Coming of Age


This is a short story, extremely short compared with previous submissions I’ve made. Yet, it is a truthful admission of actual events in the life of the story teller. I am the writer of the story, not the teller of it.


Being a boy in the 1950s and a teen in the 1960s opened my eyes to things I never imagined. As a boy, I played outside and mothers in the neighborhood watched over us. If you think IM is fast, you don’t know how fast a mom’s network communicates. If we got caught by one mom, our own mom’s knew before we got home. Butt whippings were the norm. “If you think it hurts now, wait until your father gets home.”

I went to a parochial high school and got my head filled with a list of taboos that people in polite society don’t approve of. Me, my friends, and just about everyone in high school used the list of taboos as things to accomplish before graduating. The big one, the most important one, was sex.

Most of my friends said they checked off sex but I didn’t believe them because all my attempts at sex failed. Hell yes, I had girlfriends and dates. I played baseball and made it to third base often, just never hit a home run.

My main group of friends were all within a couple months of turning 18 and enrolling for selective service; that’s the draft if you weren’t aware. We all clamored to get accepted to college for a draft deferment in hopes Vietnam would be over before our numbers were called.

I worked that summer Casibom thinking I’d save some money for fall at school. That idea never went past thinking stage — friends, girlfriends, and parties separated me from my money rather quickly. What I hated most was how friends seemed to drift apart once high school ended. This was an era when parents spoke in a united voice, “I didn’t have the opportunities you have. You are going to college and become …,” whatever the popular degree was, and it didn’t matter whether you had the needed aptitude.

My best friend, whom I’d known since we were four years old, was in the same boat. Even though we spent time together, it wasn’t like before. He was distant, as though he needed to work out ‘things’ on his own. He dated a cute French girl whose father was a well known shrink in our city.

My girlfriend was not what I call a beauty, although she was cute and had a body that men just gravitate to. She had her checklist of taboo ‘to dos’ before finishing high school (she was a year behind me), and checked off most. She would not cross the line to cross off sex even though every other taboo was etched out.


Somewhere between 1968 and 2014, life happened. Best friends lost contact, girls came and went, marriages united, divorces divided, and we wondered, “What ever happened to, oh fuck, what’s his name?” What’s his name is someone vivid in my mind today as he was in that summer of ’68; I knew Casibom Giriş well his name, and in 1988, I traveled home to our twentieth class reunion with hopes of reconnecting with him; He didn’t attend.

I learned from bios we all provided that he lived a few miles from where I lived at the time. I wrote a letter to the address in his bio. It took until 2008, the Internet, and Facebook to get a reply. By now, I was retired from federal service and living in the same metro area where we grew up. He was planning his retirement and planned to move home as well. We did reconnect in person in 2009 when he came visiting over the Memorial Day Weekend.

It was a tense couple seconds at that first meeting since 1968. However, I clasped him in a manly embrace hoping to break our mutual tension. One of the reasons, maybe the only reason, we didn’t connect when living close those few years ago, my friend lives an alternative life style, he is gay.

I began realizing, achieving an understanding, of the distantness of those last years of the ’60’s. My friend must have been struggling with his identity. What I wish I had said when we finally met, but couldn’t or didn’t, “You are my friend not my ‘gay’ friend. Remember, I wrote you, I found you on Facebook, I want to renew our friendship.”

We went to lunch and much of the conversation revolved around his past loves. If the plan was to shock me, it didn’t work; I listened to his stories and enjoyed Casibom Güncel Giriş them. I enjoyed being shoulder to shoulder with him again although I knew the trap of my chosen life style wouldn’t allow us to get as close as we were in our sexual experimentation years. I was only partly honest when I told him recently that I have unfulfilled fantasies.

If I was totally honest, I would tell him I feel bad about not finishing what we started. I would tell him that I am curious, maybe bi, although I have never performed gay sex. I would honestly tell him of the intense pleasure I get having my ass dildo fucked and want to replace dildos with cock, his cock.


Fast forward to present date and a dilemma facing my future as an adjunct professor at a local community college. A student whom I’ve known for a couple years and who took a class from me, is openly gay and openly tells me of his dating preferences.

When he identified his ideal date, I sensed he was describing me. Yesterday, he was direct with me saying he likes me and finds me attractive. Although he was quick to add “don’t get freaked out or anything, I’m just saying.” My cock reacted.

Since he is not likely to be a student of mine again, I am dealing with the ethics of student/teacher relationships and wonder what a clandestine relationship with him may lead to. Of course, I also wonder if he has a BBC for my white ass.

Now, it is my turn to be distant and confused. The only cock I ever tried having in my ass is my friend’s and we didn’t finish what we started. Try as I might, ethical values are stronger than my desire for sex with a student. You, my friend, remain the TOP contender to satisfy my BOTTOM.