Finally it happens. Alan confronts me with the fact that I am never available on Sundays. Not only do I avoid him on that day, he says, but I don't answer the phone when he calls, unless it is after five or so. Where am I, what am I doing, he insists on knowing.

Of course, he hasn't any special right to this information, although we have been seeing a lot more of each other in the last few weeks. But, that is only because he has wanted it that way. I certainly have not been forcing myself on him. Alan seems to want rights over me, that I am not prepared to hand over. So, given this state of affairs, I decide to tell him about Walter.

*****

After it became clear to me that Murray would not give me everything that I wanted, not that I knew entirely what that was; I began a search. A search for a man, who would provide, … something. I found the places where men hung out, specially the places where I could get in, like Ned's diner.

I divided my time between the library, the diner, the bowling ally, the drug store, the coffee shop, the YMCA, and a few other establishments that I knew of. I paid attention to the regulars and their habits. Of those who attracted me, one was a blue eyed, curly haired, blond, young man of stocky build, who was almost always in Ned's diner on Sunday morning, eating two orders of bacon and eggs and reading the Sunday paper. He had a broad face, wide set eyes, bushy eyebrows, full lips, a big chin. He was, what I was later to term, a hunk.

Suddenly, I had a craving for Sunday morning breakfast at Ned's. I knew within fifteen minutes of when he would arrive. I would get there early, order a cup of coffee and wait. After he arrived, if there was an empty seat next to him, I would take it and order my usual, pancakes and sausage.

I would start talking to him. I wouldn't be dissuaded by a lack of response. I kept at it, until he talked to me, trying different topics. I must have been an awful pest. I found out that he was a sports nut, so I started to watch games on TV, and read the sports pages. My parents were surprised and not particularly pleased. Neither of them had much interest in that direction. Why had I stopped watering the plants, they wondered. "Kids!" they snorted. It got put down to my notoriously short attention span. A thought put into their heads by my teachers. They had been almost all women, even in junior high. Maybe, perhaps without knowing it, they resented my lack of interest in them. (Where was I? Oh, yeah, how I met Walter.)

One day, after Walter finished his breakfast, I followed him out the door. I walked along with him, talking away, until he reached his house. It is a small house in an inexpensive neighborhood. I remained on the sidewalk, still talking to him as he went up the front steps. He hesitated at the threshold, then entered and closed the door, leaving me standing there.

The next Sunday, I did the same thing. This time, when he hesitated at the door, he said, "I suppose you'd like to come in." I hurried to join him, by way of an answer.

There was a little hallway with steps leading up to the second floor, and to each side, small rooms. The one to the right had a table piled up with books, papers, magazines and other things. The room to the left was for sitting, and he went into it, I following. He crouched down in front of the TV, turned it on, and twisted the dial looking for something.

Without even looking at me, he told me to go into the kitchen and get two cokes. I didn't think he wanted me to ask him where the kitchen was, so I went off looking for it. I went back to the hallway, into the room full of stuff, and there, there was an open door to the kitchen.

When I returned, Walter was sitting in a wing chair. A football game was about to begin on TV. I handed him a can and sat down on the floor, near his feet, to watch. "Come up here," he said. I looked back at him, and he patted his lap. I must have looked confused, because he said. "That's what you've been wanting isn't it?"

"Yes," I replied, and climbed up. He arranged me with my head resting against the wing of the chair and my calves hanging over the arm opposite. Walter's left arm was around the small of my back and his right thrown over my thighs.

He watched the football game. His eyes glued to the TV tube, his right hand, absent mindedly, casually, moved about my body. Slowly, two buttons on my shirt were unfastened. He slipped his hand inside. His touch was different from Murray's. Where Murray had lightly caressed, Walter kneaded.

During a commercial, Walter had me sit up and he took off my shirt. Between quarters, he had me pull one foot up so he could unlace and remove a sneaker, then the other. I watched him as he moved his hand to my belt and undid the buckle. He wasn't looking at me at all. He seemed to be intent on the play in progress. The ball had been snapped, so the announcer had said. The quarterback handed off to the fullback, who hit the line off tackle. I felt the pressure of Walter's fingers in my groin as my zipper yielded to his efforts.

At the next time out, he asked me to raise my tail. If discovering that I was not wearing any underwear was unexpected, he did not show it. He dropped my corduroy pants to the floor. I was very conscious of being naked in his arms, of his free hand squeezing my muscles, feeling my bones where they lay near the surface. While he remained intent upon the football game, my gaze kept returning to his wandering hand.

Then it was half time. Walter went upstairs to the bathroom and sent me for two more cokes. Then I had to go pee. There were three bedrooms on the second floor, but only one, the largest seemed to be used. The others had things stored in them, a vacuum cleaner, winter clothes thrown across a bed, a few cardboard boxes.

I got back and resumed my position on Walter's lap. He wanted to talk about the game. I was afraid that I wouldn't remember anything about it, but I did. He was petting me, during this discussion, and looking at me. It was then, that I could feel in my bottom, that there was something big and hard in his pants.

A few minutes after the game had resumed, his attentions became focused on my crotch. A little later, they were further concentrated on my penis. He fingered it, held it in his hand, stroked it and manipulated it. As time passed, he continued to do this, all very slowly. Had I been doing it myself, I would have had to speed up, because I wouldn't have been able to wait any longer. But he never increased the pace, just a slow, consistent pattern of activity. Several times, I came near to having an orgasm, but it would subside only to build back near climax again. Finally, it happened, very intense. Even then he did not change the rhythm. It was maddening, but wonderful, both at the same time.

He wiped up the cum with his hand and then sent me upstairs for a box of facial tissues from the bedroom. When I returned, he cleaned his hands and I mopped up the little that he had missed. Then he had me kneel down on the floor, between his legs.

Walter took out his cock. It looked big, but not as big as it had felt when I was sitting on his lap. He had me put both hands on it. I did to him what he had done to me. At first, he watched the football game. In a little while he said, "Hold it tighter and do it faster."

"No," I replied. I intended to do it the same why he had.

Then he looked at me, understood what I was up to, and smiled. From then on, he paid more attention to me. His gaze would shift from the game to watching what I was doing. Suddenly he shifted his body, and then his cum hit me right in the face, great gobs of it. I looked up, startled, and he laughed uproariously.

My cum doesn't go very far, so I had no idea that a person could shoot like that. Walter told me to go take look at myself in a mirror. I could see what was so funny. Some even got in my hair and was dripping down. Other droplets hung from my nose. He said to make a face, like I was surprised by something. That really looked funny. I could imagine how I must have looked to him when it happened; a naked twelve year old, startled, with a face full of jism.

He called me back and he cleaned me up with the tissues. "Are you having a good time, Bobby?" he asked. I answered that I was. Then he had me come back up on his lap until the game was over. Later, he sent me to the bathroom to take a shower and have a shampoo.

From that day to this, I go to Walter's house almost every Sunday. Instead of his going to Ned's for breakfast, I pick up some donuts and a Sunday newspaper on my way. I arrive there about eight, letting myself in with the key he gave me. Before I go to wake him up, I start a pot of coffee. Then I get undressed. Walter likes me in the nude all the time that I am there. It feels funny, but exciting, too. Just when I think that I'm getting used to it, something happens to make it all interesting again, like Jehovah's Witnesses coming to the door.

Walter wanted me to learn to suck cock, but I didn't like it. Maybe it's because I have a small mouth, or gag easily, but probably it's because I associate the penis with piss. I know that if the other person washes, that takes care of it, but the idea still doesn't appeal to me.

When I was eleven, and after I had begun to fool around at the florist ship, my father told me that I should not take anyone else's penis into my mouth. I remember feeling revulsion at the idea. I already knew that I wanted sex with men, but I was sure that sucking was not something that I wanted to do. I thought it was funny, that my father should tell me not to do that, but not tell me not to do all the other things that I had imagined doing. I knew he really meant that I should not be gay. It was ironic, the one thing that he told me not to do, I could tell him, honestly at the time, that I wouldn't do it.

I suppose like most people, he assumed that all gay men are cocksuckers. Well, that's not true. Not that I've never done it. I had to try, the same as you have to try squash, which it turned out I did like. I'll have to try again in a few years, because, sometimes, tastes change with age, and it is something that a lot of guys like. It is generally better to be versatile, I've found.

Anyway, the next thing my father said was really funny. As an after thought, he said, "And don't you put your penis in anyone else's mouth, either." It was obvious that he did not consider that to be seriously wrong, more a matter of simple justice. As I would not suck a cock, I will not allow my cock to be sucked. It was clear to me, from the way that he had said what he said, the one action was highly offensive to him, and the other was, perhaps, naughty. Later, I figured that what I was doing with Murray was not terribly bad, but I wasn't about to my dad about it either.

One day, after I had been going to Walter's house for about a year, I told him that next Sunday would be my thirteenth birthday. At first, he thought I was telling him that I wouldn't be coming that day, that I would be celebrating with my parents. I explained that at my house, a card and a little gift was all I could look forward to, that we did not make much of birthdays, or holidays, for that matter. Walter said he would have something special for me.

He sure did. After our breakfast, he had me lie down on my stomach on the day bed in the living room. When he got completely undressed, I knew he was up to something, but I didn't know what. Even when he played with my rear end, rubbing the side of his hand in my crack and fingering the little hole, I didn't get it. I was baffled by his putting some kind of wet stuff there, but when he slipped a finger in, dawn broke.

He did it very carefully, but even so, it felt like I was going to split in two. There was not so much pain, as a pressure, a filling up, that I wasn't used to. I've seen bigger guys since, but he was big enough for me then. Still, I liked it the first time, and crave it now. Now that I've had more experience and my anus has stretched some, the feeling is less intense and it doesn't remain as long afterwards.

*****

That first time, I could feel it for days. Sometimes, I miss that lingering sensation. That must be what gets people into fist-fucking, to recapture that intensity. Well, that's not for me. It just doesn't seem right somehow, although I don't know why. Anyway, to each their own. I prefer quantity to quality, I guess.

Unfortunately, I'm not getting enough, specially after I told Alan about Walter. He didn't get angry or anything, just kind of quiet, and I haven't heard from him since. Murray suggested that I call him up and ask what's wrong, why haven't I seen him. Demitri says that I should call him, invite him over, and act as though nothing has happened. But I think that I should let Alan work it out for himself. If he doesn't like me the way I am, what's the point?

It is because of his job, that I don't see more of Walter. He told me that he works six days a week and a lot of overtime so that he can pay for his house and car. I'm not sure that this is really so, though. His house isn't that good. His car is new, but not expensive. Some people raise families on the income they earn working for the phone company. Beside that, sometimes, around the house, I've found matchbook covers from a place called Chaps with men's names and phone numbers written on the inside.

Maybe I'm lucky to have Sundays. I don't think that he cares for me all that much. I know that he likes me, but there isn't much warmth. With Walter, it is mainly a physical relationship, and just the opposite with Murray. I get both from Demitri, but he doesn't have much time for me either. I guess I need to find some more guys to fill the time and space that is left empty.