National Library of New Zealand
Harvested by the National Library of New Zealand on: Oct 11 2009 at 4:54:28 GMT
Search boxes and external links may not function. Having trouble viewing this page? Click here
Close Minimize Help
Wayback Machine
GayNZ Logo & Link
Sunday 11 October 2009


Posted in: NZ Writing
By Francis Hodges - 30th July 2006

As he relieved the pressure on his bladder, Max had the oddest feeling he was being watched. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a tall man, fondling himself. Max turned his head very slightly in that direction. Yes, the man was looking at him, and yes, the man was stroking himself.

"Interested?" he said.

Fear gripped Max. He'd been told from his earliest years not to speak to strangers, especially men. Should he reply? If he did, what would he say? The decision was taken from him as he felt his pansy bud growing rapidly into full bloom. He'd called it his pansy since the day his mother said, "Don't play with your penis, it's a dirty thing to do." At the age of three or four, he thought his mother had said pansy. Regardless of the instruction, he'd played with it ever since. Now, the rush of blood to his crutch, stimulated by the activity along the urinal, increased the intensity of his feelings. He turned a little in the stranger's direction.

"That's a nice one," he said.

Max felt confused. While the pounding in his groin said yes, his upbringing screamed no. While Don't talk to strange men jabbed at his conscience, his desire to have a gay encounter overwhelmed his good sense, exciting his emotions. Could there be any harm in it? After the experience of Johnny Thompson, a neighbour, yes, a very big yes! Johnny, at the age of ten, went off with a man only to be savagely raped. He'd been stitched, spending days in great physical pain, and months in emotional turmoil.

While Johnny Thompson wasn't gay, Max believed he was. After all, hadn't he secretly looked on other boys for years? It started, he remembered when he was about eleven or twelve - intermediate school days. How he loved to watch the boys in the shower after sport. Were they as big as his pansy? Some were, while some were an insult to the owner.

At high school it had been even worse. He found he needed to take the corner shower so he could turn away when the view of others excited him. He feared the teasing if even the slightest hint of his being gay escaped his well-protected image. Imagine being called a fruitcake, or a faggot, or any of the other unpleasant names boys used? He shivered at the thought. Now, after years of longing, an offer confronted him. Without realising, his mouth said, "Yes." The stranger replied, "See you outside."

That clinched it! He'd done it. He'd made his first contact with the adult, gay world. While his reasoning thundered stupid, stupid, his emotions bubbled with excitment. While he feared the outcome, the pulsing in his groin seemed to beat out, in a pounding rhythm, "We're going to play the great gay way."

Seated in the white Nissan coupe, with its black leather upholstery, Max felt apprehensive. It was one thing to speak to a stranger in the anonymity of a gloomy gents, it was quite another to sit fully exposed to public gaze in the man's car. What if someone saw him and told his parents? How would he explain it? Frightened, he began to tremble.

"Your first time?"
"You're terrified."
"Can't you say anything but yes?"
"Come on, man, relax. If you don't want to do anything, we won't."
"But I want to."
"Alright. We'll go up to the lookout. If nothing else, we can sit and talk. The last thing I want to do is force you."
"Thanks. I'd like to talk, but I'd also like to touch you. I've never touched a man, even though I've thought about it for years."
"Okay. Here we go."

Max found the stimulation of the man's hand on him and his on the man, overwhelming, far exceeding anything he thought possible. All too quickly, he climaxed, a release that outstripped anything in his experience. Not since the first time had he felt so good as the sap rose in his stem and poured out into the tissues provided. Spent, his reasoning returned.

"Hey," he said, "let me out of here. What am I doing? Who are you anyhow?"
"Relax. It's over, and you feel ashamed. Frightened. I know I did. Don't, please don' t feel like that. You enjoyed it, didn't you?"
"Then let's meet again."
"Why not?"
"I'm scared my parents will find out. I'm sixteen, but they watch me like a cat with a mouse. I think they suspect."
"I won't tell them. I'm sure you won't."
"Of course I won't. I can't. I don't even know your name."
"It's best like that. No names, no way of contacting. Unless..."

Minutes passed in silence. The man held Max's hand, an action that soothed and comforted. No one had held his hand since he was a child. He liked the sensation, finding he responded by squeezing the man's hand. Max relaxed, completely.

"Now I've recovered, I think I'd like to see you again. I want to talk about being gay. I don't know anything much about the gay world. I can't stop any longer now or I'll have to think of a reason for being late home."
"I'll drop you off."
"No! I might be seen."
"I could leave you in the next street. Here, take my card. It's a silly thing to do, but somehow I trust you. You're a nice boy. You might like to talk some more. There's lots to learn, you know."
"Ta. That would be good. Thank you for trusting me. I won't say anything. Promise."

Forgetting his mother played cards on a Wednesday, Max found he had the house to himself. Sprawled on the couch, he sipped at his coffee and nibbled on his peanut biscuit and thought about the afternoon.

On reflection, it had been a brilliant experience, very satisfying and highly exciting, if all too short. The stranger showed a deep concern for him and had trusted Max. This gave him a warm feeling. As he thought about the session in the car, he wondered what else the man would be prepared to do with him. Remembering the card, he took it from his pocket and read, Winston Blake, Accountant. Among the contacts was a cell phone number. He couldn't ring that from home, but he'd try the ordinary number.

Three times he dialled six of the seven digits before he hung up. His courage failed him each time. As he lay there, thinking, the conflict grew worse and worse. He did so want to explore the gay world, but to fully acknowledge that he was gay might make him vulnerable to all sorts of ridicule. Already, his parents had expressed anxiety about no girlfriend. He fobbed them off with excuses about not having the opportunity to meet any. After all, he did attend a single sex school. When asked about girls at the church youth group, he shrugged his shoulders, claiming that none appealed.

"There must be at least one," his mother said.
"If you want red hair and freckles, or one with braces on her teeth, sure there are, but I don't."

That usually quietened, for the moment, any further questioning. The more he thought about the exciting climax with the man, the more the blood rushed into his groin and the bigger his pansy flowered. This, in turn, increased his desire to speak to this Winston Blake. Again he tried to dial, but his courage failed. Fear of what such a call might lead to terrified him. Visions of HIV blotted out any other image. How easy was it to catch? If only he'd listened more to the instruction at school. If only he didn't feel he wanted to be with other men. If only he wasn't gay. If only, if only, if only.... The turmoil in his head made him feel sick. One way or the other, he decided, he needed to resolve the issue. After all, at sixteen, he could do it legally, if he wanted to. Now, there was every opportunity to do it, legally, with a very understanding man, who had trusted him. This seemed to bolster his courage.

Unconsciously, as he thought about all of this, he'd undone his pants and started to stroke his flower's stem. The stimulation increased his desire for sex to such an extent he decided to further explore the world his sexuality said he belonged to and see what happened. Leaning over, he lifted the receiver, dialled with determination the seven digits and asked for Mr Blake. welcomes short-format writing based on the joy of being gay or lesbian, whether it be verse, essays, anecdotes or personal insights.
The format is not important, the joy is.

Email your contributions to us, acknowledging that copyright beyond the environment of remains with the author, that the work is original, and that is authorised to publish it.

   Bookmark and Share
Francis Hodges - 30th July 2006