That night, I decided to check myself out in the bedroom mirror again, mainly 'cause of what Kyle had said about my abs. They looked pretty cool, but they weren't as well defined as Steve's. That dude had a bod that made the chicks go totally ballistic. But I figured in a couple of years, I'd be giving him some damn serious competition.
First of all, I hung my boardies low on my hips, then crouched as though I were riding a wave. Next, I pulled my shorts down a little further until a bit of my cock was showing. Then, I swung my body around as if I were racing up and down the face of the wave. Sure enough, my boardies worked their way loose, inch by inch, until they slid off the end of my boner and dropped to my ankles. I used one foot to toss them onto my bed and continued to "surf".
As I watched the reflection of my gyrating body and bouncing woody, I imagined all the groupies on the beach running down to the shoreline to get a better look at me. So, instead of going over the top, I rode the wave all the way to shore.
"Hi, girls!" I yelled as I placed my stick under my arm and sprinted toward them. "Hey, anybody seen my boardies? I lost them in the surf."
"Aren't you Kyle's and Steve's friend?"
"Yeah, we're surfing buddies. So who's seen my boardies?"
"You look better without them," one of the groupies giggled, placing a hand over her mouth.
"You really think so? Cool!"
"Does it work? I mean, does stuff come out?"
"You wanna see for yourself? Why don't you get down on your knees and stroke it?"
"Are you serious?" All the girls glanced at one another as if they were seeking each other's approval.
"Sure. So who's gonna be the lucky chick?" I grinned.
A girl who appeared to be about fourteen knelt in front of me and took a moment to study my thick, hard throbber. "It's awesome! Can I kiss it?"
"You're supposed to stroke it, babe. But, OK, I guess you can kiss it if you wanna." I watched her pursed lips connect with my swollen knob, then travel down the hard muscle on underside of my shaft until they reached my balls. My woody was resting on her forehead as she tongued my tight hangers. Meantime, the rest of the groupies were ooing and aahing like crazy.
"Are you gonna suck it?" one of them shrieked.
"Hey, how are you gonna see my juice if she's got the damn thing stuck in her face?" I argued. "It's better if she strokes it, then you can all see what comes out."
The girl gripped my woody with her small hand and began to slide it up and down. "I've heard you're supposed to spit on it," her friend suggested, so the girl released her grip then spat a couple of times on her palm. Whoa! Her slippery fist felt so much better as it glided up and down the full length of my throbbing five inches.
"Go Wingnut!" I turned to face the direction of the voice and saw Kyle and Steve standing nearby, cracking up big time. "Give the chick a truckload, man!" "Yeah! She's really hanging for it, Wingnut! Go, boy! Woohoo!"
When I felt the rush coming, I stepped closer to the girl's face. "Open your mouth." My whole body tensed and my back arched as the groupie's lips parted at my command. My woody was pointed right at her pink tongue. Suddenly, I was aware of a sea of faces with intense expressions just inches from the action. "This is so fucking cool!" many of them were gasping.
"Ohhhh!" I cried as the first of my wads exploded into her mouth. "Jeez!" Blob after blob of my boy juice was deposited on her outstretched tongue until my balls had finally run dry. "That's it! Chill! Stop stroking!"
I watched my juice slowly dribble down the surface of the mirror before I grabbed a tissue and cleaned it off. Could something like that really happen at the beach? Nah, it was just a fantasy. But it would be so fucking cool to have something like that happen for real -- and to have the guys watching and cheering. "Pretty awesome stuff for a grommet, huh?"
On Saturday, the surf was up and the wind was right, so we spent most of the day at the beach. Luckily, my boardies stayed on my hips. To be honest, the thought of my fantasy suddenly becoming a reality frightened the fucking shit outa me. I guessed that there were certain things that a guy going on twelve just wasn't ready for -- and there was no way that I wanted to make a fucking fool of myself in front of my buds.
Both Steve and I slept over at Kyle's house that night. We were all sitting on the bed listening to music and telling each other about our adventures -- their's at Jeffrey's Bay, and mine on the rugger tour. "Did you guys get into any fights?"
"No. Why should we?"
"I dunno. You got into one at the beach the other day."
"That's 'cause... well, you already know why."
"I got into a few on the tour. They were on the rugger field with guys from other teams."
"You've got a short wick, Wingnut."
"Don't you fucking talk, bro! Anyway, one time I was sent off the field 'cause I fisted some jerk who tackled me too hard."
"Jeez, Wingnut," Kyle said after he'd stopped laughing, "that's just part of the game, bro, and you're gonna get tackled a lot harder when you get bigger."
"Yeah? Well, then I'm gonna have to hit harder."
Maybe I did have a short wick, but it was important to me to be tough. How the hell was I gonna hang with the big guys if I was some little wuss? I wanted the guys to know that I was just as... well, almost as good as they were. Grommets didn't usually hang with older surfers, and I was an exception. Yeah! It not only made me feel important, but it gave me some sorta prestige in the eyes of the other grommets.
Steve slept in Kyle's bed, so I was relegated to the mattress on the floor. After lights out, I automatically reached down for my woody. A lotta the stuff that the guys had told me about their trip had made me pretty hot -- like the two girls they met who offered to let them stay at their holiday house right on the beach. They didn't tell me a whole lotta detail, but I figured the girls probably got their fair share of fresh boy juice. Anyway, I was sure the guys weren't asleep 'cause I could hear them whispering and giggling under their breath. What were they doing? Jacking each other off? Just the thought of that was enough to get me as hard as a rock, and I whacked off thinking about them stroking each other's throbbers. I tried to keep quiet, but it wasn't easy to prevent my fist from hitting the covers and making a telltale noise. Oh, well...
We were in the water the next morning just after first light but, after a few hours, the wind turned and the surf crapped out. It was probably just as well, 'cause the holidays were over and we'd be back at school the next day. I had a whole bunch of stuff to organize, and so did the other guys. Each of us spent the rest of the day at home.
"Dad? Did you fight much when you were a kid?"
"I was involved in the odd scrap."
"Did you like fighting?"
"Is that 'cause you lost?"
"So you won?"
"So who won?"
"Neither of us. We both lost."
"How can you both lose?"
"Because that's what fighting is all about, unless it's in the ring."
"I don't get it."
Dad lowered his paper and looked at me over the top of his reading glasses. "Fighting is usually the result of one of more people losing his or her temper. Now, when you lose your temper, you also lose your ability to think clearly."
"No, I don't! I think about smashing his f... uh, head in!"
"Well, son, my telling you about these things won't teach you. There's only one effective teacher, and that's experience. Just do me a favor, OK? The next time you see two people having a heated argument, stand back and observe. Try to figure out who's winning. Is it the one who's shouting the loudest? I think you will find that neither of them is winning, because neither of them is interested in what the other person is saying. Their minds have been closed, and their primary focus is to inflict their own point of view upon their opponent, without regard for logic or reason."
"Why do adults always make stuff so damn complicated?"
"Life is only as complicated as you make it, son. Observe, listen and learn."
The following day, I could hardly wait to see Kyle to tell him about my first day back at school. "Hey, bro! Guess what? There's a whole bunch of guys at school who surf, and one guy's dad has this really neat VW bus. He's gonna take a bunch of us surfing to Long Beach one day next weekend. How cool is that?"
"Yeah, that's pretty cool."
"You don't seem too excited."
"I am excited, Wingnut. Honest."
"No you're not! Are you gonna miss me?"
"Why would I?"
"You are! You're gonna miss me! Woohoo! So it's true!"
"Don't worry about it, Kyle. Just lemme say thanks, that's all."
"Thanks for what?"
"Being the best big bro a kid... I mean, a guy could ever have."
"You got a minute?"
"The dog's crapped all over the lawn again."
Because of rugger practice and homework, I didn't get much opportunity to see the guys until later in the week when we were all sitting in Kyle's room listening to music. Steve had had his hair cut -- not all that much, but enough to give me an excuse to have a shot at him. Within seconds, we were wrestling on the bed. Steve was one helluva built dude, and strong as hell because of all his surfing, but I was no fucking slouch either. I managed to get him between my legs in a scissor hold and squeezed the shit outa him. We were both cracking up something wicked, and I figured that was the reason his strength had been so severely sapped. Anyway, it was all in fun and, although I didn't tell him, his hair looked totally wicked.
Despite all the kidding around, I had something going on in my head that I needed to talk to Kyle about. There was nobody else I could tell -- and even confiding in Kyle, my best friend and big bro, was gonna take every ounce of courage I could muster. But I had to wait for the right moment. Hopefully, I'd recognize it when it presented itself.
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