Out of the Blue
by Jack Kendle, writing as Jan Kledeck
Author's Note
'Bart' exists in real life and we do have a special friendship, but this story is fiction.
One day, perhaps, I will show it to him – if I think it is the right thing to do.
Meanwhile, I dedicate it to him, 'in absentia' with my love.
I've known Bart for four years, since he was a fresh-faced thirteen-year-old. You might say I have become his mentor – he confides in me and I seem to have become his 'honorary dad'. I have listened as he pours out his teenage angst – his hopes and dreams, his college life, stories about some of his escapades and thoughts about girls he has been interested in. He even told me when he lost his virginity and how many times he has 'scored'. Compared to when I was his age, Bart is light-years ahead of me – he's heterosexual and I was, at best, ambiguous about my sexuality until my late teens. Bart has certainly been active! I can't help but feel jealous of those girls…
He's been studying music abroad for the best part of two years now (he's a very talented trumpet player) and we meet up whenever he comes home for the summer or at Christmas. Our relationship over this period has been via Facebook and Skype – so that when I do see him in the flesh, I am always surprised at how much he's grown; at six foot-three or four, he's now a good head taller than I, slim, with a body to die for. His blond hair has grown darker, his complexion is fair, but he needs to keep off the junk food and sweets.
I'm forty years older than he and have fantasised about this delicious morsel of boyhood since I first met him. I know from our conversations that he is getting just a tad tired of being ogled and propositioned by gay men and boys, whom, privately, I honestly can't blame – Bart is a very attractive specimen of the young adult male. Another facet of our friendship, Bart, I'm sort of glad to say, tells me most things.
The problem is that he's too nice to everyone and some people seem to get the wrong signals, taking his open, honest smile as some sort of invitation, when in fact he's just being pleasant. I have warned him about this – after all, he's living at the moment in San Francisco, the gay capital of the Western world! Bart is like a honey-pot and I am sure that all the queen bees buzz around him, hoping, literally, to taste his nectar. From afar, I sometimes worry about him, hoping that his ingenuousness doesn't land him in trouble – or worse.
But there's nothing I can do, he has to make his own way through the world; he's on his own over there. He's a good boy, he doesn't smoke or drink or do drugs, I know that for a fact. And he talks to his parents almost daily – and to me nearly as often.
I have noticed that Bart often Skypes me after he has taken a shower and we chat while he dresses – he doesn't seem to think twice about it and I have watched in breathless admiration as he casually chooses clothes and dons them as we video-chat.
But I have never seen his lower body – just his boyish torso; narrow shoulders, brown, dime-sized nipples which I long to suckle to arousal, a delightful 'innie' belly button, flat abdomen and slim waist. I know he has a mole just below his left nipple and another one just above and to the right of the navel.
Never having seen him totally naked and that, coupled with trousers which are not tight-fitting, I really have no idea of how he is 'down there.' His hipsters are worn very low, almost down to where the root of his penis must be, but I have never had so much as a glimpse of his bulge and have no idea what his cock is like. Somehow, I suspect it is long and thin, with a long foreskin – one thing I am sure about is that he is uncircumcised – as it's not customary in our part of the world.
But I really have no idea. I somehow don't think he sports a great thick monster of an organ, he seems to be too finely-built for that, but I am never likely to find out, so I have more or less given up speculating. Either he has no 'treasure-trail' as yet, or the hairs are so blond that I cannot make it out on the sometimes-grainy images flickering on my screen.
Often, when I'm surfing my favourite sites on the Internet, I see a boy who reminds me of Bart and wonder if he is hung like the shameless models I drool over. I close my eyes and jerk off, imagining the computer image has Bart's face…
I know he values my friendship and, for my part, I of course, have never let on to him that I lust after his delicious body, imagining us in all sorts of most intimate situations. I don't really know for sure how he would react if I told him I was gay – I'd like to think he would just shrug his shoulders and say 'whatever' and we would carry on as usual; but I shy away from letting him know of my true inclinations, I don't want to take the risk of making him feel betrayed, perhaps even thinking that the only reason I'm friendly with him is so that I can get into his pants. I am the very epitome of propriety as far as he is concerned and that, I think, is one reason why we are still good friends and why he confides in me.
Over the years we have known each other, our relationship has deepened. That, and the fact that I know he isn't gay, means my feelings have changed – I care deeply for him, but now more in a paternal or avuncular way. That doesn't mean to say that I don't have sexual fantasies about him, but in truth, that happens less and less often. For his part, I know he regards me as one of his mentors and I am touched by the fact that he bothers to keep in touch with me at all – how many seventeen-year-old boys would be so considerate? Not that many.
Once, when I met his mother, she made a point of thanking me for being such a friend to her son, saying how Bart had told her, more than once, what a good friend I was to him. I have to admit, that at the time she spoke to me (I'd known the boy for about a year by then) I was still lusting after his body and felt such a fraud, accepting her compliments and thanks for my interest in her son. If only she knew!
Since then, as I said, I have become resigned to the fact that Bart's and my relationship will always be platonic; that's how it was and how it would always be.
Which is why what happened yesterday came as such a bolt from the blue.
Bart was home for the Christmas break and as usual, we had arranged to meet for a lunch somewhere, where I would spend the time listening to his excited chatter. But when we spoke on the 'phone to make the arrangements, he seemed different from usual. He seemed quieter, more withdrawn. I assumed he was tired after his transatlantic flight, or, God-forbid, that he was calling me up merely out of duty and that he wasn't so keen to spend his time with someone old enough to be his father – and then some!
We arranged our meeting and I asked him if he was alright, if anything was bothering him. I knew him that well, that I could tell that something – whatever it might be – wasn't quite right with him. Immediately it occurred to me that Bart was thinking that a friendship with a much older man who is not a close relative was perhaps unusual – as I sometimes feared – or perhaps that he preferred the company of his peers to mine. In a way, I suppose, I was offering the lad a way out of feeling obliged to meet me.
"If you're busy, or too tired…" I began, but Bart insisted.
No, really, it's fine! Look forward to seeing you!
I hoped the boy meant it. After all, he had friends his own age with whom he should be spending his time.
"You really sure, Bart?" Another chance for him to back down.
Yeah, sure I'm sure!
But instead of meeting me in a restaurant or coffee shop, he called me up an hour or so before our scheduled 'date' and suggested we meet at his house. His parents were out of town for a couple of days, taking the opportunity to do some Christmas shopping in the capital.
Of course I readily accepted his suggestion and even at this stage in our friendship, my mind went into overdrive, fantasising about what we could do together – if only he were gay and willing…
So I turned up at his home and was met at the door by the barefoot blond boy, looking almost edible in a tight-fitting pink V-neck sweater and blue jeans. I took in this vision of male adolescent beauty before me and as always, I was struck by how absolutely divine he was in the flesh – and yet again, he seemed to have grown taller. My glance raked over the slim figure which stood before me, taking in blue-grey eyes, slightly ruddy cheeks, long slim neck, tapered waist and long legs ending in almost delicate, long-toed feet.
As usual, we embraced and I planted a chaste kiss on his cheek – something he has allowed me to do since very early on in our friendship. I drank in the scent of him; freshly-washed hair, a hint of deodorant and he had obviously dabbed himself with some cologne – he still hasn't started shaving regularly.
I felt him return my hug and this time, he planted a kiss on my cheek as well – a new departure for him. Usually, he just passively accepted my familial kiss. My arms encircled his slim torso and in the brief time we hugged, my hands gently stroked his back, the soft cashmere warm and sensuous, his ribs and spine defined beneath my all-to-brief embrace.
Those short moments of close, physical contact with Bart were something I cherished, something I looked forward to when I knew I would be meeting him; holding that sexy boy in my embrace, my lips fleetingly in contact with that warm, smooth flesh!
Those seemingly chaste paternal hugs were fuel to my lustful imaginings; moments which stood out like beacons in my otherwise grey existence.
We drew apart and, closing the door behind me, I followed him into the house. However, instead of going into the sitting room, he carried on, without a word, up the stairs. This was certainly something I hadn't expected.
I had been to his house a couple of times before – on each occasion his parents had been there and we had all sat and chatted either in the kitchen or the sitting room. I hadn't been anywhere else in his home.
Following him up the stairs, I again took in the sight of his adolescent body. Observing him like this, drinking in his beauty, was for me akin to a junkie or alcoholic savouring the hit or the first sip; something I couldn't help. His jeans hung loosely on his narrow waist. I imagined his butt and not for the first time, my thoughts turned to images of us, naked together…
We went into what was obviously his bedroom; a typical teen boy's mess; clothes scattered everywhere, the desk littered with empty soda cans, magazines, CDs, iPod, computer, stereo system, and on the floor by the unmade bed lay a couple of empty pizza boxes. His suitcase lay open on the floor, it's contents jumbled and overflowing on to the carpet; socks, tee shirts, underwear. I mentally saw his slim form in the discarded 'Joe Boxer' shorts, speculating on how well he would fit into them…
I wondered why, having the run of the whole house, Bart had chosen to invite me into his bedroom? The stuff that dreams are made of – a gay man and the object of his desire in the bedroom!
Oddly, I felt nervous.
On the walls were a couple of posters of football teams, (Bart obviously supported Barcelona) Nike ads, pictures of vaguely threatening rap-singers and a couple of images of scantily-dressed female singers in provocative poses.
A typical teen-boy's room.
Apart from the bed, there was nowhere to sit. The chair at the desk was all but hidden under yet more clothes. After hastily throwing his duvet over a pair of pyjama bottoms a towel and a magazine whose contents I couldn't make out which lay on the sheet, Bart mumbled an apology for the mess and plopped down on the bed, drawing his long legs up to sit cross-legged on the bed, back leaning against the wall. With nowhere else available, I sat down on the bed next to him, but kept my feet on the ground and about a foot of space between us. Inwardly, I longed to snuggle up close to him, but being used to reining in my emotions and desires, I purposely kept myself slightly apart from him.
"The 'rents are away," said Bart, with that lopsided grin of his, indicating the mess.
"Obviously!" I replied. "I expect this room is usually spick and span," I added with heavy irony. Who expects a teen boy to be neat and tidy?
Bart glanced at me quickly, probably to make sure whether I was joking or not. My smile told him I was.
"Yeah, sorta."
We were silent for a few moments. Here I was, sitting on this boy's bed, the same bed where he slept – and most surely masturbated as well. For a moment I wondered what the magazine under the duvet contained. Images of him, urgently jacking off in this very bed flashed across my inner eye and I felt my groin stir.
Bart had a way of chewing his lower lip when he was thinking and as well as that, I noticed him clasping and unclasping his fingers, as if he were nervous or unsure about something.
I wondered what was bothering the boy. Instantly, I began to imagine all sorts of scenarios; was there some trouble he had got himself into at the college where he was studying? Had he got a girl into trouble and was going to ask my advice, in loco parentis ?
It was obvious that he wasn't at ease and I too began to feel slightly edgy. I sincerely hoped that my fears were imagined. What advice could I offer him, if he had got a girl pregnant or been expelled from college? Would I be of any help to the lad? I had no idea and I felt worried.
I broke the silence, which was becoming awkward. I tried to make my voice light and casual:
"So, how's life?" A lame question, but I could think of no other conversation-opener.
Bart shrugged. "Oh, you know, okay." He didn't sound convincing.
I changed tack.
"Everything alright at college?"
"Yeah, it's fine. Most of the teachers are jerks, though."
I knew what Bart thought about most of the staff at his college. Like most teen boys, he hated the academic side of his musical studies. He just wanted to be the world's finest trumpet player – who needs calculus and English grammar for that? However, he being so young, at least three years younger than the other students in his year, the college had insisted that he studied academic subjects as well – very sensible in my view and something he and I had discussed at length in our computer-chats. Bart had his sights firmly fixed on his musical ambitions and saw no point in wasting his time doing anything else. I often had to try and convince him that the college was right in their demands, although I am not sure I succeeded. At least he is still attending classes, which is a good thing, although his grades could be better.
Another pause. Bart stared into the middle distance, still chewing his lip. It was very quiet in the room. What could be troubling the boy? Or was he perhaps regretting inviting me over and would have preferred to be with his friends? I decided I needed to grab the bull by the horns.
"What's up, Bart? What's bothering you?" I asked gently. "Something's on your mind, isn't there?"
I left the question hanging in the air, before I added:
"Is it a girl?" I tried to recall the name of Bart's latest squeeze – they had been rather numerous in the past few months.
"Problems between you and Rosita?"
I felt the serious grey eyes turn to me, the boy's brow slightly furrowed. At that moment, it was all I could do not to take him into my arms and hold him tight, telling him not to worry and that I would put everything right. God help me, I would do anything so that Bart would be happy. Anything.
After a pause, he replied:
"In a way, I suppose, yes, though it's Angelie now."
"I can't keep up with all your girlfriends!" I joked, but Bart still looked serious and the smile died on my lips.
"What's up, Bart?" I paused again, wondering whether or not Bart would volunteer any information. It was obvious he wanted to speak, but he seemed to be having trouble finding the words. I began to dread what might come next; I was beginning to be convinced that the boy had made this girl pregnant. What a tough situation, but I could really do nothing concrete about it. This problem would have to be between him, his parents, the girl in question and her family.
I sat still, breath bated, waiting for Bart to speak.
His soft voice, so soft and low I had to almost strain to hear the words, Bart took a deep breath, fixed his clear, troubled grey eyes on me and spoke.
What came next caught me totally unawares.
"You're gay, right?"
It wasn't said in an accusatory or derisive way. It was a quiet statement of fact, no rancour or paranoia, no jibe or condemnation. A simple observation.
And a true one.
I was dumbstruck.
Bart had outed me! But how did he know or guess? I was very firmly in the closet; a married man, father of a child – I was even a grandfather, for heaven's sake! How had I given the game away – or had someone said something, spread a rumour? I racked my brain to try and think who that person could be. No one that Bart and I knew in common.
Had my innocent (or so I thought) hugs and paternal kisses aroused the boy's suspicions? Had I glanced once too often at his crotch? Had he caught the flicker of desire in my eyes?
Perhaps those hugs weren't so innocent as far as he was concerned. He must have seen through my whole charade! But when? How? I had been so careful. Well, obviously not. The boy had hit the nail on the head in that short, quietly spoken sentence.
Bart must have seen the panic in my eyes and the way I edged away from him, my reflexive reaction of self-protection, denial, shame, even.
The adrenalin pumped through me, my heart beating wildly, my breath short and I broke out in a sweat.
Bart knew!
My friendship him was over, that was for sure. How had I blown it? What did he think of me? I had lost his friendship and he must despise me. All these thoughts careered through my brain in an instant.
Suddenly my life had changed irrevocably. I thought I had been so careful, so circumspect. Had he perhaps told his parents, his friends?
If Bart had guessed, how many others had, or would as well? Was I really so transparent? Had I totally failed to conceal my sexuality?
The world seemed to disintegrate at my feet and I was plunged into an endless abyss, falling … falling.
It had taken just three words for my world, my whole universe to be turned upside down:
You're gay, right?
Those cool, grey eyes surveyed me. I felt myself blushing. What was the point of refuting it? Bart was right and he must have guessed by reaction that what he had said was true.
I started to speak, but Bart interrupted my stammering.
"It's okay, I'm cool with it. I think I've known for a long time – at least a year or so."
He paused and reaching out a hand, he gently held my arm.
"I'm not wrong am I?"
I could only nod my assent; I didn't trust myself to speak. I felt his slender fingers gently grip my arm.
"I didn't mean to upset you, I just needed to know, that's all. Honestly, I'm cool with it and anyway, it will make what I'm going to ask a lot easier. I didn't want make an asshole of myself. I just had to know for sure. I'm so sorry I caught you by surprise. Forgive me?"
I nodded again, wondering what on earth this was all leading to. What had he meant by making it easier for him to ask me? Ask me what?
I cleared my throat and found my voice.
"So, now you know," I said, my voice hoarse. "I'm so sorry, Bart. I really didn't…"
The teen silenced me by holding up a hand.
"There's nothing to be sorry about. It's me that is sorry for surprising you like that, but I couldn't think of any other way than being direct. I needed to ask you face-to-face. Really, it's cool. You've always been so proper and correct with me. I haven't felt threatened or anything like that, so don't feel bad. And I haven't and won't tell anyone else. Not a soul. I promise!"
I was almost in tears. It was as if a dam had burst and my emotions were here there and everywhere. So Bart knew and didn't mind! I still wasn't sure why he wanted to know for sure about my gayness. Perhaps he just wanted things to be cleared up between us – no secrets, no furtiveness on my part. He had insisted that he was cool about it, but I still needed to know why.
As if reading my mind, Bart answered my question without it being uttered.
"You see…" again he chewed his lip. He was still feeling awkward and searching for the right words.
"You know I'm not a virgin, right?"
"You've told me," I replied – images of Bart and some girl screwing flashed before my eyes.
"Yeah, well – it's great screwing, I really like it and I think the girls do as well," he certainly wasn't modest now!
I wondered if he was being quite truthful. Boys of his age might screw like rabbits, but still had a lot to learn about foreplay and consideration for their partner.
Teen boys usually had one aim and that was to reach orgasm – preferably fast. The subtle and complicated act of lovemaking – real lovemaking as opposed to a quick 'wham-bam-thankyou-ma'm' would not be perfected or even desirable for some years yet. Bart would eventually find a woman who would teach him what was expected of a good lover and he would probably develop and perfect the technique as he grew up. That is, if he wanted to.
I am sure Bart is a sensitive and caring soul, so I expect he will learn. But at his age, with the whole experience still relatively new for him, he was still probably rather gauche.
Bart was speaking again. Conversation was getting easier after that initial earthquake he had caused and my heart had slowed down again. My breathing returned to normal.
I was now grateful for the fact that Bart was so honest and upfront with me. No more pretence, no more hiding. But how would that affect our friendship? Time would only tell.
But his motive was still a mystery. What was on Bart's mind?
"Well… you see… I want more than just a screw… I've asked my girlfriends for something else, or when they're on their period, but all they can come up with is a quick handjob – and they're not very good at it! They don't know how to handle a cock…" here he blushed sweetly and I felt my groin stirring, wishing it was I who was being asked to give him a handjob.
Still seemingly nervous, his cheeks flushed and eyes fixed on the patterned duvet, Bart went on, almost as if he were speaking to himself.
"Us guys, we've had dicks all our lives, we know what we like and how to … er … handle ourselves…"
I couldn't help but laugh at Bart's double-entendre and after a second or two, after realising what he had said, the boy laughed too. Suddenly the atmosphere was lighter and I was amazed we were talking so frankly about such intimate, personal things.
The giggles stopped and his eyes became serious again as he looked up and over at me.
"That's why I had to know about you, about you being gay…"
"Why, Bart? What does that have to do with you and your girlfriends? All you need to do is explain to her what you want and how you like it…"
"Yeah, I know, but it's not just that. You see… sometimes I want more than a handjob and I've been to shy to ask… when I did once, the girl dumped me. She said it was disgusting and I was just selfish and only interested in myself. That was Rosita. She dumped me because…"
Bart paused again. During our conversation, we had moved closer together – whether it was him or me or both of us, I don't know, but now his body was close to mine and his knee was touching my thigh. He gazed intently at me, his eyes bright, his cheeks still flushed.
"What I mean is… you're a gay man… you know about … you know…" he paused and swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing up and down in his slim neck.
He gave a slight cough and carried on: "… you know … blowjobs. I want to know what it feels like to have a blowjob and I thought of you. Don't be cross with me!" The last couple of sentences had come out in a rush as if he had decided to blurt it out in case he lacked the courage to say what he wanted to.
I was thunderstruck. Here was I and the beautiful teen boy I had fantasised so often about in exactly this situation and now my fantasies were coming true! Was I dreaming?
"But Bart," I stammered, my turn now to be embarrassed, "You're not gay!"
"Yeah, I know that and you know that, but I figured, what's the difference who gives me a blowjob? I mean, it won't turn me… you know, it doesn't really matter whether it's a guy's mouth or a girl's… and I trust you. I know you won't try and well, you know, rape me..." he paused again, a flicker of anxiety in his eyes. He went on:
"You wouldn't would you? I mean, you know… try and fuck me in the ass…?
"You know me better than that!" I gently chided the blond boy. "But, all the same, are you absolutely sure?"
"I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't want it – and I trust you, completely."
He looked again at me, questioningly, his expression a mixture of hope and anxiety.
I paused, to think as carefully as I could about what to say and the consequences of what might happen if I acquiesced to what he had asked me to do.
I felt the wide eyes on me, the heat from his hot body, the gentle touch of his leg on mine. My emotions were, to say the least, mixed. I was amazed at the request, but at the same time I understood the trust Bart had placed in me.
What he had asked was like a dream come true for me, but would it be the right thing to do? I was an adult, and he, although he wasn't strictly a minor, was still at an impressionable age. What if, afterwards, when he reflected on what it was he had asked from me, he would be filled with either disgust or regret? How would that leave us? Our friendship?
Part of me, a major part, really longed to say 'yes' and suck this boy off, to make love to him, to show him, through my actions, the feelings I had for him, but there was still that niggling voice of conscience in the back of my mind.
Was it right to do as he asked?
I looked back again into Bart's eyes and was aware of my throbbing erection. There was no doubt what it wanted me to say! But what if I lost control? What if, because of my lust, I didn't just give him the blowjob he craved? What if I couldn't control myself? Couldn't hold back?
Again, Bart seemed to read my mind. His eyes, wide and slightly moist, stared into mine, holding me, mesmerised. He whispered, slowly and slightly hestitatingly:
"If you suck me off … I'll give you a handjob… after all, I know what it's like to have a dick and you could show me what you like … it's the least I can do…"
"But you're not gay!" I said again, stunned by his offer.
"No, but we are friends, right?"
I nodded. "I hope we are, Bart!"
"Sure we are! And what are friends for, if not to help each other out?"
I couldn't refute the boy's logic. I nodded again, unable to speak.
I felt a hand on my thigh and I was aware of the heat from Bart's body and the fact that my cock was achingly hard and leaking copiously.
I knew then that I would not be able to resist and would do as he asked.
Bart must have sensed my decision. He smiled and said, "Anyway, it's Christmas and I didn't buy you a present!"
He giggled gently and as I watched intently, his slender fingers began to slowly unzip his blue jeans.
Out of the blue…
