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Related post:
True Blue 1
WARNING:
This story contains descriptions of sexual acts involving a man,
a teenager and two MINOR boys. Such descriptions are an integral part
of the story. While the story may appeal to prurient interests, it is
intended to have serious literary value. As a friend once said:
\"Everyone has the right to fantasy. No one has the right to
censor an imagination, or dreams.\"
With that in mind, know that this story is not true, although it
is based on fact and some real events! Further, it is not intended to
promote illegal acts against minors, but to demonstrate that men and
boys can love each other despite the prevalent attitudes of western
society. It is my goal to help readers appreciate that love. The
sexual acts described in the story are the result of my imagination.
I have not performed these acts, and I do not encourage others to
perform them with minors. If the subject of man/boy love offends you,
if this material is illegal in your place of residence, or if you are
under the legal age for such material, do not read further!
By downloading this story:
\"... you implicitly declare and affirm under penalties of
perjury that you are not a minor or in the company of a minor and are
entitled to have access to material intended for mature, responsible
members of society capable of making decisions about the content of
documents they wish to read....\"
The story is copyrighted under my pseudonym, Ganymede. A copy has
been placed in the Nifty archives for your enjoyment. The story
cannot be used to derive monetary gain. The story cannot be placed in
archives that require payment for access, or printed and distributed
in any form that requires payment either directly or indirectly.
Any similarity to individuals, living or dead, is entirely
accidental. Reference is also made in context to movies, characters,
and actors that have become part of modern nymphet nude sex western culture. No other
implication about the true sexuality of the people mentioned or their
private lives is intended.
Now that the preliminaries are out of the way.....
THE NIFTY ARCHIVE:
The Nifty Archive needs your support. If you enjoy reading this
story, please remember that it is available only because of the Nifty
Archive. Instructions are provided on the Nifty home page for how to
provide support. If you don\'t write for the archive, do the right
thing and support it with a donation.
True Blue by Ganymede
A
retrospective.
Like
all boy-lovers, I live in the twilight. I exist in a realm between
the honest lucidity of daylight and the safe concealment of darkness.
My life is a chaotic sham that shields my true self even while I
struggle to satisfy desires that society has chosen to call
\'depraved\'. It was never a matter of choice for me. It was never
something I sought or wanted. Indeed, I had barely attained the age
of eleven years old when I learned what it meant to love a boy. It
was late December, 1968. I was the carefree, innocent child one would
expect of that era, smooth-skinned, blond-headed, and more sun-tanned
than would be considered healthy today. To any one who knew me thirty
six years ago, I seemed destined for the good life that Australia
provided to its wealthy land-owning scions.
My
passion for boys occurred spontaneously, and without there ever being
an alternative. There was very little warning that something was
wrong. I was still some two years away from starting puberty, but the
desire suddenly became so strong inside me that I now wonder whether
I was always intended to love prepubescent males. From the outset, I
found boys to dark angels bbs nymphets be a lot more fun than girls, and back then all I was
interested in was having fun! Half a lifetime has passed since then,
but what started on the last bell of the last day of that school year
was forever etched into my mind. Falling in love for the first time
is not something that one ever really forgets.
The
nurture or nature question certainly wasn’t on my mind when 837
rambunctious high school students disgorged out of the 19th
century and into the freedom of an Australian summer. Picture the
scene, boys surging through the portals of the dismal grey-stone
century-old nymphet nudist photos buildings of Sydney Grammar School. Good-looking boys
everywhere, like a plague of rabbits or locusts, or even mice, an
unstoppable horde as they crossed the manicured green lawns, and
poured onto College Street in Darling hurst. Some ran, thai nymphet but most
walked, talking with their friends, making their plans for the
holidays ahead. I clearly remember watching those boys with devoted
fascination, not understanding why I was so excited. My best friend,
a boy who I was very fond of, some people would say unnaturally so,
sat only a few inches away from me, looking out the same window. Even
as close as we were, I searched the crowd for someone else. There was
one face in particular that I wanted to be the first to see that
afternoon.
Now,
those attentive readers who spend a moment or two to reflect on the
opening paragraphs may think that they are somewhat misleading. That
certainly isn’t my intention, but as any man who has a
preference for young boys knows, high school students can hardly be
considered sought-after, at least not in the ways that are important
to men who love boys. They might even think that I am simply
confused. After all, it was 1968, so I am obviously getting on in
years. Of course, it is entirely possible that their misunderstanding
arises because they didn’t grow up in a country like Australia,
which had six years of high school in 1968. There were no middle
schools or junior high schools. Instead, in the best British
tradition of surrounding relatively innocent pubescent boys with
sex-starved adolescents, boys usually went straight from primary
school to an all-boy high school.
The
one advantage of an otherwise depraved educational system was that
some of the boys who shouted farewells to their friends that
afternoon were only twelve or thirteen years old. To be certain, a
great many of them were very desirable, especially if a person was
attracted to bronzed youthful bodies and sun-bleached blond hair. The
golden-boy image was both iconic and reasonably accurate in 1960s
Australia. That characterisation of the typical Australian male
existed until Germaine Greer’s liberated \'Female Eunuch\' and
the open-the-flood-gate immigration polices of the Right Honourable
Gough Whitlam finally subverted the culture.
Boys
like that, the epitome of sun-loving still-dormant manhood, continue
to give me an erection to be proud of; along with brown-haired
Italian boys, and Eurasian boys with almond skin and ebony hair,
which should go to show that I’m not xenophobic. However, one
still shouldn’t make the mistake of thinking that those
handsome young high school boys were the object of my attraction in
1968. Those boys didn’t interest me very much, not then, and
even less now that I am settled in the celibacy of middle age. For as
long as I can remember, nine, ten and eleven have been my favourite
numbers for good reason. Those are the years of fleeting childhood,
of the purest form of male beauty, and yes, of emerging if mostly
latent sexuality.
It
is entirely possible that peculiar quirk that causes men to love
young boys occurred because I was a loved boy myself. I count myself
lucky in that respect because I grew up without a father’s
presence. Perhaps I became a boy-lover because my formative years
were largely spent in the company of two women. There is no way of
knowing for certain, but my mother and grandmother dominated every
moment of my life while I was growing up. And then, out of the blue
came unexpected freedom. I spent three weeks surfing on a mostly
deserted beach with my best friend, his seventeen-year-old brother,
and their uncle, a world famous surfer and board manufacturer. Those
three weeks changed my life forever. However, as wonderful as
learning how to ride a surfboard was, and it was surely a great
experience, of more interest to most readers will nymphets in pantyhose
be what transpired
to become an even more important part of my life. It was only a
matter of a few days before I lost my virginity, insofar as boys can
be virgins. By Christmas Eve, I learned how to make love. In that
regard, this story is particularly pertinent
Yet,
even as I began my journey on that still largely quiescent pathway to
pederasty, there were ample signs of what lay dormant inside me. A
crucial part of my sexuality was already formed by the time I reached
eleven years old. After all, I had been secretly experimenting with
my best friend, Blaine McIntyre, for the best part of a year by then.
Our sexual activity was anything but extraordinary. Just about every
boy experimented with his friends at one time or another. It was part
of growing up during the halcyon years of sexual freedom that
preceded women’s liberation. Boys, curious about their bodies,
often took advantage of other boys of the same age to engage in
harmless sex games. We did things back then that nowadays would have
society in an uproar. From my current perspective, it was an
important part of learning about one’s role in life.
So
there we were, at the end of 1968, Blaine and I, lurking in the
shadows, enjoying the last year of childish innocence before we
started high school. Both of us were anxious to grow up without
really understanding what it meant. We were time-bombs of boyish
lust, barely aware that our bodies were beginning to ripen, waiting
for the right moment to explode into the full-blown sexual creatures
that we were supposed to be. Until the time was right, our sexual
explorations took 14yo nymphet pussies the form of clandestine games. It was safer that
way. Rather than expressing the deep-seated love that we shared from
the age of five, we played and pretended, and entertained our budding
desires without making a commitment. It was innocent and exciting,
and deeply satisfying, but it was also unsettling. My awareness of
Blaine as someone who was much more than a friend was held in check
by a dreaded fear, that of being the one thing that all Australian
boys loathed, a poofter. [A \'poof\', or \'poofter\', is a quaint
colonial colloquialism for a homosexual.]
According
to my teachers, I was a curious and clever boy who was destined for
success, at least according to what was written on my annual school
reports of which I still have a few left. Indeed, I remember myself
as always tiny nymphette lesbians
being anxious to find out all the mysteries of the world,
and that irrepressible need to learn even more seemed to be growing
stronger with every new day. All too soon I would find out about the
biggest mystery of them all. However, that December afternoon, sex
was the furthest thing from my mind.
When
it came to sex, I’ve always considered that not having a father
around made my curiosity all the worse. It wasn’t simply that I
lacked a male role model, although that was certainly a factor.
Imagine having two women fussing over your every minute of every day.
Because of them, I was mostly innocent in the ways of the male world.
However, I wasn\'t totally innocent. For one thing I knew a few things
about sex, having spent my formative years living on a sheep station
in western New South Wales. I was aware of how lambs were made, which
was useful, if not essential knowledge. Neither was I completely
inhibited. Brindajari, the sheep station I grew up on, was huge. It
had lots of secluded places for a boy to discover himself, even if it
was alone. I spent a great deal of time at Callan Creek, most of it
naked.
Thanks
to the sheep shearers who visited Brindajari, and an analogy to the
reproductive mechanisms of sheep, I picked up a mostly accurate, if
somewhat scant understanding of human anatomy. Along the way I even
learned a few of the words to describe the female apparatus that was
so foreign to me. However, without exaggeration, most of what I knew
about the human body and sex was provided entirely by my best friend.
Thanks to his progressive medical-practitioner father, Blaine had the
opportunity to attend a father-son night at school that extended his
understanding far beyond mine. It was a two-hour event that purported
to ‘fully prepare boys for sexual maturity’, an assertion
that is tantamount to comparing the sex-education programs of today
with getting a college education in the subject.
My
mother and grandmother thought I was too young to attend the
father-son night, even though Dr. McIntyre was more than willing to
take me. Just about every boy in my class attended. Not that my
absence mattered very much. What Blaine didn’t learn there, naughty teenage nymphets
or
later was elucidated upon by his father, he picked up from his older
brother. Over the next few weeks I had the benefit of Blaine’s
explanations and a much-thumbed 30-page pamphlet, boldly entitled
‘What Every Boy Should Know About Sex’. It came complete
with black and white drawings of the important equipment of both
sexes. This also supposedly contained enough information to guide a
boy into puberty. With Blaine beside me, I stared at those drawings,
some more than others, and tried to understand what having sex was
all about. None of it made much sense, especially when a person
wasn’t attracted to the opposite sex, although that possibility
never entered my mind. A cross-section through a male’s lower
abdomen and a few paragraphs of vital, if vague information about
masturbation, a hurried description of boy’s genital
development and a series of sketches showing the growth of axillary
hair had to suffice my growing thirst for knowledge.
To
be honest, I knew a little about my own body even before Blaine’s
booklet was available, but my knowledge wasn’t enough to know
that I’d been circumcised. Indeed, that wasn’t covered in
the pamphlet beyond a few easily overlooked words, ‘circumcised,
meaning the removal of foreskin’ in little nymphets wet particular. Perhaps it was
downplayed in the booklet because, unlike nowadays, every Australian
boy was circumcised pussy nymphets
like his World-War-Two-veteran father. Indeed,
the 1960s was an era when if a boy didn’t know that he had been
born with a foreskin, he would never notice it was missing.
In
the process of growing up, I learned the words that were whispered
among boys in the distant corners of the school playground. While I
mostly avoided these words because they were ‘rude’, I
still made the appropriate associations. I knew from about the age of
eight or nine that a dick or a dong was the same as a penis, and that
my nuts or knackers were properly called testicles. Thanks to Blaine,
by the time I reached ten I knew that masturbating was really called
wanking, and it was lots of fun as well. That December, with my balls
still hugging my dick on a hot day, it would be nearly two years,
before I could spunk properly. Somewhere along the way I learned the
words for sexual intercourse were ‘fuck’, ‘root’
and ‘stuff’, but more importantly that none of them were
ever to be used with adults present, although one could safely say
‘root’ and ‘stuff’ so long as they weren’t
in the wrong connotation. \'Fuck\' was a very different matter. I
discovered, much to my surprise that older brothers were usually
forgiving if one used an inappropriate word, and that they used the
words too sometimes. Although I wasn’t aware of the precise
details of how it was done, I knew that sex involved putting a dong
inside a ‘fanny’. I was careful not to use ‘cunt’,
because somehow, despite my persistent innocence, I learned that it
was the worst word of all.
All
told, the astute reader should get the impression that I wasn’t
what might be called sexually aware. However, I wasn’t
completely unsullied either. I was a happy, healthy boy whose only
problem was a singular lack of interest in girls. Like most
Australian boys in the fleeting years of childhood, I eagerly
ventured into uncharted territory. In the privacy of Blaine’s
bedroom, I shyly touched my best friend’s penis. Needless to
say, he touched mine too, but somewhat more aggressively. We learned
how to wank by rubbing ourselves, and then, when we were comfortable
with that, we moved on to doing each other’s. We quickly
discovered that mutual masturbation brought even more delight, and we
engaged in it with boyish, if guiltily restrained glee. It was Blaine
who taught me to keep wanking despite sensations that bordered on
painful and a pressing need to urinate. The whole point of what
otherwise have been a futile effort immediately became very obvious.
I was lucky that he convinced me to keep rubbing until I got the
ultimate feeling. After reaching climax just one time, going all the
way was the only way to go. Wanking quickly became our most popular
pastime after surfing. It was entirely mutual, meaning that from ten
to eleven, the number of times I gave myself an orgasm probably
numbered less than a dozen. It was Blaine who got me to admit that
having him do it to me was far better than anything I’d ever
felt before by myself. After that, there was no turning back.
From
the outset we had different ways 14 17 nymphets
of doing it. Blaine liked using his
hand with four fingers braced against his thumb, rubbing fast and
furious, going back and forth along the shaft. I liked using a finger
and thumb. Not that our penises were all that different in size for
most of 1968. For some reason, what I liked most of all was pinching
and squeezing on the very end on mine. Either way, we rubbed and
rubbed, creating enough friction on Blaine’s penis to make
fire, or for the bulbous head of my penis to become inflamed. With
regular practice we soon became experts at ‘spunking up’,
or ‘getting the jerks’ as we mostly called it back then.
Together, we illigal nymphets underage pedo learned how to pleasure both ourselves and our partner
in ways that I still fantasise about. We didn’t know that we
were able to do it several times in a row because there wasn’t
any ‘spunk’ to interrupt the need to achieve release.
After a while, we even learned not to stop after the first climax. It
felt much better after the sensitivity diminished. Our turn-around
time was so short that we never had to worry about delaying for more
than a minute to get our breath back. There were even a few times
when we wanked to exhaustion, when our penises became ruddy and
bloated from overuse. We did it because if felt good, because, with
the sole exception of the exhilaration of surfing, there was nothing
else even remotely like that ‘jerking’ feeling from deep
inside our bodies.
Over
the period of a year, my innocence began to retreat, taking a
backward step every night that I slept at Blaine’s house, or
when we were brave enough to do something at my house, which wasn’t
very often. For some reason I never have nymphets image understood, we didn’t
do more than masturbate, not until the last day of school. By then, I
was well on the way to changing into the person I still am today.
However, the recognition of that person was still a long time away,
in emotional terms as well as in actual days. I was always happy
being with Blaine, but I was happiest when we were both naked and
lying in his bed at night, holding each other’s penises and
pleasuring each other in the way we most liked. Had I known more, it
would have been so easy to do nymphets model photo
more with him, yet we were utterly
content with what we shared. I made poofter jokes like all the other
boys in my class at school and never dreamed it would happen to me.
Finally,
there are other two people who greatly changed my life, and for whom
this story is also dedicated: Blaine’s older brother, Bruce,
and their uncle, Byron McIntyre. I will not spoil the story at this
point to tell you why. While it was Blaine who taught me the basics
of sex, it was Bruce who taught me how to make love, one-sided though
it was. However, even before that happened, there were feelings on
both sides that made my heart glow whenever he was close to me. For
no reason at all, I stammered whenever he was near. It wasn’t
that I was nymphets darkcollection nervous by nature. There were emotions that I’d
never felt for any other person pouring out of me without
explanation. Looking back, I know now that I wasn’t in love. At
least I wasn’t in love with Bruce. Hero worship, puppy love,
what ever it was, at the time it was just disturbing and strange.
Even harder to understand was how quickly my life changed after that
day in dark nymphet bbs
December, 1968, when school ended for the year and holidays
began. That afternoon, as I have already said, I was almost eleven
years old, just one day away in fact.
Thank
you for your patience.
Sincerely,
Ganymede
True Blue by Ganymede
Chapter
1
It
was a hot afternoon in December of 1968, that day when I waited
somewhat impatiently outside Sydney Grammar School. It wasn’t
the first time in my life that I had waited there. Neither was it the
first time in my life that I was wide-eyed and nervous with
excitement, but that day was different to any other day of my life.
Somehow, I knew that day was different. It was sticky hot and the
noise of the inner city seemed very distant, so far away that one
could hear the sounds of the starlings and sparrows that gathered in
the trees overhead. I fancied I could even hear my own heartbeat. And
amidst that unsettling disquiet, I had to think in order to breath.
In and out, counting seconds until the next breath, just waiting,
just thinking in silence.
I
was a confident easy-going kid, everyone said so, but not that
afternoon. That afternoon I searched 837 faces for one face in
particular, because I was obsessed with one of them. I just didn’t
know it at the time, or if I did, I would never have admitted it even
to myself. That afternoon, those swarming, vigourous, handsome
specimens of budding manhood were literally a plague of mice.
However, there were no mice among them. Like Darwin’s Origin of
the Species, they were the very best that Australia had to offer.
Sheer selectivity made certain of that. Sydney Grammar School was
arguably the best high school in a country of some 10 million people,
although at least one other private school could argue to the
contrary. Those 837 hot-blooded patrician youths represented 114
years of school history, and maybe more, depending upon when you
started counting. They were all hand picked, culled from the posh
suburbs of Sydney and from across the state of New South Wales. They
were so selected that you wouldn’t know that when Muck-Up day
occurred at Sydney’s most prestigious private school. Back
then, the worst thing that ever happened on Muck-up Day was a few
rolls of toilet paper being spread around the foliage and festooned
from the buildings.
Everywhere
I looked, I saw crisply-ironed long-sleeved white shirts with sleeves
rolled up and precisely arranged ties emblazoned with the school
insignia, a Scottish cross with five stars and an open book to
symbolise learning. All of the students were dressed exactly the
same, which was the raison d\'être of a uniform after all. They
all wore grey woollen trousers, even though it was the height of
summer. Eight hundred and thirty seven sweaty boys aged twelve to
eighteen, and one of them was Bruce McIntyre.
Bruce
McIntyre! Even now, when I write his name I still feel the same
thrill that I felt when I looked out the side window of Mrs.
McIntyre’s car. Looking past my best friend, Blaine, not
realising how lucky we were to be wearing our short- sleeved shirts
and grey cotton shorts, no ties at the Lower School, thank you very
much. We were both looking to see his older brother, Bruce. However,
in my case, it was for a reason other than brotherly familiarity.
Bruce! My hero, Bruce! Just saying his name to myself used to make me
warm with excitement. There was always an uncertain thrill that came
whenever I was close to him, a thrill that I never felt with any
other person who was older than me. Later on, a few days later, that
thrill would come for a very different reason.
The
whole thing was vaguely unsettling, not sex, but watching that
seething mass of teenage boys emerge like cicadas from their shells.
As soon as each erotic nymphets olya boy reached the street, he was reborn, shedding his
chrysalis of rigid academic control, becoming free again. School ties
quickly came undone, and if not taken off, remained loose around
their necks. Authority was denied in that simple act of self
expression. The uniform rule was rigidly enforced at Sydney Grammar,
from the time a boy left home in the morning, to the time he returned
in the afternoon. We were expected to be proud of our school.
However,
that afternoon, six weeks of summer lay ahead. Part of that six weeks
would be sun and fun and endless days of surfing on Sydney’s
beaches. Six weeks of heaven, of growing one’s sun-bleached
hair far beyond the regulation top-of-the-collar length, but only to
lose it again a day or two before we went back to school.
And
there, amidst a hundred soon-to-be-senior boys as they strolled forth
with mature disengagement from the lower forms, was Bruce. I saw him
first, which probably meant I was looking harder than anyone else in
the car. He finally emerged through the doorway and stood there for a
moment as if reflecting on the importance of leaving school on the
last day of the term. But there he was, looking about him, saying
good-bye to his friends, grinning as they answered him.
Seventeen-year-old Bruce McIntyre! And there was me, Allan James
Harding, waiting nervously in the car. I was about to engage on the
adventure of my life, but not knowing anything about what awaited me.
Looking back, I was never as innocent as I was that day.
He
raised his hand and gestured a salute of recognition, or so it seemed
to me, and then he walked down the scalloped stone stairs. He was
still talking with some of the stragglers, but not as earnestly as
they sought his interest. His attention seemed to be focused entirely
on the car parked beneath the trees. What a sight we must have made
to anyone who saw us gazing at each other across a hundred-yard
distance as he approached. Bruce Graham McIntyre, already elected by
his teachers to be a prefect when school resumed. Bruce, with his
ready smile and curly brunette-like-his-mother hair. Bruce, with his
ever-friendly wave that always made me smile and instantly wave back.
He had eyes like Blaine. Big and brown like a loveable, languid
kangaroo, not innocently blue like mine.
Even
when he was nothing more to me than my best friend’s older
brother, the strange thing was how much I liked being with him. I had
always liked Bruce, going all the way back to when he was my age and
I was five years old and starting kindergarten. I liked him, not
because he was Blaine’s big brother and he could take care of
us if danger threatened, which it never did of course, or that he
could do a thousand things I couldn’t do. I liked him because
he was always treated me as if I was special to him. I liked him for
a thousand different reasons, including his ability to ride a
surfboard. He was famous for it, not world famous, but he was famous
in the eyes of at least one eleven-year-old devoted fan. I saw it as
my personal responsibility to make sure that every boy who attended
Sydney Grammar’s preparatory school in Edgecliff knew that
Bruce McIntyre, who was Blaine’s older brother by the way, had
come third in the 1967 New South Wales Junior Surfing Championships
at Narrabeen. At the time, Bruce was sixteen, a fourth former, and
his photograph was on the third page of the Sports Section of the
Daily Telegraph! I worshipped at his naked nymphets magazine feet.
As
soon as he was in the car and the door was closed again, Bruce skewed
around in his seat and grinned at me. He had nice white teeth. He had
full lips like Blaine. Both of them had their Hungarian mother’s
mouth. There were tiny freckles flecked across the bridge of his
nose. He had a head of untamed russet- brown hair, like his brother,
unlike his very-Scottish auburn-haired father. He was a
third-generation Australian, but he was more Australian than most
people whose convict ancestors arrived on the nymphetz First Fleet.
“Hi ya
Mum. Ow-yar-goin’ mates.” The accent was exaggerated. He
did that either to annoy his mother or impress his friends. He also
he did it to make me laugh.
That
was all he said. Blaine gave him a disinterested glance and went
happily back to reading his have naked nymphetes
comic book. Of course, I grinned back at
Bruce like a dummy, not realising that my smile said more than words
ever could. He called me mate! Instead of turning around again, he
kept staring at me as if he was trying to think of something else to
say. It made me feel like I was being examined. It made me feel
uncomfortable, even nervous. And yet, even then, I was filled with
admiration for him, awed that Bruce somehow found me,
not-even-a-first-former, to be worth a few seconds of his time. It
also made me feel uneasy, deep down inside where I kept my secrets.
There was a lot nymphets futaba gallery
I didn’t understand about the world I lived in,
and even though I wanted to know more, there was no one who I could
ask except my best friend.
Blaine
giggled then, while Bruce was still looking at me, probably because
of something he was reading. It was music to my ears, the sound of a
boy in high spirits and carefree like me. I studied him from the
other side of the car. No doubt he was destined for great things like
his father, but one would never know it from his obsession with
comics. His profile held my interest for a moment too long. I admired
the way that his hair glistened in the sun. It was both darker and
shorter than my sun and salt-bleached blond hair. Even to my eyes, so
inexperienced in judging beauty, he was a very handsome boy. He
glanced at me and rolled his eyes, but already I had committed the
image to memory. At the time I did not appreciate the significance of
the ache in my heart when I finally avert my eyes and forced myself
to look out the window next to me. It topless nymphet intimated that I was infatuated
for I was surely too young to be in love.
I
was glad when Bruce finally gave me a parting wink and turned around
again. He leaned down to fiddle with the radio button, found 2UW, and
turned the volume up. Only then did I realise that I had an erection.
I could feel it growing, stretching out to make that warm but
comfortable tightness in my underpants. It usually happened only when
I played with it at night, or when Blaine and I talked about sex, or
did something together that we weren’t supposed to even know
about. I felt awkward, exposed, keeping my knees together, silently
praying that no one would notice the pointed lump in my shorts.
Suddenly,
the Beatles boomed out from under the dashboard and from the two
round speakers mounted behind my head. ‘Roll over Beethoven’
filled the car. For no reason at all, my penis became absolutely
rigid. My face was hot, and my mouth was very dry. It was difficult
to concentrate on what Blaine was saying, but it wasn’t because
I couldn’t hear him over the radio. It bothered me that he was
giggling while he was trying to say something serious. .
“Turn
it down please, Bruce. We don’t have to entertain the street.”
Like
my mother, Mrs McIntyre could be strict at times. However, she nymphets bbs info was
also funny. I was almost part of the family. There were always
invitations to stay for dinner, or go to the beach with them. She
joked with my mother about teens nonnude nymphet adopting me and having three sons.
“Cripes!”
The volume went down slightly. “It’s summer, Mum.”
“I
know that dear.” It was the patient parent voice.
“We’ve
cast off the shackles of the tyrants once again. No more school. No
more teachers. We’re free at last!” Bruce continued
ebulliently. His sing-song voice at the end made it sound even
funnier. I snorted, trying to hold back from laughing.
“Yes,
dear. You won’t get into trouble for not wearing your tie in
the car, will you?”
It
was the perfect ‘shut-down’, which made my need to laugh
even worse. I was almost choking in the back seat. Blaine was
oblivious. The sun still danced off his hair, bringing out red
highlights. An unruly strand curled over his furrowed brow. His
concentration on his comic was both reassuring and disconcerting. My
grandmother said he was blasé, which suited him about as much
as the nick name I called him in private. ‘Tugga’,
because that was what he did when he played with his Australian
boyhood. He tugged on litte nude nymphet it, sometimes so hard that it seemed as if he
wanted to hurt himself. For some reason he liked doing masturbating
far more than I did. I remembered when I starting calling him
‘Tugga’. It was a rainy Saturday afternoon on a day when
Australia played England at the Melbourne Cricket Ground and won 342
to 270. Instead of watching the game television with Blaine’s
father and brother we were upstairs in Blaine’s bedroom. After
about an hour of mutual masturbation, my penis hurt and my wrist
ached, but he kept tugging on his until it swelled up to the point of
becoming bloated. Only when both of our arms were too tired to
continue did he stop. It took hours for the inflammation to go down.
It was the first of our marathon wank sessions.
I
looked away, feeling odd because Blaine always ignored me whenever
his brother paid me any attention. Sometimes it seemed like they were
competing, but if Bruce was winning, Blaine always threw in the
towel.
“No
Mum.” Bruce’s voice was baritone deep, rich and smooth,
and to my ears, very manly. I loved to hear him talk, especially
about surfing.
The
car, a 1966 Jaguar 3.8, pulled away from the curb and into the
traffic. We headed down College Street. I turned in my seat and
watched the school disappear in the oval-shaped window behind me. It
wasn’t my school, not yet. It would be in another six weeks.
Both
Blaine and I wore the uniform of the Sydney Grammar’s Edgecliff
Preparatory School. We wore the same grey and white clothes as the
older boys, but no ties, and short cotton pants instead of woollen
trousers. Blaine and I were like mirror images of each other, only my
clothes were one size smaller and they were still loose on me. And
then, for no reason other than it was so very obvious, it struck me
that I would never wear those clothes again. Suddenly, I laughed out
loud. Blaine nudged me in the ribs. Bruce was right. We were free,
free for six weeks. Six weeks was a lifetime. And when it finished, I
would be going to high school.
“What’s
up with your weirdo mate, Blaine?” Bruce called out from the
front seat.
Blaine
gave him the ‘don’t know, don’t care’ shrug
and a confirming grunt that only made my humour worse.
“We’re
free. We’re free. We’re free,” I called out
gleefully over the radio. “No more tyrant teachers. We’re
free at last.”
I
almost sang the words, except at the last moment I stopped. It would
have been hard to sing, not because of the Beatles, but because Bruce
was sitting in the seat in front of me. I didn’t want him to
laugh at me. I had a boy-soprano voice that was good enough to get me
into the first row of the school choir and the occasional solo part
in performances. I wanted Bruce to like me. I didn’t understand
why. It was just a need I had buried down somewhere inside me.
“Yep,
I think dingbat’s finally got it worked out. He’s on
hols,” Blaine returned joyfully.
I
laughed. My erection had gone down as fast as it had sprung to life.
All it ever took for that to happen was some distraction that sent my
mind in a different direction. Until then, I hadn’t given it
much thought, but it seemed that I had been getting erections more
frequently. Poor Blaine somehow managed to have them non-stop. Every
time I looked at him, his penis seemed to be bulging out into his
shorts. It didn’t seem to bother him like it did me. In fact,
he seemed to be oblivious to it most of the time, and for the rest of
the time he made a game of it. Sometimes, I wondered whether he was
actually proud of it. Vaguely, I wondered what I’d been
thinking to cause mine to get hard in the first place.
Bruce
turned around again. He looked directly at me again. He always seemed
to be doing that. He always stared right into my eyes. Every time he
did that, I wondered what he saw. Some dumb kid? His little brother’s
boring friend. That was all I could ever be to him, but this time for
no reason at all, he seemed more intense, more introspective, as if
he wanted to say something to me, but he could not put it into words.
He raised his eyebrows, not frowning, but showing surprise. It made
me smile back even though it made me feel apprehensive of what he was
going to say next.
“What
are nymphet archives you getting for your birthday, motor head?”
I
tried to mimic Blaine’s ‘don’t know’ shrug.
Bruce often called me motor- head because I knew so much about cars,
because I lived for cars back then. I dreamed of E-type Jaguars, of
Ferraris of which I had seen only one or two, and of Lotus Cortinas.
I knew more about engines and gearboxes that any boy I knew. I was
proud of being the car- expert, however, it was also another way that
Bruce made fun of me.
He
winked, deliberately giving me the impression that he knew more than
I did about my birthday. I said the only thing I could under the
circumstances, the one thing that might increase Bruce’s regard
for me.
I
gave another shrug. This time it was a more confident shrug. Still,
there were butterflies in my stomach. “Um, S-surfboard,…
m-maybe.”
I
wasn’t prepared to say much more than that. If I did, I would
have jinxed it for sure. Just one more day and I’d know for
certain. I’d been hinting for a surfboard since mid-September,
asking outright throughout November. I was told to drop the subject
in early December. I offered, gratuitously no doubt, to combine both
my birthday and Christmas presents seeing as they came so close
together. The only thing I really wanted was foam and fibreglass and
eight foot long. A good board cost nearly $60, without any fancy
graphics, not like some boards had. The one thing I had going in my
favour, as I saw it, was that at the end of November my mother had
taken me into her bedroom. There amid her bottles of French perfume
and make-up brushes she found a tape and measured my height. Her
reason? Simply to see how much I had free virtual nymphet porn
grown. Then, the next time we
were in David Jones Department Store, she had taken me down to the
cafeteria and weighed me on the scales. I was eighty pounds and
four-foot-eight. She never used metric, but that was all we did at
school. Afterwards, I couldn’t think of any other reason why
she needed to do that. I asked her again. This time, she said ‘new
clothes’, but since when did ‘new clothes’ require
my weight. I hoped it was something else. Maybe a surf board?
Back
then, in Christmas 1968, the best boards around, maybe in the entire
world, were built by Shane Steadman at a workshop somewhere on the
North Shore. Next best, according to the magazines I read, were the
McIntyre boards that were made by Blaine’s uncle. I had high
hopes of getting one. Compared to most kids who wanted a McIntyre
board, I had an inside track because of Blaine. He had one already, a
surfboard that was specially built for him. It was a work of art,
more so that any Steadman board. The graphics on my best friend’s
board were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. A Pacific
wave, a cascade of bubbles growing from the creamy white fibreglass
below, becoming blue, then breaking again into boiling white surf and
flecks of foam. The graphics on Blaine’s surfboard must have
doubled the cost of his board. I crossed my fingers. There was
nothing like a last minute prayer to work miracles.
“Gangbusters!
Reckon you’ll be another Midget Farrelly, Harding?”
I
grinned, completely lost for words as much as I was afraid that I
would nymphet incest tube stammer again. He seemed to enjoy it when I grinned at him.
“Good
onya!” Another grin back at me.
He
turned away before my face turned red.
I
didn’t answer. The next song came on the radio. Back-to-back
Beatles because of their upcoming tour—this time ‘Help’.
The Beatles were ‘okay’, but I much preferred the surf
music of the Beach Boys and the Ventures. Bruce turned around, winked
directly at me and went back to humming and drumming his fingers on
the burled walnut trim on the side of the door. Blaine and I sang the
refrain, keeping it so quiet that it was mostly to ourselves.
The
Jaguar was a great car if you liked polished walnut and the rich
smell of leather, and an engine that had to be the best six-cylinder
every made. Mostly aluminium, with twin overhead cams, triple SU
carburettors, four valves per cylinder. I knew my cars. My personal
favourite was the nymphet lo guestbook Jaguar E-type 4.2 litre convertible. I wanted one
in red. It amused me to think that the very same engine, only smaller
and detuned, was driving us along. It sounded like a very tame
Jaguar.
“Are
you going up to Brindajari for Christmas, Allan?”
Mrs.
McIntyre’s accent wasn’t very strong, not like a lot of
immigrants from Europe. It almost sounded Scottish, which wasn’t
all that surprising because she had been married to Dr. McIntyre
forever.
I
sat up. “Uh huh.”
“How
long are you staying this time?”
“For a
week. Then, I’m back here for a day before I leave for camp,
Mrs. McIntyre.”
After
camp ended, I was returning to Brindajari to spend the rest of the
summer holidays there, but she already knew what I was doing for nymphets models teenager the
summer. I had been standing on the porch when my mother shared her
schedule for my summer life.
“I’m
sure you’ll have a wonderful time, Allan.”
Adults
asked dumb questions and said even dumber things in order to make
kids feel at home. Some parents practised verbal diarrhoea for that
very reason. Mrs. McIntyre wasn’t in that category so it didn’t
make much sense that she was asking about something that she already
knew the answer to. I glanced at Blaine looking for a sign that he
was tuned in to something other than 2UW. He tapped his hand on the
window, tired of singing for the moment. However, he was busy
watching the buildings go past as we drove through the red-light
district of Kings Cross. More than likely, he was trying to see some
of the prostitutes. Even in the middle of the day, there were always
a few women hoping to meet a U.S. serviceman on R and R. It seemed
like the city was filled up with them. All of a sudden, he nudged my
leg. His finger lifted up, below the seat in front so his mother
wouldn’t see. He pointed to the side. The woman was walking
slowly, casually, stopping to look in shop windows. She was
blond-headed, but not gold- coloured like mine. Her hair was a mass
of little curls, cascading down to her shoulders. She was dressed in
a too-tight mini-skirt and long black boots that came up to her
knees. Her top was made of fish-net material, showing diamonds of
pink skin behind the black knit. She wasn’t very pretty.
“Boys!”
“Yes,
Mum.”
Blaine
answered for me because I undergroundnymphets was too stunned to move. The woman had
turned around and was looking directly at me through the open window
of the car. She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old,
yet she still gave me the same look she gave any male. I gulped,
frozen in fear of being seen staring at her. Blaine nudged my leg
again, harder than before. Quickly, we both looked away. We weren’t
supposed to know what the woman did for a living, let alone make
jokes about the details of what she did in the cheap hotels around
the corner for twenty or thirty dollars.
“Look
the other way boys.” The stern voice from the front seat got my
immediate attention. Blaine turned, smirked at me, and kept looking.
“Yes,
Mum.”
“They
get more brazen every day.”
“She’s
ugly as a box of blowflies,” Blaine laughed. “I reckon
she’s just right for you, Allie.”
I
scowled at him, but it was a waste of time because he couldn’t
see me. He was still staring out the window.
“Crikey,
you’re right Blainey. She’s looking at him like she’s
his sheila. Talk about a pair of norks!”
“Bruce!”
Mrs. McIntyre interjected.
Bruce
laughed. “Dead cert! She’s built like Dolly. Anyway, it’s
not like she’s a bush pig or something, Mum.” [Dolly was
a hostess on the Pick-A-Box game show in 1960s Australia]
Blaine
roared with laughter. “She’s pretty hot, Mum, and anyway,
Allan’s perving on her too.”
“Man,
is she stacked.”
“Bruce!”
Louder this time. It was a voice that said ‘enough’.
“I’m
just pulling his leg. He knows that, Mum. Anyway he’s too young
to like girls, aren’t you mate?”
My
answer was to say nothing. I couldn’t see the point. I hadn’t
really thought about liking girls, or not. After spending most of the
last six years at Edgecliff Preparatory School, and the rest of my
life at Brindajari, I didn’t know a single girl other than
seven-year-old Katie Tattersall from Dundgeroo Station. What was I
supposed to say? In truth, I really didn’t understand why
breasts were so important. Katie Tattersall didn’t even have
breasts, but her nipples were already much larger than the tiny dots
that I had. They seemed stick out much more than mine did. Sometimes,
I could see them under her flimsy top.
The
conversation ended as soon as we turned onto New South Head Road,
returning the same way that we’d come from Edgecliff to pick up
Bruce from school. I wasn’t even sure why we’d done it,
made the round trip that is, except that it might have had something
to do with it being the last day of school. Normally, Mrs. McIntyre
dropped Blaine and me off at my house so we could play for a while,
and offshore pics nymphets then she went to get Bruce by herself. Still, I wasn’t
about to complain. I liked being in the car with Bruce and it was
good to see where we’d be going to school when the summer
holidays ended.
“So
when are you leaving for Brindajari, Bunny?”
I
realised Bruce was trying to make up, but Bunny was a name I
preferred he didn’t call me. Not Blaine, not Bruce, not anyone.
Bunny sounded so juvenile, and worse, when you called someone a
‘rabbit’ it was much the same thing as saying ‘idiot’.
However, I was fairly certain that Bruce called me Bunny because it
sounded cute. At least that’s what Blaine said. Most times,
when his parents weren’t around, Bruce even made it sound
endearing, like I was his pet rabbit or something. It was my own
fault for telling Bruce about the rabbit plague that came through
Brindajari earlier in the year. There had been rabbits everywhere in
June. Millions of rabbits. You couldn’t go outside and not trip
over them. You got tired of shooting them with a .22. It was too
easy. Point in the general direction and shoot, eject the cartridge.
It was a waste of bullets. There were so many rabbits it was
impossible to miss. Rabbit death was guaranteed unless you were half
blind like some of them were. For a week and a half I became a rabbit
exterminator, second only to myxomatosis. My grandmother paid me
three cents for each one. There really wasn’t any choice. If
you didn’t kill them, there was nothing left for the sheep to
eat. It was going to be a bad year for wheat as well. Everyone blamed
the situation on the rabbits, followed nymphets small closely by the government. My
mother said times were bad enough for a person to vote ‘Labour’,
even though she and my grandmother always voted ‘Country
Party’.
“T-tomorrow,”
I answered. One word was almost safe.
I
tried to sound happy about it, because in truth I really did like
staying at Brindajari. The only thing that would be better than
spending Christmas at Brindajari would be having Blaine there with
me. It was a lot more fun when there was someone my own age to play
with.
“Tomorrow?”
Bruce asked. He sounded surprised.
Now,
I had to elaborate. I breathed in and held it. Why was I so nervous
when I had to talk to Bruce. “We’re l-leaving a d-day
earlier than usual,” I explained in a rush.
As
far as I was concerned, it really didn’t make much sense to go
up to Brindajari a day early, especially when it meant travelling on
my birthday. However, it wasn’t up to me. It was a tradition to
spend Christmas there. It was all that I had ever known. I thought
Blaine was lucky to be spending his Christmas in Sydney. On Christmas
Day he’d probably be surfing at Manly or Dee Why, while I was
eating roast lamb and Christmas pudding and sweating like a pig. At
that time of year, midday temperatures were usually over 100 degrees.
For me, the high point came when it cooled down in the evening. Then,
with the work day over, I’d ride my horse down to Callan Creek
and swim beneath the amature nymphets sex river gums. Going ‘nud’, I called
it. It was fun, feeling the hot sun on my bare skin, especially where
it was pale. After a few days I would have a sun-tanned bottom. The
front section always took a day or two longer to turn brown. I never
told my mother and I made sure that she never saw me with clothes on.
She would have said that there were snakes. There weren’t that
many snakes around, but I was still careful.
Besides
swimming and riding my horse, there wasn’t much else to do. At
that time of the year I was there all by myself. For as long as I
could remember, I was always left to devise my own amusement for the
week of Christmas. That was the problem with my grandmother owning
67,000 acres. It wasn’t tiny girls nymphets back of Bourke or Woop Woop, because
Dubbo wasn’t all that far away from Brindajari—25 minutes
or so by car—but the nearest station was still about seven
miles up a gravel road. Its owners, the Tattersalls, always went down
to Sydney for Christmas. So did everyone else, if they weren’t
already living there. It got to be lonely.
“Blainey
was telling me you’re going off to camp when you get back,
Bun,” Bruce said. Once again, he was looking back at me from
between the front two seats.
“Yep.”
I intended to sound curt because he used the rabbit name again. It
was beginning to drive me bats.
“Sounds
beaut. Where’bouts, mate?”
At
least Bruce sounded interested. I didn’t know why it annoyed me
so much when he was making fun of me. After Christmas at Brindajari,
my schedule included two weeks at camp at some place north of Port
Macquarie. I had never been there. My mother’s brochure said
something about water sports like lola nymphets sex skiing and sailing, along with
horse riding lessons. Like I needed to learn how to ride a horse! I’d
been riding since I was four. I’d even been bare-back on a
brumby the year before. That took a lot of skill. Still, water-skiing
sounded like fun.
“Camp
W-Wangara or s-something l-like that.” If I sounded angel nymphets 14 sulky it
was because I didn’t think much of the idea of going to camp
for two weeks. “It’s s-somewhere near Port M-Macquarie, I
think.”
I
stared out the window and caught my breath. My heart was beating
quickly. I glimpsed Blaine smiling slightly, as if my acute
embarrassment was somehow amusing. Glumly, I watched the shops slide
past until I got over it. Then, I scanned for interesting cars. There
weren’t many cars around that I couldn’t identify.
Holdens were the most numerous by far. I saw them by the hundreds
every day, but most of them weren’t worth a second glance.
Every so often an interesting one would come along. An EH model
pulled up beside us when we stopped at the lights in Elizabeth Bay.
It was lowered a few inches and equipped with wide chrome wheels. The
two-inch exhaust and a Candy-Apple-Red metal-flake paint job said the
rest. The engine idled roughly. That was a special cam. The formula
was pretty standard. wildnymphets underage kds gallery A hotted-up car like that. would have extractors
too. No standard- issue Stromberg carburettor, but a side-draft
Weber, maybe even two of them. Properly tuned, it could probably do
the standing quarter at Castlereagh in sixteen seconds. It got my
attention immediately.
“Reckon
boofhead’ll drop the clutch if Mum revs the engine a bit?”
Bruce asked snidely. He was watching out his window as well. The
other driver wasn’t much older than he was.
“Go
on, Mum. Dad would do it,” Blaine added encouragingly. He
didn’t add ‘Dad drag-races hotted-up cars all the time.’
“Absolutely
not.”
“Go
on, Mrs. McIntyre,” I piped in. “You’ll shut him
down for sure.”
It
was irresponsible, but I loved being in the car when Dr. McIntyre
burned rubber at the lights. We liked it when we won, and he liked it
when we laughed and carried on in the temporary glow of racing
victory. If I had a father, I would have wanted him to be like Dr.
McIntyre.
Mrs.
McIntyre laughed and shook her head. It didn’t stop Bruce. He
made a ‘v’ with his two fingers, the sign to the other
driver that a race was on. The other driver must have been a mug. He
revved the engine so loud that it roared beside us. He was going to
glaze his clutch if he started off like that. Even a competition
clutch couldn’t take that sort of abuse very often.
The
lights turned green. The Jaguar pulled away in slow motion. The
Holden left with a jumping lurch, a momentary squeal while its rear
wheel spun. No limited slip differential, on that car. We’d
gone about twenty feet in slow motion when Mrs. McIntyre put her foot
down. The Jaguar took off. It sounded like an E- type then, not
pushing us back into the seats like an E-type would, but still very
respectable performance. It was as fast as my grandmother’s
Jaguar, which never went over 50 mph, even on the long trip to
Brindajari. As soon as we passed the other car, Mrs. McIntyre backed
off the accelerator. The point was made.
“Ripper!”
Blaine and I shouted out together.
Bruce
laughed as well, adding his own, “Geez, what a hoon.”
After
another five minutes we rounded the hill and officially entered
Double Bay. Only then, for the first time, the full import of my
summer schedule sank in. Except for a single day between getting back
from Brindajari and leaving for summer camp, I wouldn’t see
Blaine, or Bruce either for that matter, for the next three weeks. I
sank into juvenile melancholy. Three whole weeks by myself. Then, a
few days in Sydney until we went back to Brindajari. It wasn’t
much of a summer for an almost eleven-year-old boy to look forward
to.
Usually,
I liked to watch the people, the cars, the expensive houses, the
sailing yachts moored in the bay. That afternoon, I stared ahead,
feeling sick to the bottom of my stomach and wishing I had a say in
my own life. It was a matriarchal family. I was my mother’s
only child, and whatever my grandmother said was law.
When
we pulled into my street, I wasn’t paying much attention to
anything, not even the radio. I didn’t notice the Ford Fairmont
station wagon parked outside my house, or the man who stood beside it
untying a surfboard from the roof racks. Had I paid even the
slightest attention I would have seen a man who looked a lot like
Bruce, even more like Blaine’s father. I wasn’t even
aware that my mother was standing next to him.
I
opened my door, ready to get out, trying to decide how I should say
good-bye to Blaine. I wanted to get it over with, especially with his
mother and brother there. I sighed emptily. We’d been best
friends since our first day at kindergarten, nymphets russian models almost six years
earlier. I wouldn’t see him again until our summer vacation was
halfway over. At least we’d have three weeks together when I
returned. With luck, we would be able to surf every day, and with
more luck he’d be able to spend a week with me at Brindajari
before school started again. It would be a lot more fun with Blaine.
“You
don’t have to get out, Blaine,” I muttered. “Hey,
I’ll see you in a week, okay?”
I
reached out to shake his hand, but Blaine was already getting out the
other door. So was his mother, so was Bruce. Everyone was getting out
of the car, except me. I got out, then picked up my schoolbag from
the floor. It was much heavier than normal, full of everything from
my desk, most of it rubbish. Blaine was grinning. So was Bruce.
“Wake-up,
Allie. You’re as blind as a bat or something?”
“Huh?”
I turned around then, looking to where Blaine was looking.
By
then, the surfboard was off the roof of the station wagon and
standing up. My mother was standing next to it. I figured it out in
no time at all. Bruce would have said ‘nothing flat’. It
was a McIntyre. Creamy white, with the same very expensive yet
distinctive blue wave graphic that Blaine’s surfboard had,
except where his wave dissolved into a spray of pearly foam and
finally disappeared into the cream-coloured fibreglass, my name was
formed instead. ‘Allan’.
“Mum?”
It was all I could say.
“Yes,
Allan. Happy birthday, sweetie.”
“It’s
really for me.”
“Blimey,
you drongo, of course it’s yours, Bun,” Bruce laughed
from behind me. “It’s got your name on it, hasn’t
it?”
“Mum?”
I asked again. My mouth finally closed.
She
nodded.
“Really?”
The
man stepped from behind the board, still holding it upright with his
hands and resting on the ends of his red rubber thongs. For the first
time, I saw Byron McIntyre, the man himself, the man who created
McIntyre True-Blue Boards. I was as wide-eyed as any boy had ever
been. There he was, not as famous as Midge Farrelly that’s for
certain, but still well known to anyone who knew anything about
surfing. He represented Australia at the world titles in Hawaii. He’d
surfed all over the world. There had even been a documentary on the
ABC about him. He was a lot younger than Blaine’s father, maybe
in his thirties, but he had the same unruly auburn hair that looked
as if he had just trekked through the highlands or been boating on
Loch Lomond. To me, he was everything that I wanted to be. I had a
bad case of hero worship for Byron McIntyre even before I met him in
person. I could not help but stare at him. And then he smiled at me.
“You’re
Allan Harding, aren’t you? Four-foot-eight and eighty pounds?
Eleven years old in a coupla days?”
Even
his voice held me entranced. It was a James Mason voice, smooth as
butter as my grandmother would say. It was a baritone, and to me,
nothing short of reassuring. He sounded a lot like Blaine’s
father who came as close to being a father to me as anyone I had
known.
“Yes,
my birthday’s tomorrow, but,…” I managed to say.
He
grinned. “Then this is yours, mate. It’s specially made
for you, in fact. It’s a real beauty, a seven-footer. but I cut
the blank extra narrow for a skinny four-foot eight kid who weighs
all of 80 pounds.” Another grin. “This is the smallest
board that True-Blue’s ever made. From the look of you I reckon
you’ll put it good use for a few years yet.”
He
held the surfboard out to me to take. It was a little over two feet
taller than I was, nymphet erotic nude
but it seemed to be so much bigger. He looked me
up and down and seemed to like what he saw because he smiled right at
me and nodded. Then, he turned serious.
“It’s
a smidgen shorter than Blaine’s,” he explained to no one
in particular, although I listened in rapt interest. “Just by a
few inches, whatever that is in bloody metric. Oops, sorry about
that. What I mean is it’s still a bit on the big side for you.”
He looked at me again, not caring in the least that he had sworn in
front of my gr. “Anyway, you’ll grow into it soon enough
I expect. It’s got more rocker too, because you’re always
going to be a bit lighter.”
I
wished I knew more about surfing. All I knew were the basics. Rocker
had something to do with directional control and acceleration, the
length did too, but directly opposite. The way he described it, the
board should be able to turn on a threepence. nymphets peeing

I
knew much more about the car next to him. No doubt my grandmother
would have said too much! As far as she was concerned, cars were
useful to ‘get from A to B’. His car was a 1968 Ford
Fairmont XT. It had a V-8 badge on the front fender so that meant it
had the 302 engine from America. It was essentially the same engine
that Allan Moffat used to win the Hardie-Ferodo at Bathurst in his
Ford Falcon GT. Like the GT, the Fairmont also had disk brakes petite nymphet photos nudes
hiding
behind the polished mag wheels. It was off-white, and right there
painted on the tail-gate door, where any idiot should have seen it,
was the famous McIntyre True-Blue wave. Had I been paying attention,
I would have known what I was getting for my birthday from the first
moment I saw it.
“It’s
really grouse.” It’s all I could think of to say to
convey my utter pleasure.
“Allan,”
my grandmother said sternly from behind me.
I
turned around. “Hi Nana.” I kept grinning, even at her.
She
was a tough old bird sometimes, make that most of the time, but this
time her grimness evaporated. Sh

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Related post:
True Blue 1
WARNING:
This story contains descriptions of sexual acts involving a man,
a teenager and two MINOR boys. Such descriptions are an integral part
of the story. While the story may appeal to prurient interests, it is
intended to have serious literary value. As a friend once said:
"Everyone has the right to fantasy. No one has the right to
censor an imagination, or dreams."
With that in mind, know that this story is not true, although it
is based on fact and some real events! Further, it is not intended to
promote illegal acts against minors, but to demonstrate that men and
boys can love each other despite the prevalent attitudes of western
society. It is my goal to help readers appreciate that love. The
sexual acts described in the story are the result of my imagination.
I have not performed these acts, and I do not encourage others to
perform them with minors. If the subject of man/boy love offends you,
if this material is illegal in your place of residence, or if you are
under the legal age for such material, do not read further!
By downloading this story:
"... you implicitly declare and affirm under penalties of
perjury that you are not a minor or in the company of a minor and are
entitled to have access to material intended for mature, responsible
members of society capable of making decisions about the content of
documents they wish to read...."
The story is copyrighted under my pseudonym, Ganymede. A copy has
been placed in the Nifty archives for your enjoyment. The story
cannot be used to derive monetary gain. The story cannot be placed in
archives that require payment for access, or printed and distributed
in any form that requires payment either directly or indirectly.
Any similarity to individuals, living or dead, is entirely
accidental. Reference is also made in context to movies, characters,
and actors that have become part of modern nymphet nude sex western culture. No other
implication about the true sexuality of the people mentioned or their
private lives is intended.
Now that the preliminaries are out of the way.....
THE NIFTY ARCHIVE:
The Nifty Archive needs your support. If you enjoy reading this
story, please remember that it is available only because of the Nifty
Archive. Instructions are provided on the Nifty home page for how to
provide support. If you don't write for the archive, do the right
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True Blue by Ganymede
A
retrospective.
Like
all boy-lovers, I live in the twilight. I exist in a realm between
the honest lucidity of daylight and the safe concealment of darkness.
My life is a chaotic sham that shields my true self even while I
struggle to satisfy desires that society has chosen to call
'depraved'. It was never a matter of choice for me. It was never
something I sought or wanted. Indeed, I had barely attained the age
of eleven years old when I learned what it meant to love a boy. It
was late December, 1968. I was the carefree, innocent child one would
expect of that era, smooth-skinned, blond-headed, and more sun-tanned
than would be considered healthy today. To any one who knew me thirty
six years ago, I seemed destined for the good life that Australia
provided to its wealthy land-owning scions.
My
passion for boys occurred spontaneously, and without there ever being
an alternative. There was very little warning that something was
wrong. I was still some two years away from starting puberty, but the
desire suddenly became so strong inside me that I now wonder whether
I was always intended to love prepubescent males. From the outset, I
found boys to dark angels bbs nymphets be a lot more fun than girls, and back then all I was
interested in was having fun! Half a lifetime has passed since then,
but what started on the last bell of the last day of that school year
was forever etched into my mind. Falling in love for the first time
is not something that one ever really forgets.
The
nurture or nature question certainly wasn’t on my mind when 837
rambunctious high school students disgorged out of the 19th
century and into the freedom of an Australian summer. Picture the
scene, boys surging through the portals of the dismal grey-stone
century-old nymphet nudist photos buildings of Sydney Grammar School. Good-looking boys
everywhere, like a plague of rabbits or locusts, or even mice, an
unstoppable horde as they crossed the manicured green lawns, and
poured onto College Street in Darling hurst. Some ran, thai nymphet but most
walked, talking with their friends, making their plans for the
holidays ahead. I clearly remember watching those boys with devoted
fascination, not understanding why I was so excited. My best friend,
a boy who I was very fond of, some people would say unnaturally so,
sat only a few inches away from me, looking out the same window. Even
as close as we were, I searched the crowd for someone else. There was
one face in particular that I wanted to be the first to see that
afternoon.
Now,
those attentive readers who spend a moment or two to reflect on the
opening paragraphs may think that they are somewhat misleading. That
certainly isn’t my intention, but as any man who has a
preference for young boys knows, high school students can hardly be
considered sought-after, at least not in the ways that are important
to men who love boys. They might even think that I am simply
confused. After all, it was 1968, so I am obviously getting on in
years. Of course, it is entirely possible that their misunderstanding
arises because they didn’t grow up in a country like Australia,
which had six years of high school in 1968. There were no middle
schools or junior high schools. Instead, in the best British
tradition of surrounding relatively innocent pubescent boys with
sex-starved adolescents, boys usually went straight from primary
school to an all-boy high school.
The
one advantage of an otherwise depraved educational system was that
some of the boys who shouted farewells to their friends that
afternoon were only twelve or thirteen years old. To be certain, a
great many of them were very desirable, especially if a person was
attracted to bronzed youthful bodies and sun-bleached blond hair. The
golden-boy image was both iconic and reasonably accurate in 1960s
Australia. That characterisation of the typical Australian male
existed until Germaine Greer’s liberated 'Female Eunuch' and
the open-the-flood-gate immigration polices of the Right Honourable
Gough Whitlam finally subverted the culture.
Boys
like that, the epitome of sun-loving still-dormant manhood, continue
to give me an erection to be proud of; along with brown-haired
Italian boys, and Eurasian boys with almond skin and ebony hair,
which should go to show that I’m not xenophobic. However, one
still shouldn’t make the mistake of thinking that those
handsome young high school boys were the object of my attraction in
1968. Those boys didn’t interest me very much, not then, and
even less now that I am settled in the celibacy of middle age. For as
long as I can remember, nine, ten and eleven have been my favourite
numbers for good reason. Those are the years of fleeting childhood,
of the purest form of male beauty, and yes, of emerging if mostly
latent sexuality.
It
is entirely possible that peculiar quirk that causes men to love
young boys occurred because I was a loved boy myself. I count myself
lucky in that respect because I grew up without a father’s
presence. Perhaps I became a boy-lover because my formative years
were largely spent in the company of two women. There is no way of
knowing for certain, but my mother and grandmother dominated every
moment of my life while I was growing up. And then, out of the blue
came unexpected freedom. I spent three weeks surfing on a mostly
deserted beach with my best friend, his seventeen-year-old brother,
and their uncle, a world famous surfer and board manufacturer. Those
three weeks changed my life forever. However, as wonderful as
learning how to ride a surfboard was, and it was surely a great
experience, of more interest to most readers will nymphets in pantyhose
be what transpired
to become an even more important part of my life. It was only a
matter of a few days before I lost my virginity, insofar as boys can
be virgins. By Christmas Eve, I learned how to make love. In that
regard, this story is particularly pertinent
Yet,
even as I began my journey on that still largely quiescent pathway to
pederasty, there were ample signs of what lay dormant inside me. A
crucial part of my sexuality was already formed by the time I reached
eleven years old. After all, I had been secretly experimenting with
my best friend, Blaine McIntyre, for the best part of a year by then.
Our sexual activity was anything but extraordinary. Just about every
boy experimented with his friends at one time or another. It was part
of growing up during the halcyon years of sexual freedom that
preceded women’s liberation. Boys, curious about their bodies,
often took advantage of other boys of the same age to engage in
harmless sex games. We did things back then that nowadays would have
society in an uproar. From my current perspective, it was an
important part of learning about one’s role in life.
So
there we were, at the end of 1968, Blaine and I, lurking in the
shadows, enjoying the last year of childish innocence before we
started high school. Both of us were anxious to grow up without
really understanding what it meant. We were time-bombs of boyish
lust, barely aware that our bodies were beginning to ripen, waiting
for the right moment to explode into the full-blown sexual creatures
that we were supposed to be. Until the time was right, our sexual
explorations took 14yo nymphet pussies the form of clandestine games. It was safer that
way. Rather than expressing the deep-seated love that we shared from
the age of five, we played and pretended, and entertained our budding
desires without making a commitment. It was innocent and exciting,
and deeply satisfying, but it was also unsettling. My awareness of
Blaine as someone who was much more than a friend was held in check
by a dreaded fear, that of being the one thing that all Australian
boys loathed, a poofter. [A 'poof', or 'poofter', is a quaint
colonial colloquialism for a homosexual.]
According
to my teachers, I was a curious and clever boy who was destined for
success, at least according to what was written on my annual school
reports of which I still have a few left. Indeed, I remember myself
as always tiny nymphette lesbians
being anxious to find out all the mysteries of the world,
and that irrepressible need to learn even more seemed to be growing
stronger with every new day. All too soon I would find out about the
biggest mystery of them all. However, that December afternoon, sex
was the furthest thing from my mind.
When
it came to sex, I’ve always considered that not having a father
around made my curiosity all the worse. It wasn’t simply that I
lacked a male role model, although that was certainly a factor.
Imagine having two women fussing over your every minute of every day.
Because of them, I was mostly innocent in the ways of the male world.
However, I wasn't totally innocent. For one thing I knew a few things
about sex, having spent my formative years living on a sheep station
in western New South Wales. I was aware of how lambs were made, which
was useful, if not essential knowledge. Neither was I completely
inhibited. Brindajari, the sheep station I grew up on, was huge. It
had lots of secluded places for a boy to discover himself, even if it
was alone. I spent a great deal of time at Callan Creek, most of it
naked.
Thanks
to the sheep shearers who visited Brindajari, and an analogy to the
reproductive mechanisms of sheep, I picked up a mostly accurate, if
somewhat scant understanding of human anatomy. Along the way I even
learned a few of the words to describe the female apparatus that was
so foreign to me. However, without exaggeration, most of what I knew
about the human body and sex was provided entirely by my best friend.
Thanks to his progressive medical-practitioner father, Blaine had the
opportunity to attend a father-son night at school that extended his
understanding far beyond mine. It was a two-hour event that purported
to ‘fully prepare boys for sexual maturity’, an assertion
that is tantamount to comparing the sex-education programs of today
with getting a college education in the subject.
My
mother and grandmother thought I was too young to attend the
father-son night, even though Dr. McIntyre was more than willing to
take me. Just about every boy in my class attended. Not that my
absence mattered very much. What Blaine didn’t learn there, naughty teenage nymphets
or
later was elucidated upon by his father, he picked up from his older
brother. Over the next few weeks I had the benefit of Blaine’s
explanations and a much-thumbed 30-page pamphlet, boldly entitled
‘What Every Boy Should Know About Sex’. It came complete
with black and white drawings of the important equipment of both
sexes. This also supposedly contained enough information to guide a
boy into puberty. With Blaine beside me, I stared at those drawings,
some more than others, and tried to understand what having sex was
all about. None of it made much sense, especially when a person
wasn’t attracted to the opposite sex, although that possibility
never entered my mind. A cross-section through a male’s lower
abdomen and a few paragraphs of vital, if vague information about
masturbation, a hurried description of boy’s genital
development and a series of sketches showing the growth of axillary
hair had to suffice my growing thirst for knowledge.
To
be honest, I knew a little about my own body even before Blaine’s
booklet was available, but my knowledge wasn’t enough to know
that I’d been circumcised. Indeed, that wasn’t covered in
the pamphlet beyond a few easily overlooked words, ‘circumcised,
meaning the removal of foreskin’ in little nymphets wet particular. Perhaps it was
downplayed in the booklet because, unlike nowadays, every Australian
boy was circumcised pussy nymphets
like his World-War-Two-veteran father. Indeed,
the 1960s was an era when if a boy didn’t know that he had been
born with a foreskin, he would never notice it was missing.
In
the process of growing up, I learned the words that were whispered
among boys in the distant corners of the school playground. While I
mostly avoided these words because they were ‘rude’, I
still made the appropriate associations. I knew from about the age of
eight or nine that a dick or a dong was the same as a penis, and that
my nuts or knackers were properly called testicles. Thanks to Blaine,
by the time I reached ten I knew that masturbating was really called
wanking, and it was lots of fun as well. That December, with my balls
still hugging my dick on a hot day, it would be nearly two years,
before I could spunk properly. Somewhere along the way I learned the
words for sexual intercourse were ‘fuck’, ‘root’
and ‘stuff’, but more importantly that none of them were
ever to be used with adults present, although one could safely say
‘root’ and ‘stuff’ so long as they weren’t
in the wrong connotation. 'Fuck' was a very different matter. I
discovered, much to my surprise that older brothers were usually
forgiving if one used an inappropriate word, and that they used the
words too sometimes. Although I wasn’t aware of the precise
details of how it was done, I knew that sex involved putting a dong
inside a ‘fanny’. I was careful not to use ‘cunt’,
because somehow, despite my persistent innocence, I learned that it
was the worst word of all.
All
told, the astute reader should get the impression that I wasn’t
what might be called sexually aware. However, I wasn’t
completely unsullied either. I was a happy, healthy boy whose only
problem was a singular lack of interest in girls. Like most
Australian boys in the fleeting years of childhood, I eagerly
ventured into uncharted territory. In the privacy of Blaine’s
bedroom, I shyly touched my best friend’s penis. Needless to
say, he touched mine too, but somewhat more aggressively. We learned
how to wank by rubbing ourselves, and then, when we were comfortable
with that, we moved on to doing each other’s. We quickly
discovered that mutual masturbation brought even more delight, and we
engaged in it with boyish, if guiltily restrained glee. It was Blaine
who taught me to keep wanking despite sensations that bordered on
painful and a pressing need to urinate. The whole point of what
otherwise have been a futile effort immediately became very obvious.
I was lucky that he convinced me to keep rubbing until I got the
ultimate feeling. After reaching climax just one time, going all the
way was the only way to go. Wanking quickly became our most popular
pastime after surfing. It was entirely mutual, meaning that from ten
to eleven, the number of times I gave myself an orgasm probably
numbered less than a dozen. It was Blaine who got me to admit that
having him do it to me was far better than anything I’d ever
felt before by myself. After that, there was no turning back.
From
the outset we had different ways 14 17 nymphets
of doing it. Blaine liked using his
hand with four fingers braced against his thumb, rubbing fast and
furious, going back and forth along the shaft. I liked using a finger
and thumb. Not that our penises were all that different in size for
most of 1968. For some reason, what I liked most of all was pinching
and squeezing on the very end on mine. Either way, we rubbed and
rubbed, creating enough friction on Blaine’s penis to make
fire, or for the bulbous head of my penis to become inflamed. With
regular practice we soon became experts at ‘spunking up’,
or ‘getting the jerks’ as we mostly called it back then.
Together, we illigal nymphets underage pedo learned how to pleasure both ourselves and our partner
in ways that I still fantasise about. We didn’t know that we
were able to do it several times in a row because there wasn’t
any ‘spunk’ to interrupt the need to achieve release.
After a while, we even learned not to stop after the first climax. It
felt much better after the sensitivity diminished. Our turn-around
time was so short that we never had to worry about delaying for more
than a minute to get our breath back. There were even a few times
when we wanked to exhaustion, when our penises became ruddy and
bloated from overuse. We did it because if felt good, because, with
the sole exception of the exhilaration of surfing, there was nothing
else even remotely like that ‘jerking’ feeling from deep
inside our bodies.
Over
the period of a year, my innocence began to retreat, taking a
backward step every night that I slept at Blaine’s house, or
when we were brave enough to do something at my house, which wasn’t
very often. For some reason I never have nymphets image understood, we didn’t
do more than masturbate, not until the last day of school. By then, I
was well on the way to changing into the person I still am today.
However, the recognition of that person was still a long time away,
in emotional terms as well as in actual days. I was always happy
being with Blaine, but I was happiest when we were both naked and
lying in his bed at night, holding each other’s penises and
pleasuring each other in the way we most liked. Had I known more, it
would have been so easy to do nymphets model photo
more with him, yet we were utterly
content with what we shared. I made poofter jokes like all the other
boys in my class at school and never dreamed it would happen to me.
Finally,
there are other two people who greatly changed my life, and for whom
this story is also dedicated: Blaine’s older brother, Bruce,
and their uncle, Byron McIntyre. I will not spoil the story at this
point to tell you why. While it was Blaine who taught me the basics
of sex, it was Bruce who taught me how to make love, one-sided though
it was. However, even before that happened, there were feelings on
both sides that made my heart glow whenever he was close to me. For
no reason at all, I stammered whenever he was near. It wasn’t
that I was nymphets darkcollection nervous by nature. There were emotions that I’d
never felt for any other person pouring out of me without
explanation. Looking back, I know now that I wasn’t in love. At
least I wasn’t in love with Bruce. Hero worship, puppy love,
what ever it was, at the time it was just disturbing and strange.
Even harder to understand was how quickly my life changed after that
day in dark nymphet bbs
December, 1968, when school ended for the year and holidays
began. That afternoon, as I have already said, I was almost eleven
years old, just one day away in fact.
Thank
you for your patience.
Sincerely,
Ganymede
True Blue by Ganymede
Chapter
1
It
was a hot afternoon in December of 1968, that day when I waited
somewhat impatiently outside Sydney Grammar School. It wasn’t
the first time in my life that I had waited there. Neither was it the
first time in my life that I was wide-eyed and nervous with
excitement, but that day was different to any other day of my life.
Somehow, I knew that day was different. It was sticky hot and the
noise of the inner city seemed very distant, so far away that one
could hear the sounds of the starlings and sparrows that gathered in
the trees overhead. I fancied I could even hear my own heartbeat. And
amidst that unsettling disquiet, I had to think in order to breath.
In and out, counting seconds until the next breath, just waiting,
just thinking in silence.
I
was a confident easy-going kid, everyone said so, but not that
afternoon. That afternoon I searched 837 faces for one face in
particular, because I was obsessed with one of them. I just didn’t
know it at the time, or if I did, I would never have admitted it even
to myself. That afternoon, those swarming, vigourous, handsome
specimens of budding manhood were literally a plague of mice.
However, there were no mice among them. Like Darwin’s Origin of
the Species, they were the very best that Australia had to offer.
Sheer selectivity made certain of that. Sydney Grammar School was
arguably the best high school in a country of some 10 million people,
although at least one other private school could argue to the
contrary. Those 837 hot-blooded patrician youths represented 114
years of school history, and maybe more, depending upon when you
started counting. They were all hand picked, culled from the posh
suburbs of Sydney and from across the state of New South Wales. They
were so selected that you wouldn’t know that when Muck-Up day
occurred at Sydney’s most prestigious private school. Back
then, the worst thing that ever happened on Muck-up Day was a few
rolls of toilet paper being spread around the foliage and festooned
from the buildings.
Everywhere
I looked, I saw crisply-ironed long-sleeved white shirts with sleeves
rolled up and precisely arranged ties emblazoned with the school
insignia, a Scottish cross with five stars and an open book to
symbolise learning. All of the students were dressed exactly the
same, which was the raison d'être of a uniform after all. They
all wore grey woollen trousers, even though it was the height of
summer. Eight hundred and thirty seven sweaty boys aged twelve to
eighteen, and one of them was Bruce McIntyre.
Bruce
McIntyre! Even now, when I write his name I still feel the same
thrill that I felt when I looked out the side window of Mrs.
McIntyre’s car. Looking past my best friend, Blaine, not
realising how lucky we were to be wearing our short- sleeved shirts
and grey cotton shorts, no ties at the Lower School, thank you very
much. We were both looking to see his older brother, Bruce. However,
in my case, it was for a reason other than brotherly familiarity.
Bruce! My hero, Bruce! Just saying his name to myself used to make me
warm with excitement. There was always an uncertain thrill that came
whenever I was close to him, a thrill that I never felt with any
other person who was older than me. Later on, a few days later, that
thrill would come for a very different reason.
The
whole thing was vaguely unsettling, not sex, but watching that
seething mass of teenage boys emerge like cicadas from their shells.
As soon as each erotic nymphets olya boy reached the street, he was reborn, shedding his
chrysalis of rigid academic control, becoming free again. School ties
quickly came undone, and if not taken off, remained loose around
their necks. Authority was denied in that simple act of self
expression. The uniform rule was rigidly enforced at Sydney Grammar,
from the time a boy left home in the morning, to the time he returned
in the afternoon. We were expected to be proud of our school.
However,
that afternoon, six weeks of summer lay ahead. Part of that six weeks
would be sun and fun and endless days of surfing on Sydney’s
beaches. Six weeks of heaven, of growing one’s sun-bleached
hair far beyond the regulation top-of-the-collar length, but only to
lose it again a day or two before we went back to school.
And
there, amidst a hundred soon-to-be-senior boys as they strolled forth
with mature disengagement from the lower forms, was Bruce. I saw him
first, which probably meant I was looking harder than anyone else in
the car. He finally emerged through the doorway and stood there for a
moment as if reflecting on the importance of leaving school on the
last day of the term. But there he was, looking about him, saying
good-bye to his friends, grinning as they answered him.
Seventeen-year-old Bruce McIntyre! And there was me, Allan James
Harding, waiting nervously in the car. I was about to engage on the
adventure of my life, but not knowing anything about what awaited me.
Looking back, I was never as innocent as I was that day.
He
raised his hand and gestured a salute of recognition, or so it seemed
to me, and then he walked down the scalloped stone stairs. He was
still talking with some of the stragglers, but not as earnestly as
they sought his interest. His attention seemed to be focused entirely
on the car parked beneath the trees. What a sight we must have made
to anyone who saw us gazing at each other across a hundred-yard
distance as he approached. Bruce Graham McIntyre, already elected by
his teachers to be a prefect when school resumed. Bruce, with his
ready smile and curly brunette-like-his-mother hair. Bruce, with his
ever-friendly wave that always made me smile and instantly wave back.
He had eyes like Blaine. Big and brown like a loveable, languid
kangaroo, not innocently blue like mine.
Even
when he was nothing more to me than my best friend’s older
brother, the strange thing was how much I liked being with him. I had
always liked Bruce, going all the way back to when he was my age and
I was five years old and starting kindergarten. I liked him, not
because he was Blaine’s big brother and he could take care of
us if danger threatened, which it never did of course, or that he
could do a thousand things I couldn’t do. I liked him because
he was always treated me as if I was special to him. I liked him for
a thousand different reasons, including his ability to ride a
surfboard. He was famous for it, not world famous, but he was famous
in the eyes of at least one eleven-year-old devoted fan. I saw it as
my personal responsibility to make sure that every boy who attended
Sydney Grammar’s preparatory school in Edgecliff knew that
Bruce McIntyre, who was Blaine’s older brother by the way, had
come third in the 1967 New South Wales Junior Surfing Championships
at Narrabeen. At the time, Bruce was sixteen, a fourth former, and
his photograph was on the third page of the Sports Section of the
Daily Telegraph! I worshipped at his naked nymphets magazine feet.
As
soon as he was in the car and the door was closed again, Bruce skewed
around in his seat and grinned at me. He had nice white teeth. He had
full lips like Blaine. Both of them had their Hungarian mother’s
mouth. There were tiny freckles flecked across the bridge of his
nose. He had a head of untamed russet- brown hair, like his brother,
unlike his very-Scottish auburn-haired father. He was a
third-generation Australian, but he was more Australian than most
people whose convict ancestors arrived on the nymphetz First Fleet.
“Hi ya
Mum. Ow-yar-goin’ mates.” The accent was exaggerated. He
did that either to annoy his mother or impress his friends. He also
he did it to make me laugh.
That
was all he said. Blaine gave him a disinterested glance and went
happily back to reading his have naked nymphetes
comic book. Of course, I grinned back at
Bruce like a dummy, not realising that my smile said more than words
ever could. He called me mate! Instead of turning around again, he
kept staring at me as if he was trying to think of something else to
say. It made me feel like I was being examined. It made me feel
uncomfortable, even nervous. And yet, even then, I was filled with
admiration for him, awed that Bruce somehow found me,
not-even-a-first-former, to be worth a few seconds of his time. It
also made me feel uneasy, deep down inside where I kept my secrets.
There was a lot nymphets futaba gallery
I didn’t understand about the world I lived in,
and even though I wanted to know more, there was no one who I could
ask except my best friend.
Blaine
giggled then, while Bruce was still looking at me, probably because
of something he was reading. It was music to my ears, the sound of a
boy in high spirits and carefree like me. I studied him from the
other side of the car. No doubt he was destined for great things like
his father, but one would never know it from his obsession with
comics. His profile held my interest for a moment too long. I admired
the way that his hair glistened in the sun. It was both darker and
shorter than my sun and salt-bleached blond hair. Even to my eyes, so
inexperienced in judging beauty, he was a very handsome boy. He
glanced at me and rolled his eyes, but already I had committed the
image to memory. At the time I did not appreciate the significance of
the ache in my heart when I finally avert my eyes and forced myself
to look out the window next to me. It topless nymphet intimated that I was infatuated
for I was surely too young to be in love.
I
was glad when Bruce finally gave me a parting wink and turned around
again. He leaned down to fiddle with the radio button, found 2UW, and
turned the volume up. Only then did I realise that I had an erection.
I could feel it growing, stretching out to make that warm but
comfortable tightness in my underpants. It usually happened only when
I played with it at night, or when Blaine and I talked about sex, or
did something together that we weren’t supposed to even know
about. I felt awkward, exposed, keeping my knees together, silently
praying that no one would notice the pointed lump in my shorts.
Suddenly,
the Beatles boomed out from under the dashboard and from the two
round speakers mounted behind my head. ‘Roll over Beethoven’
filled the car. For no reason at all, my penis became absolutely
rigid. My face was hot, and my mouth was very dry. It was difficult
to concentrate on what Blaine was saying, but it wasn’t because
I couldn’t hear him over the radio. It bothered me that he was
giggling while he was trying to say something serious. .
“Turn
it down please, Bruce. We don’t have to entertain the street.”
Like
my mother, Mrs McIntyre could be strict at times. However, she nymphets bbs info was
also funny. I was almost part of the family. There were always
invitations to stay for dinner, or go to the beach with them. She
joked with my mother about teens nonnude nymphet adopting me and having three sons.
“Cripes!”
The volume went down slightly. “It’s summer, Mum.”
“I
know that dear.” It was the patient parent voice.
“We’ve
cast off the shackles of the tyrants once again. No more school. No
more teachers. We’re free at last!” Bruce continued
ebulliently. His sing-song voice at the end made it sound even
funnier. I snorted, trying to hold back from laughing.
“Yes,
dear. You won’t get into trouble for not wearing your tie in
the car, will you?”
It
was the perfect ‘shut-down’, which made my need to laugh
even worse. I was almost choking in the back seat. Blaine was
oblivious. The sun still danced off his hair, bringing out red
highlights. An unruly strand curled over his furrowed brow. His
concentration on his comic was both reassuring and disconcerting. My
grandmother said he was blasé, which suited him about as much
as the nick name I called him in private. ‘Tugga’,
because that was what he did when he played with his Australian
boyhood. He tugged on litte nude nymphet it, sometimes so hard that it seemed as if he
wanted to hurt himself. For some reason he liked doing masturbating
far more than I did. I remembered when I starting calling him
‘Tugga’. It was a rainy Saturday afternoon on a day when
Australia played England at the Melbourne Cricket Ground and won 342
to 270. Instead of watching the game television with Blaine’s
father and brother we were upstairs in Blaine’s bedroom. After
about an hour of mutual masturbation, my penis hurt and my wrist
ached, but he kept tugging on his until it swelled up to the point of
becoming bloated. Only when both of our arms were too tired to
continue did he stop. It took hours for the inflammation to go down.
It was the first of our marathon wank sessions.
I
looked away, feeling odd because Blaine always ignored me whenever
his brother paid me any attention. Sometimes it seemed like they were
competing, but if Bruce was winning, Blaine always threw in the
towel.
“No
Mum.” Bruce’s voice was baritone deep, rich and smooth,
and to my ears, very manly. I loved to hear him talk, especially
about surfing.
The
car, a 1966 Jaguar 3.8, pulled away from the curb and into the
traffic. We headed down College Street. I turned in my seat and
watched the school disappear in the oval-shaped window behind me. It
wasn’t my school, not yet. It would be in another six weeks.
Both
Blaine and I wore the uniform of the Sydney Grammar’s Edgecliff
Preparatory School. We wore the same grey and white clothes as the
older boys, but no ties, and short cotton pants instead of woollen
trousers. Blaine and I were like mirror images of each other, only my
clothes were one size smaller and they were still loose on me. And
then, for no reason other than it was so very obvious, it struck me
that I would never wear those clothes again. Suddenly, I laughed out
loud. Blaine nudged me in the ribs. Bruce was right. We were free,
free for six weeks. Six weeks was a lifetime. And when it finished, I
would be going to high school.
“What’s
up with your weirdo mate, Blaine?” Bruce called out from the
front seat.
Blaine
gave him the ‘don’t know, don’t care’ shrug
and a confirming grunt that only made my humour worse.
“We’re
free. We’re free. We’re free,” I called out
gleefully over the radio. “No more tyrant teachers. We’re
free at last.”
I
almost sang the words, except at the last moment I stopped. It would
have been hard to sing, not because of the Beatles, but because Bruce
was sitting in the seat in front of me. I didn’t want him to
laugh at me. I had a boy-soprano voice that was good enough to get me
into the first row of the school choir and the occasional solo part
in performances. I wanted Bruce to like me. I didn’t understand
why. It was just a need I had buried down somewhere inside me.
“Yep,
I think dingbat’s finally got it worked out. He’s on
hols,” Blaine returned joyfully.
I
laughed. My erection had gone down as fast as it had sprung to life.
All it ever took for that to happen was some distraction that sent my
mind in a different direction. Until then, I hadn’t given it
much thought, but it seemed that I had been getting erections more
frequently. Poor Blaine somehow managed to have them non-stop. Every
time I looked at him, his penis seemed to be bulging out into his
shorts. It didn’t seem to bother him like it did me. In fact,
he seemed to be oblivious to it most of the time, and for the rest of
the time he made a game of it. Sometimes, I wondered whether he was
actually proud of it. Vaguely, I wondered what I’d been
thinking to cause mine to get hard in the first place.
Bruce
turned around again. He looked directly at me again. He always seemed
to be doing that. He always stared right into my eyes. Every time he
did that, I wondered what he saw. Some dumb kid? His little brother’s
boring friend. That was all I could ever be to him, but this time for
no reason at all, he seemed more intense, more introspective, as if
he wanted to say something to me, but he could not put it into words.
He raised his eyebrows, not frowning, but showing surprise. It made
me smile back even though it made me feel apprehensive of what he was
going to say next.
“What
are nymphet archives you getting for your birthday, motor head?”
I
tried to mimic Blaine’s ‘don’t know’ shrug.
Bruce often called me motor- head because I knew so much about cars,
because I lived for cars back then. I dreamed of E-type Jaguars, of
Ferraris of which I had seen only one or two, and of Lotus Cortinas.
I knew more about engines and gearboxes that any boy I knew. I was
proud of being the car- expert, however, it was also another way that
Bruce made fun of me.
He
winked, deliberately giving me the impression that he knew more than
I did about my birthday. I said the only thing I could under the
circumstances, the one thing that might increase Bruce’s regard
for me.
I
gave another shrug. This time it was a more confident shrug. Still,
there were butterflies in my stomach. “Um, S-surfboard,…
m-maybe.”
I
wasn’t prepared to say much more than that. If I did, I would
have jinxed it for sure. Just one more day and I’d know for
certain. I’d been hinting for a surfboard since mid-September,
asking outright throughout November. I was told to drop the subject
in early December. I offered, gratuitously no doubt, to combine both
my birthday and Christmas presents seeing as they came so close
together. The only thing I really wanted was foam and fibreglass and
eight foot long. A good board cost nearly $60, without any fancy
graphics, not like some boards had. The one thing I had going in my
favour, as I saw it, was that at the end of November my mother had
taken me into her bedroom. There amid her bottles of French perfume
and make-up brushes she found a tape and measured my height. Her
reason? Simply to see how much I had free virtual nymphet porn
grown. Then, the next time we
were in David Jones Department Store, she had taken me down to the
cafeteria and weighed me on the scales. I was eighty pounds and
four-foot-eight. She never used metric, but that was all we did at
school. Afterwards, I couldn’t think of any other reason why
she needed to do that. I asked her again. This time, she said ‘new
clothes’, but since when did ‘new clothes’ require
my weight. I hoped it was something else. Maybe a surf board?
Back
then, in Christmas 1968, the best boards around, maybe in the entire
world, were built by Shane Steadman at a workshop somewhere on the
North Shore. Next best, according to the magazines I read, were the
McIntyre boards that were made by Blaine’s uncle. I had high
hopes of getting one. Compared to most kids who wanted a McIntyre
board, I had an inside track because of Blaine. He had one already, a
surfboard that was specially built for him. It was a work of art,
more so that any Steadman board. The graphics on my best friend’s
board were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. A Pacific
wave, a cascade of bubbles growing from the creamy white fibreglass
below, becoming blue, then breaking again into boiling white surf and
flecks of foam. The graphics on Blaine’s surfboard must have
doubled the cost of his board. I crossed my fingers. There was
nothing like a last minute prayer to work miracles.
“Gangbusters!
Reckon you’ll be another Midget Farrelly, Harding?”
I
grinned, completely lost for words as much as I was afraid that I
would nymphet incest tube stammer again. He seemed to enjoy it when I grinned at him.
“Good
onya!” Another grin back at me.
He
turned away before my face turned red.
I
didn’t answer. The next song came on the radio. Back-to-back
Beatles because of their upcoming tour—this time ‘Help’.
The Beatles were ‘okay’, but I much preferred the surf
music of the Beach Boys and the Ventures. Bruce turned around, winked
directly at me and went back to humming and drumming his fingers on
the burled walnut trim on the side of the door. Blaine and I sang the
refrain, keeping it so quiet that it was mostly to ourselves.
The
Jaguar was a great car if you liked polished walnut and the rich
smell of leather, and an engine that had to be the best six-cylinder
every made. Mostly aluminium, with twin overhead cams, triple SU
carburettors, four valves per cylinder. I knew my cars. My personal
favourite was the nymphet lo guestbook Jaguar E-type 4.2 litre convertible. I wanted one
in red. It amused me to think that the very same engine, only smaller
and detuned, was driving us along. It sounded like a very tame
Jaguar.
“Are
you going up to Brindajari for Christmas, Allan?”
Mrs.
McIntyre’s accent wasn’t very strong, not like a lot of
immigrants from Europe. It almost sounded Scottish, which wasn’t
all that surprising because she had been married to Dr. McIntyre
forever.
I
sat up. “Uh huh.”
“How
long are you staying this time?”
“For a
week. Then, I’m back here for a day before I leave for camp,
Mrs. McIntyre.”
After
camp ended, I was returning to Brindajari to spend the rest of the
summer holidays there, but she already knew what I was doing for nymphets models teenager the
summer. I had been standing on the porch when my mother shared her
schedule for my summer life.
“I’m
sure you’ll have a wonderful time, Allan.”
Adults
asked dumb questions and said even dumber things in order to make
kids feel at home. Some parents practised verbal diarrhoea for that
very reason. Mrs. McIntyre wasn’t in that category so it didn’t
make much sense that she was asking about something that she already
knew the answer to. I glanced at Blaine looking for a sign that he
was tuned in to something other than 2UW. He tapped his hand on the
window, tired of singing for the moment. However, he was busy
watching the buildings go past as we drove through the red-light
district of Kings Cross. More than likely, he was trying to see some
of the prostitutes. Even in the middle of the day, there were always
a few women hoping to meet a U.S. serviceman on R and R. It seemed
like the city was filled up with them. All of a sudden, he nudged my
leg. His finger lifted up, below the seat in front so his mother
wouldn’t see. He pointed to the side. The woman was walking
slowly, casually, stopping to look in shop windows. She was
blond-headed, but not gold- coloured like mine. Her hair was a mass
of little curls, cascading down to her shoulders. She was dressed in
a too-tight mini-skirt and long black boots that came up to her
knees. Her top was made of fish-net material, showing diamonds of
pink skin behind the black knit. She wasn’t very pretty.
“Boys!”
“Yes,
Mum.”
Blaine
answered for me because I undergroundnymphets was too stunned to move. The woman had
turned around and was looking directly at me through the open window
of the car. She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old,
yet she still gave me the same look she gave any male. I gulped,
frozen in fear of being seen staring at her. Blaine nudged my leg
again, harder than before. Quickly, we both looked away. We weren’t
supposed to know what the woman did for a living, let alone make
jokes about the details of what she did in the cheap hotels around
the corner for twenty or thirty dollars.
“Look
the other way boys.” The stern voice from the front seat got my
immediate attention. Blaine turned, smirked at me, and kept looking.
“Yes,
Mum.”
“They
get more brazen every day.”
“She’s
ugly as a box of blowflies,” Blaine laughed. “I reckon
she’s just right for you, Allie.”
I
scowled at him, but it was a waste of time because he couldn’t
see me. He was still staring out the window.
“Crikey,
you’re right Blainey. She’s looking at him like she’s
his sheila. Talk about a pair of norks!”
“Bruce!”
Mrs. McIntyre interjected.
Bruce
laughed. “Dead cert! She’s built like Dolly. Anyway, it’s
not like she’s a bush pig or something, Mum.” [Dolly was
a hostess on the Pick-A-Box game show in 1960s Australia]
Blaine
roared with laughter. “She’s pretty hot, Mum, and anyway,
Allan’s perving on her too.”
“Man,
is she stacked.”
“Bruce!”
Louder this time. It was a voice that said ‘enough’.
“I’m
just pulling his leg. He knows that, Mum. Anyway he’s too young
to like girls, aren’t you mate?”
My
answer was to say nothing. I couldn’t see the point. I hadn’t
really thought about liking girls, or not. After spending most of the
last six years at Edgecliff Preparatory School, and the rest of my
life at Brindajari, I didn’t know a single girl other than
seven-year-old Katie Tattersall from Dundgeroo Station. What was I
supposed to say? In truth, I really didn’t understand why
breasts were so important. Katie Tattersall didn’t even have
breasts, but her nipples were already much larger than the tiny dots
that I had. They seemed stick out much more than mine did. Sometimes,
I could see them under her flimsy top.
The
conversation ended as soon as we turned onto New South Head Road,
returning the same way that we’d come from Edgecliff to pick up
Bruce from school. I wasn’t even sure why we’d done it,
made the round trip that is, except that it might have had something
to do with it being the last day of school. Normally, Mrs. McIntyre
dropped Blaine and me off at my house so we could play for a while,
and offshore pics nymphets then she went to get Bruce by herself. Still, I wasn’t
about to complain. I liked being in the car with Bruce and it was
good to see where we’d be going to school when the summer
holidays ended.
“So
when are you leaving for Brindajari, Bunny?”
I
realised Bruce was trying to make up, but Bunny was a name I
preferred he didn’t call me. Not Blaine, not Bruce, not anyone.
Bunny sounded so juvenile, and worse, when you called someone a
‘rabbit’ it was much the same thing as saying ‘idiot’.
However, I was fairly certain that Bruce called me Bunny because it
sounded cute. At least that’s what Blaine said. Most times,
when his parents weren’t around, Bruce even made it sound
endearing, like I was his pet rabbit or something. It was my own
fault for telling Bruce about the rabbit plague that came through
Brindajari earlier in the year. There had been rabbits everywhere in
June. Millions of rabbits. You couldn’t go outside and not trip
over them. You got tired of shooting them with a .22. It was too
easy. Point in the general direction and shoot, eject the cartridge.
It was a waste of bullets. There were so many rabbits it was
impossible to miss. Rabbit death was guaranteed unless you were half
blind like some of them were. For a week and a half I became a rabbit
exterminator, second only to myxomatosis. My grandmother paid me
three cents for each one. There really wasn’t any choice. If
you didn’t kill them, there was nothing left for the sheep to
eat. It was going to be a bad year for wheat as well. Everyone blamed
the situation on the rabbits, followed nymphets small closely by the government. My
mother said times were bad enough for a person to vote ‘Labour’,
even though she and my grandmother always voted ‘Country
Party’.
“T-tomorrow,”
I answered. One word was almost safe.
I
tried to sound happy about it, because in truth I really did like
staying at Brindajari. The only thing that would be better than
spending Christmas at Brindajari would be having Blaine there with
me. It was a lot more fun when there was someone my own age to play
with.
“Tomorrow?”
Bruce asked. He sounded surprised.
Now,
I had to elaborate. I breathed in and held it. Why was I so nervous
when I had to talk to Bruce. “We’re l-leaving a d-day
earlier than usual,” I explained in a rush.
As
far as I was concerned, it really didn’t make much sense to go
up to Brindajari a day early, especially when it meant travelling on
my birthday. However, it wasn’t up to me. It was a tradition to
spend Christmas there. It was all that I had ever known. I thought
Blaine was lucky to be spending his Christmas in Sydney. On Christmas
Day he’d probably be surfing at Manly or Dee Why, while I was
eating roast lamb and Christmas pudding and sweating like a pig. At
that time of year, midday temperatures were usually over 100 degrees.
For me, the high point came when it cooled down in the evening. Then,
with the work day over, I’d ride my horse down to Callan Creek
and swim beneath the amature nymphets sex river gums. Going ‘nud’, I called
it. It was fun, feeling the hot sun on my bare skin, especially where
it was pale. After a few days I would have a sun-tanned bottom. The
front section always took a day or two longer to turn brown. I never
told my mother and I made sure that she never saw me with clothes on.
She would have said that there were snakes. There weren’t that
many snakes around, but I was still careful.
Besides
swimming and riding my horse, there wasn’t much else to do. At
that time of the year I was there all by myself. For as long as I
could remember, I was always left to devise my own amusement for the
week of Christmas. That was the problem with my grandmother owning
67,000 acres. It wasn’t tiny girls nymphets back of Bourke or Woop Woop, because
Dubbo wasn’t all that far away from Brindajari—25 minutes
or so by car—but the nearest station was still about seven
miles up a gravel road. Its owners, the Tattersalls, always went down
to Sydney for Christmas. So did everyone else, if they weren’t
already living there. It got to be lonely.
“Blainey
was telling me you’re going off to camp when you get back,
Bun,” Bruce said. Once again, he was looking back at me from
between the front two seats.
“Yep.”
I intended to sound curt because he used the rabbit name again. It
was beginning to drive me bats.
“Sounds
beaut. Where’bouts, mate?”
At
least Bruce sounded interested. I didn’t know why it annoyed me
so much when he was making fun of me. After Christmas at Brindajari,
my schedule included two weeks at camp at some place north of Port
Macquarie. I had never been there. My mother’s brochure said
something about water sports like lola nymphets sex skiing and sailing, along with
horse riding lessons. Like I needed to learn how to ride a horse! I’d
been riding since I was four. I’d even been bare-back on a
brumby the year before. That took a lot of skill. Still, water-skiing
sounded like fun.
“Camp
W-Wangara or s-something l-like that.” If I sounded angel nymphets 14 sulky it
was because I didn’t think much of the idea of going to camp
for two weeks. “It’s s-somewhere near Port M-Macquarie, I
think.”
I
stared out the window and caught my breath. My heart was beating
quickly. I glimpsed Blaine smiling slightly, as if my acute
embarrassment was somehow amusing. Glumly, I watched the shops slide
past until I got over it. Then, I scanned for interesting cars. There
weren’t many cars around that I couldn’t identify.
Holdens were the most numerous by far. I saw them by the hundreds
every day, but most of them weren’t worth a second glance.
Every so often an interesting one would come along. An EH model
pulled up beside us when we stopped at the lights in Elizabeth Bay.
It was lowered a few inches and equipped with wide chrome wheels. The
two-inch exhaust and a Candy-Apple-Red metal-flake paint job said the
rest. The engine idled roughly. That was a special cam. The formula
was pretty standard. wildnymphets underage kds gallery A hotted-up car like that. would have extractors
too. No standard- issue Stromberg carburettor, but a side-draft
Weber, maybe even two of them. Properly tuned, it could probably do
the standing quarter at Castlereagh in sixteen seconds. It got my
attention immediately.
“Reckon
boofhead’ll drop the clutch if Mum revs the engine a bit?”
Bruce asked snidely. He was watching out his window as well. The
other driver wasn’t much older than he was.
“Go
on, Mum. Dad would do it,” Blaine added encouragingly. He
didn’t add ‘Dad drag-races hotted-up cars all the time.’
“Absolutely
not.”
“Go
on, Mrs. McIntyre,” I piped in. “You’ll shut him
down for sure.”
It
was irresponsible, but I loved being in the car when Dr. McIntyre
burned rubber at the lights. We liked it when we won, and he liked it
when we laughed and carried on in the temporary glow of racing
victory. If I had a father, I would have wanted him to be like Dr.
McIntyre.
Mrs.
McIntyre laughed and shook her head. It didn’t stop Bruce. He
made a ‘v’ with his two fingers, the sign to the other
driver that a race was on. The other driver must have been a mug. He
revved the engine so loud that it roared beside us. He was going to
glaze his clutch if he started off like that. Even a competition
clutch couldn’t take that sort of abuse very often.
The
lights turned green. The Jaguar pulled away in slow motion. The
Holden left with a jumping lurch, a momentary squeal while its rear
wheel spun. No limited slip differential, on that car. We’d
gone about twenty feet in slow motion when Mrs. McIntyre put her foot
down. The Jaguar took off. It sounded like an E- type then, not
pushing us back into the seats like an E-type would, but still very
respectable performance. It was as fast as my grandmother’s
Jaguar, which never went over 50 mph, even on the long trip to
Brindajari. As soon as we passed the other car, Mrs. McIntyre backed
off the accelerator. The point was made.
“Ripper!”
Blaine and I shouted out together.
Bruce
laughed as well, adding his own, “Geez, what a hoon.”
After
another five minutes we rounded the hill and officially entered
Double Bay. Only then, for the first time, the full import of my
summer schedule sank in. Except for a single day between getting back
from Brindajari and leaving for summer camp, I wouldn’t see
Blaine, or Bruce either for that matter, for the next three weeks. I
sank into juvenile melancholy. Three whole weeks by myself. Then, a
few days in Sydney until we went back to Brindajari. It wasn’t
much of a summer for an almost eleven-year-old boy to look forward
to.
Usually,
I liked to watch the people, the cars, the expensive houses, the
sailing yachts moored in the bay. That afternoon, I stared ahead,
feeling sick to the bottom of my stomach and wishing I had a say in
my own life. It was a matriarchal family. I was my mother’s
only child, and whatever my grandmother said was law.
When
we pulled into my street, I wasn’t paying much attention to
anything, not even the radio. I didn’t notice the Ford Fairmont
station wagon parked outside my house, or the man who stood beside it
untying a surfboard from the roof racks. Had I paid even the
slightest attention I would have seen a man who looked a lot like
Bruce, even more like Blaine’s father. I wasn’t even
aware that my mother was standing next to him.
I
opened my door, ready to get out, trying to decide how I should say
good-bye to Blaine. I wanted to get it over with, especially with his
mother and brother there. I sighed emptily. We’d been best
friends since our first day at kindergarten, nymphets russian models almost six years
earlier. I wouldn’t see him again until our summer vacation was
halfway over. At least we’d have three weeks together when I
returned. With luck, we would be able to surf every day, and with
more luck he’d be able to spend a week with me at Brindajari
before school started again. It would be a lot more fun with Blaine.
“You
don’t have to get out, Blaine,” I muttered. “Hey,
I’ll see you in a week, okay?”
I
reached out to shake his hand, but Blaine was already getting out the
other door. So was his mother, so was Bruce. Everyone was getting out
of the car, except me. I got out, then picked up my schoolbag from
the floor. It was much heavier than normal, full of everything from
my desk, most of it rubbish. Blaine was grinning. So was Bruce.
“Wake-up,
Allie. You’re as blind as a bat or something?”
“Huh?”
I turned around then, looking to where Blaine was looking.
By
then, the surfboard was off the roof of the station wagon and
standing up. My mother was standing next to it. I figured it out in
no time at all. Bruce would have said ‘nothing flat’. It
was a McIntyre. Creamy white, with the same very expensive yet
distinctive blue wave graphic that Blaine’s surfboard had,
except where his wave dissolved into a spray of pearly foam and
finally disappeared into the cream-coloured fibreglass, my name was
formed instead. ‘Allan’.
“Mum?”
It was all I could say.
“Yes,
Allan. Happy birthday, sweetie.”
“It’s
really for me.”
“Blimey,
you drongo, of course it’s yours, Bun,” Bruce laughed
from behind me. “It’s got your name on it, hasn’t
it?”
“Mum?”
I asked again. My mouth finally closed.
She
nodded.
“Really?”
The
man stepped from behind the board, still holding it upright with his
hands and resting on the ends of his red rubber thongs. For the first
time, I saw Byron McIntyre, the man himself, the man who created
McIntyre True-Blue Boards. I was as wide-eyed as any boy had ever
been. There he was, not as famous as Midge Farrelly that’s for
certain, but still well known to anyone who knew anything about
surfing. He represented Australia at the world titles in Hawaii. He’d
surfed all over the world. There had even been a documentary on the
ABC about him. He was a lot younger than Blaine’s father, maybe
in his thirties, but he had the same unruly auburn hair that looked
as if he had just trekked through the highlands or been boating on
Loch Lomond. To me, he was everything that I wanted to be. I had a
bad case of hero worship for Byron McIntyre even before I met him in
person. I could not help but stare at him. And then he smiled at me.
“You’re
Allan Harding, aren’t you? Four-foot-eight and eighty pounds?
Eleven years old in a coupla days?”
Even
his voice held me entranced. It was a James Mason voice, smooth as
butter as my grandmother would say. It was a baritone, and to me,
nothing short of reassuring. He sounded a lot like Blaine’s
father who came as close to being a father to me as anyone I had
known.
“Yes,
my birthday’s tomorrow, but,…” I managed to say.
He
grinned. “Then this is yours, mate. It’s specially made
for you, in fact. It’s a real beauty, a seven-footer. but I cut
the blank extra narrow for a skinny four-foot eight kid who weighs
all of 80 pounds.” Another grin. “This is the smallest
board that True-Blue’s ever made. From the look of you I reckon
you’ll put it good use for a few years yet.”
He
held the surfboard out to me to take. It was a little over two feet
taller than I was, nymphet erotic nude
but it seemed to be so much bigger. He looked me
up and down and seemed to like what he saw because he smiled right at
me and nodded. Then, he turned serious.
“It’s
a smidgen shorter than Blaine’s,” he explained to no one
in particular, although I listened in rapt interest. “Just by a
few inches, whatever that is in bloody metric. Oops, sorry about
that. What I mean is it’s still a bit on the big side for you.”
He looked at me again, not caring in the least that he had sworn in
front of my gr. “Anyway, you’ll grow into it soon enough
I expect. It’s got more rocker too, because you’re always
going to be a bit lighter.”
I
wished I knew more about surfing. All I knew were the basics. Rocker
had something to do with directional control and acceleration, the
length did too, but directly opposite. The way he described it, the
board should be able to turn on a threepence. nymphets peeing

I
knew much more about the car next to him. No doubt my grandmother
would have said too much! As far as she was concerned, cars were
useful to ‘get from A to B’. His car was a 1968 Ford
Fairmont XT. It had a V-8 badge on the front fender so that meant it
had the 302 engine from America. It was essentially the same engine
that Allan Moffat used to win the Hardie-Ferodo at Bathurst in his
Ford Falcon GT. Like the GT, the Fairmont also had disk brakes petite nymphet photos nudes
hiding
behind the polished mag wheels. It was off-white, and right there
painted on the tail-gate door, where any idiot should have seen it,
was the famous McIntyre True-Blue wave. Had I been paying attention,
I would have known what I was getting for my birthday from the first
moment I saw it.
“It’s
really grouse.” It’s all I could think of to say to
convey my utter pleasure.
“Allan,”
my grandmother said sternly from behind me.
I
turned around. “Hi Nana.” I kept grinning, even at her.
She
was a tough old bird sometimes, make that most of the time, but this
time her grimness evaporated. Sh



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