The Experimental Method
by Biff Spork
Chapter 2
Life in the Inland Seas
Nevada's the same size I am. Everyone says both of us are small for thirteen — typically stupid adult crap. I'm not small for me. My mom says I'm too skinny — I need to eat more. C'mon, I eat when I'm hungry, and I stop when I'm full. I like to feel light and fast.
Nevada's even skinnier than I am, but he's got a six-pack so he must be eating enough. Aside from skinny, we're different from each other. I look like a Norwegian or an albino, and he looks like an Italian. Even in winter he's got a kind of golden color — olive-skinned is what Mom calls it. In summer, like now, he tans real fast. So do I because we spend a lot of time on the beach. My hair goes almost white.
Nevada thinks a lot, mostly about the care and maintenance of the penis. It's one of the reasons we go to the beach so much. He says it's good to have our dorks in water.
"Human beings were coastal animals for maybe a million years," he says. "We spent a lot of time in the water seeking out the old beach buffet, foraging for clams and mussels and many kinds of nutritious seaweed. So, over the eons, our dorks adapted to being wet all the time. Now, we need damp dorks. For proper functioning, the human penis should be kept wet or moist for at least several hours per day."
When he makes those kinds of statements, it always sounds like he's reading from an instruction manual or a textbook. I think he gets that from his parents. Both of them are university professors. They are vague. Like, if you ask them a question, any question, there's always a long pause while they stare off into space before they answer.
I envy him because his parents seem barely aware of him, unlike mine, who are all over me. He gets to do whatever he wants most of the time.
Nevada says it's good always to have at least one hand on your dork. "It's natural. Just lie on your back in the bathtub and relax your arms. Freed from the restraints of gravity and society, where do your hands go? They just float over to where your dork is, naturally. So, imagine lying in a warm, salty inland sea. Your hands drift over to your nicely upstanding dork. The gentle waves rock your hands up and down.
"You see what I mean? The planet wants to jack us off…" he pauses dramatically, "…if we let it. You just lie there and the sea does the work. We have evolved precisely to take advantage of this!" He says the only place where we can truly test this theory is in Great Salt Lake, so we have to travel to Utah next summer.
"And do you think it's just a coincidence that your arms are exactly the right length to reach your dick," he says, "whether you are lying down or standing up? That's no coincidence. Millions of years of evolution, my boy! Millions of years of evolution. Everybody's so screwed up because they need to keep at least one hand on their dork at all times, and they can't."
Sometimes I pose a question, like "How come we didn't evolve to be limber enough to lick our own dicks like dogs can? Seems to me that evolution messed up there and we lost out on a lot of potential fun."
"You want to be able to lick your own dick?"
"It might be interesting. You know, sometimes. I mean, if evolution is so good at body modification, a neck that's two or three inches longer doesn't seem like much to ask. Or even just a longer tongue, or prehensile lips."
Nothing stops Nevada. He comes back with something like, "That's a brilliant question, Tyler. We really need to think about that." Then he goes on with whatever he's been ranting about. But he's not just ignoring me. I know he's going to think about what I just asked. He's going to ponder it and worry it and then maybe a month or so later he's going to come up with some new oddball idea to explain it.
It's about midnight when he tells me his new theory. We've shut down my computer, and the house is quiet.
"Danger!" he says. He leans over me and repeats, in a low voice, "Danger, my boy."
When Nevada says my boy, I know he's been thinking about something for awhile and has come up with a new idea.
"Our lives are too drab, too dull," he says. "Our nerve endings are buried under muck, under the sediment of safety that has covered them over the years. Just think about it — all those millions of years in the inland seas were not peaceful. No, no, no! There were predators, sharks, and other things with big appetites and teeth like razors. People were alert then, not half asleep like now. Your senses were rapier sharp. When you were cumming, it was something special, because your nerves were raw and naked. We need to get back to that level of pure sensation."
While I listen to him, I'm lying on my stomach on my double bed. I'm wiggling around a little to let my cuddly, goodnight hard-on find a comfortably squirmy position.
Nevada's sitting on the edge of the bed. He reaches over and stops me moving. "No mattress-fucking, you pervert. Listen. We've gotta do something different tonight."
"What?"
"I don't know, but we need more danger." He gets up and walks over to the window. "Danger is the key."
As usual he's got one hand inside his pants. He bends over and leans forward so his upper body is outside the window.
"X," he whispers, "turn off the light and come over here."
I flick off the light, go over to him, and stick my head out the window. It's a hot night and a dusting of stars carpets the black sky, but the moon has yet to rise.
Nevada fiddles with the button on his waistband then drops his pants. He's commando as usual, so his soft-on bounces out and stiffens.
In the neighbor's house the lights are off, and it's pretty dark, so I let my boxers fall to the floor. The two of us stand there with our cocks stretching out into the warm night.
Nevada bends back inside and pulls his T-shirt over his head so he is naked. He taps me on the shoulder and whispers, "Get some lube."
I throw my T-shirt into a corner and dig around for the squirt bottle of olive oil I've been using lately.
"Better put a lot on — we won't be able to take any with us," he says, grinning, "out there."
"Are you crazy? That's the roof over my parents' bedroom."
My bedroom's upstairs over the main part of the house and there's like an arm of the ground floor that goes out on one side of the house. The roof of the arm is a steep, upside-down V, with their bedroom below.
"You see," says Nevada, smiling wickedly. "Danger! You can already feel that little extra edge, can't you?"
He flicks my dick, and I jump back.
"Rod of steel!" he exults. "You're ready, friend! Why fight it?"
He's right, as usual. There's something exciting about the idea of being outside, naked, on the roof, while my parents snore in ignorance beneath our feet.
"Okay," I say. "But not the olive oil. It's too runny. We might run dry at a crucial moment." I rummage around in the lube stash. "Ah, yes, this cold cream stuff – superbly slippery but not likely to drain away when needed."
"Excellent thinking, my boy, excellent, gimme some!"
We slather on the cold cream thick. "Better safe than sorry!" says Nevada and then clambers over the sill onto the roof.
Outside, it's quiet except for a dog barking a mile away. I can just see Nevada's white butt in front of me as we teeter on hands and knees along the crest of the roof. He stops, and we both stand up for a minute looking around. The moon is rising from a glow on the horizon.
"This," whispers Nevada, "this...is...awesome!" Then he pushes my shoulder to turn me. "Okay. Let's sit down, carefully, back to back, for security."
I sit down and spread my legs, one on each side of the roof. He presses his back against mine.
"And now, my friend," he whispers, "let the games begin!"
I'm a little uncomfortable with the peak of the roof sticking up my crack, but my pecker seems bigger and harder than it's ever been.
"Slow down," says Nevada. "Slow down. We're in the primeval shallow seas here. You're in the water, and you've seen the shark, but he's not attacking. You don't know — maybe he's not hungry, but you want to be ready. He's swimming in lazy circles around you now…."
I close my eyes and time my strokes to Nevada's from the way his back muscles move.
Jeeze, it's starting in my toes. A faint cool breeze makes my nipples hard and tingly.
"Now the shark has zeroed in on you," Nevada murmurs. "He's heading in your direction. He's getting too close, and there's menace in his movements. Primitive urges are rising. He closes in for the kill. You…must…mate…before you die…."
You see, this is all part of Nevada's big picture. Like, a million years ago we didn't actually mate with women. We just swam around in a primeval soup, jerking off into it, and the sperms swam and wriggled their way over to the nearest woman and did their thing. "It's not semen," he says. "It's milt. That's why sperms have tails — for swimming. Otherwise they'd have legs."
When I open my eyes, I can see my milt or whatever hitting my chest. It flows down in big dribbles that catch the moonlight and look even more pearly than usual. It's so good! I can tell by Nevada's movements and breathing that he's just about there too, so I sit quietly, steeping in the pleasure. He gives a soft grunt as he erupts, and pushes back on me.
Bad move.
Our backs have been sweating and are so slippery we slide sideways and fall over backwards. I glimpse Nevada's cock shooting spooge towards the moon before he tumbles down the roof. I reach out to grab him. Our hands lock, but they're covered with cold cream and begin slipping apart. Trying to hold him, I lose my grip on the roof crest. We shout and roll down the roof, and over the edge.
Just as I fall over, I have a Spiderman moment and grab that gutter thing. It holds, and I swing free. It's amazing when I look over and see Nevada swinging two feet away, but when I glance down I don't feel so good. It's a long way to the ground. Right in front of us is the window of my parents' bedroom. A light flicks on. We are soooo busted.
"Shark attack!" whispers Nevada.
The window opens and my dad sticks his head out.
"Hi, Mr. James," says Nevada. "Can we borrow your ladder?"
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