had to have reconstructive surgery. One of his brothers had cut off another brother’s ear in a fight one time and they’d had it sewn back on. That was the kind of family they were. But if anyone outside the family fucked with any one of them, he had to deal with all of ‘The Landry Boys’, as they were known to the law and others.

Kevin, at eighteen, was next to youngest; and ALL of his brothers I’d seen were fucking gorgeous! Even their dad was a hot looking man. Their mom just looked worn out; but you could see the remnants of a once beautiful woman behind the hard drinkin’, hard livin’ lines of her face from one too many honkey tonk nights. In fact, Kevin was probably the least good looking of the bunch, and he was still fucking gorgeous!

He had short, curly, nearly platinum blonde hair streaked with gold and a hint of copper, silvery gray eyes and stood about six-one, I guess. I just compared him to my five-eleven. And he had dark lashes and eyebrows streaked with that platinum blonde for a dazzling effect that really turned me on. His skin was perpetually tanned a translucent bronze that can’t be adequately described. He was slender and wiry– but not skinny– with broad shoulders and muscular tattooed arms. He was a hound dog from hell, ALWAYS talking pussy. All the time, non-stop. The only things he ever talked about besides pussy were drugs, cars and fighting.

The most surprising thing about Kevin was that he had just graduated high school; as every one of his brothers had dropped out, including the younger one, sixteen year old Peter, who was, of course, also gorgeous… well, beautiful. I say ‘beautiful’ because he wasn’t much like his brothers. Where they were all tall, with platinum hair and light features like Kevin, he was shorter and had brown hair and eyes. Where his brothers were all similarly hyper-masculine, hot headed and prone to violence, Peter was nearly the opposite, soft spoken, quiet and kind—and a talented artist. And contrary to what you’d expect from their contempt for any sign of ‘weakness’, and the way they treated each other, they were all very protective of him, and never picked on him.

So anyway, their house was kind of a hangout, and I’d been there four times. It was over in Spinwick, the only older housing division in the middle of long expanses of cow pastures, with a few trailers, but mostly wood frame houses up on cement blocks, like Kevin’s.

We showed up at Kevin’s around ten, but there wasn’t really much of a party going on, compared to the blow-outs some guys had. There was booze and pot, and Billy West had sold most everyone a Quaalude or two, but it was just about fifteen guys, sitting around the living room talking over the stereo. Kevin and his next oldest brother Stan, were jousting to be the center of attention. Mark and Peter, the other two brothers living at home at that time, weren’t there that night.

Stan was, as I said, even more gorgeous than Kevin, and all of Kevin’s friends were easily drawn to the sexy, shirtless twenty year old on the rare occasion he’d treat the ‘youngsters’ like they were somebody worth talking to. He only did so when he was bored and wanted to drive Kevin insane by taking away his friends for the moment, obviously getting great satisfaction at how easy it was to do. This kind of competition was what Kevin dealt with every day of his life at home, and everyone sitting there was acutely aware that it could erupt in a serious fight at any given moment.

Billy sold me, Jimmy and Aaron a Quaalude each, and I bought his last one for Donald, as thanks for canlı poker oyna the ride. We set about to party and mine began to hit as I drank some gross gin and coke. I started talking too loud and being stupid, getting a few of those annoyed looks and curt comments from others, coming dangerously close to really pissing Kevin off at one point– so I shut my mouth.

I hung back on the edge of the group and just watched everyone for a while. Jimmy and I weren’t included in the bong passing circle; and just as well. I didn’t need it. But things like that get to me anyway. It just rubs it in that we’re not part of the group, ya know?

The conversation had degenerated to the see-who-can-‘dis’-the-other-best stage, everyone roaring with laughter as they traded insults with each other. At times like that, I was glad to be invisible.

I slipped out to go pee, staggering into the bathroom at the far end of the long house, feeling no pain, kinda floating. I was just about through, when Kevin came in and pushed his way in beside me.

“Move over, pussy,” he mumbled drunkenly, shouldering me to one side.

That stung; until I realized he would likely have said it to anyone standing there. The very last of my piss stream was interrupted and I strained to get it back while trying to think of a comeback to him that wouldn’t piss him off. I could think of nothing.

“Why you always go talkin’ shit, Bobby, pissin’ people off.” He threw me an annoyed glance while he fumbled with his jean buttons.

I knew there was no way I’d be able to finish that last bit of pee if he pulled out his dick in front of me. I could never pee in front of anyone I thought was hot. But not wanting Kevin Landry mad at me was of paramount concern, so I tried to smooth it over.

“Aw man, Kevin, I’m sorry I’m so fuckin’ stupid sometimes. I just open my mouth and stupid shit comes out, ya know? I didn’t mean anything by it, dude.”

He had pulled his dick out by the time I finished saying that and I stared at it. I was so fucked up I wasn’t aware I was staring. He was starting to respond to what I said, and surprised me by putting his arm around my shoulder, looking down to watch his own piss stream starting.

“Shit, man, y’know, ya always seem to say the wrong thing, bro’. How you come up with the shit you do all the time, I don’t…” he trailed off as he looked up and saw me staring at his dick. I could tell in my peripheral vision that he looked at my face. That made me snap that I was staring, and I quickly trained my eyes on my own dick, which was just hanging there, starting to fill out a little. I’m pretty sure a smile appeared on his face– but couldn’t be positive of that. I blushed so deeply I could see it in my arms.

His dick was fat, really fat. I’d never seen such a fat dick; and I was pretty good at checking out dicks in locker rooms and urinals without getting caught. The second I felt mine start filling out, I shook it and stuffed it back into my pants before it could embarrass me. Kevin still had his arm around my shoulder, and didn’t let me move away when I started to back up.

“Hang on, bro’, I need ya to help hold me up while I finish.” He sounded more fucked up than he had a moment ago. His ‘bro’ was always said with the ‘o’ sounding like a small ‘u’ just like you say in brother if you say the whole word, rather than a long ‘o’ sound. I didn’t argue with him, as I didn’t want to piss him off any more. I was scared shitless that he’d caught me staring at his dick. I began praying he wouldn’t beat the shit out of me and tell everyone I was a fag. I knew he hated fags, ’cause he called anyone he didn’t like a fag.

I thought my best defense would be to say I was too fucked up and didn’t even know I was looking. But that wouldn’t guarantee I’d get off the hook. Even if that worked, there would certainly be no escaping the joking and teasing harrassment that would come with it tonight– which would be hard to take, knowing I was a fag. I was extremely careful that not even a hint of ‘gayness’ ever be associated with me, even in joking. I wanted to leave as quickly as possible, but I was dependent on Donald for a ride.

Kevin must have peed a gallon, while I stared up at the cracked and peeling paint on the wall in front of me. Oddly out of place, was an eight by ten framed, faded and water stained print of a Rockwell, Saturday Evening Post cover of two boys taking a bath. Was there ever a time when this family even vaguely resembled Norman Rockwell’s imagery? I seriously doubted it. This wasn’t Rockwell’s America; this was the nitty gritty dirt base of the real America.

When I heard the last dribbles fall in the water, I looked down to see him grasp the counter edge on his other side and sway. “Oh man, I’m so fucked up I can’t even maintain. Why don’t ya shake it for me, bro’?”

“Huh?” I looked at him like he was insane.

He forced my eyes down to his dick as internet casino he looked at it. “C’mon, Bobby, help a brother out, man. Shake it for me.” He made it sound purely utilitarian, strictly a casual thing, like there could be no recriminations from it, as he wobbled around just a little too dramatically.

It had filled out some since I’d been looking up at the wall. It was even fatter and was now hanging about five inches over his zipper. I stared at the delicious looking tool and tried to figure out how to respond to his request.

“Fuck you, Kevin!” was the best I could do.

He pleaded with me, “Come on, Bobby, don’t be a shit, maaan. I’d do it for you if you was this fucked up, bro’.” He pulled his head back and looked askance at me, “What, you don’t like me or somethin’? You don’t wanna be my friend? Well fuck you then, bitch!” He started to slowly remove his arm from my shoulder, acting all indignant.

My mind was moving slow. It took a moment for what he said to soak in. When I finally processed it, I panicked. The last thing in the world I wanted was to have Kevin Landry as an enemy. I would rather eat ground glass than make him hate me. He got way too much pleasure out of terrorizing anyone he considered an enemy.

“What? NO, man! I’ve always liked you, Kevin!” I was frantic to correct this, momentarily forgetting what he was asking me to do. “Why would you think I don’t like you?”

He smiled at how his ploy worked– me totally uncomprehending– and put his arm back around my shoulder, draping it around my neck and pulling me closer into his side, “Well ya wouldn’t help a brother out, an’ ya told me to fuck off. I’d say that pretty much says ya don’t like me. I mean, what’s a brother t’ think?” He smiled the whole time, while I absorbed the body heat from his armpit on my shoulder.

“No dude, it’s not like that at all! I just thought you were fuckin’ with me, you know.” I glanced down at his dick, which was now filled out significantly, but not hard. It was beautiful, hanging out his fly, all meaty, beauty, big and bouncy. I wanted to touch it soooo badly. The erection I’d been fighting in my jeans went ahead and finished embarrassing me by stretching it’s full six and three eighths inches-with-the-ruler-on-top, sideways across my hip; with me praying he didn’t notice it.

“So ya do like me then?” It was more like a challenge than a question. I nodded and he glanced down at his dick and back up to me. “Well then, go ahead an’ shake it for me, bro’. I’m sooo fucked up.” He rolled his head a little to illustrate his plight.

He looked into my eyes and I thought I saw some kind of spark in there behind the glassy stare. It seemed like he was wanting to instigate some kind of sex with me, but I couldn’t be sure. The thought was both exciting and terrifying.

I was scared as hell, fucked up, paranoid of him, and thrilling at the thought of touching his big dick, all at the same time. All I could think of at the time was, ‘If this is the only way to keep him liking me…’ And with my inhibitions substantially lowered, I just went ahead and did it.

Blame the Quaalude, blame the booze, I was afraid to piss him off, I was stupid, whatever. I reached over and cautiously took hold of it between my thumb and index finger about halfway up the shaft and gave it a shake.

It was as heavy as it looked, and touching it set off all kinds of shit in my body and mind. I still don’t know why I crossed that hazy little line, but I went ahead and gripped it with my whole hand, shaking it a little, then more vigorously. I couldn’t believe how fantastic his rapidly hardening dick felt in my hand. I watched the wrinkles in the loose skin steadily disappear, and felt the veins and ridges become pronounced as it filled out, thrilling me like I’d never been thrilled.

I was about to let it go, when he calmly said, “Keep goin’ there, bro’, I dribble a lot.” He smiled at me; but the look in his eyes was sly, like: ‘I got you figured out. Now let me see what I can get out of this.’

I should have considered that look and stopped right there; but I already had his dick in my hand, had already shook it for him, and he was just telling me to finish what I’d started. He was almost fully hard now, with my hand gripping the pulsing shaft, making me blush and rush. His dick was shooting electrical charges up my arm and down to my groin, stopping by to give my sense of judgement a lobotomy on the way. My ears were burning and I knew I wasn’t concealing either my excitement or my fear well at all.

And I knew I was committing a heinous social crime, and common sense told me if this went wrong, it would be very, very bad– and it scared the shit out of me. But I went ahead and shook it some more. It wouldn’t flop around like it had, since it was pretty hard now; so I let it go and tapped it with my fingertips for good measure.

“There. I think that’s got it,” I tried to sound detached or professional, like some nurse or something, while avoiding his eyes. Then I got brave, looked up at him and added, with a hollow threat implied in my voice, “You better not make anything of this, Kevin.”

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