The following is a fictional story based on real characters, situations and events which existed some thirty years ago, before the real insanity started. It has very explicit boy/boy and man/boy sexual activity.
Michael Peterson
Chapter 1
My biological father was an Irish gangster named Ray Hoolihan, a lieutenant of the infamous Mickey Spillane who ran the West Side Manhattan Westies gang during my childhood. My racially mixed Puerto Rican mother was an occasional prostitute, bartender or numbers collector depending on her opportunities at the time. Fortunately for me, she never became much of a drug user, as was the case with many other Hell's Kitchen women in her situation.
I was born on January 16, 1955, the third of five children, all girls but me, one to three years apart. Only two of us knew anything about our fathers. Mine was known because my biological father wouldn't allow anyone else to touch my mother for a year or so before my birth, and our shared green eyes. Mother was his employee and one of several mistresses. For her, my conception and gestation was a time of numbers work. Mother accepted the slips the runners brought to a Ninth Avenue bar not far from our Forty Eighth Street 5th floor walk-up dump of an apartment. Hoolihan stopped screwing her two months short of my birth but she continued working for him collecting slips until I was nearly a year old. That was when one of his current extra-marital partners insisted on mother's job.
Hoolihan, a powerfully built man with a crew cut and penchant for violence, rejected his paternity until I was five and developing a reputation.
'Looks too much like a nigger to be mine,' he argued.
'Then where he get green eyes from? Niggers don't got green eyes. You got green eyes.' Mother wanted money.
He did give my mother between twenty-five and fifty dollars every once in a while claiming he felt sorry for her and because they had been sex partners for a while, even though, he claimed, she had obviously cheated on him with a nigger. And, he boasted, he was always willing to help out an ex-employee who'd been right by him. The latter meant that she'd never ratted him out to the police. All Hoolihan's ventures were illegal.
A week or so before Christmas, he always gave her two hundred dollars.
Over time, however, as I grew and developed a reputation as a tough little kid, he began to accept the possibility that I had inherited my muscles and hardness from him. By the time I was five, he was boasting that this mean little quarter nigger kid was his progeny. 'If you ain't fucked a nigger, you ain't a man', he quoted to his racist friends. I have no idea how his wife took this, as we were never introduced. I did see her a few times in the neighborhood but she never displayed any recognition of me. Hoolihan no longer lived in the area. His association with Spillane and the Westies had been lucrative. His wife convinced him to move away from the 'riff raff' she grew up with. So he moved his family across the river to Elizabeth, New Jersey, in reality a very small step up from Hell's Kitchen. Hoolihan himself spent most of his time back in the old neighborhood with his bent friends
Our relationship was both sporadic and erratic. I don't think my biological father ever came into the area just to see me or even with that in mind. If he chanced upon me and was in the mood, he'd invite me along to a bar or restaurant he was headed to anyhow to eat and drink with friends. There was very little conversation, just ridiculous admonitions, mostly to impress his friends.
'You don't never gotta take no shit outta nobody. Make 'em all respect you.'
He never asked me how I was doing in school and rarely mentioned my mother. But the food was good and I enjoyed watching the camaraderie, hearing the boasting over intimidations, beatings dealt or crimes committed. Deep down inside, I hated Ray Hoolihan for not being a father like other kids had but I admired him for his toughness and the respect and friendships that elicited. I also liked the legitimacy he gave me. I was the son of a top Westie, not someone to be messed around with. I hung in restaurants and bars with the gang. Other kids couldn't do that. The problem with that exclusivity was that the other kids could never see me in that setting. Not all believed it when I told them.
The Westies was an Irish gang with roots that went well back into the nineteenth century. In their own twisted way, they provided Hell's Kitchen Irish community with an identity, albeit a nasty one. They were a constant
My home life was generally unpleasant. The apartment itself was a reflection of the misery I felt living there. What furniture we had was dirty, torn, broken and, if upholstered, smelled of urine. We had an old 14" console black and white TV that stopped working when I was seven and became an expensive table. There was no telephone, washing machine or any form of electric kitchen appliance. There were lots of cockroaches. I hated cockroaches.
My mother, twenty years old at the time of my birth, wasn't around much, especially when she was whoring. That left my oldest sister, Brenda, four years my senior, in charge. She hated me for my moodiness and the bad reputation she felt I gave the whole family due to my misbehavior in school and on the streets and for being half white with a hoodlum father. Her long gone father had at least been Latino. Brenda was also the only one who didn't inherit my mother's tough body and good looks. Her father must have been one skinny, ugly piece of work. At least she was tall. The rest of us were sawed off short. Mother only measured five feet in shoes.
My grandfather, 'the nigger in the closet' as Hoolihan called him, was a large man, especially along side my puny grandmother. He finally drank himself to death at fifty-one. My grandmother, who anyone could see had been very pretty when she was younger, was one of those women who never complained about anything, took whatever happened in stride. Until my grandfather died when I was twelve, they lived a block below us on 47th Street. Much as I disliked being around my grandfather when he was drunk, which was most of the time, their apartment was a haven away from the madness in my house. And the food was better. My grandmother was a cook at a diner on Eleventh Avenue. On her day off, my next youngest sister, Delia, and I and sometimes the others would go there for a big meal with chicken and rice and different kinds of salads.
Grandmother was the religious person in our family. There were statues and pictures of the Blessed Mother all over her apartment. She tried mightily to convince us to accompany her to Catholic mass on Sundays. Delia and Maria, my two younger sisters, were the only ones who did so at all after reaching what the nuns in Sunday school called the age of reason, seven, the age at which we were capable of committing sins and putting those dark stains on our little souls.
I never bought into any of it. Religion was just too inconvenient. Jesus, Mary and Joseph never rose to more than television sitcom characters in my mind. God was too much like a cop.
I don't ever remember my mother going to mass though, being one to cover all the bases, she did have us baptized. Very few of the kids in my school went to church. The few in the neighborhood who went to Catholic school were generally considered fairies.
After an argument with grandmother about attending mass, Brenda, then twelve, told us, Jesus and them nuns never did nothing for me. Just talk, talk, talk.' I was nine and already a couple of years out from under the visage of the veils' as we called the good Sisters of Charity.
Eating, however, was something I never tired of. At home, the diet was not bad though hardly as tasty as the meals grandmother served. We ate a lot of rice and beans and a variety of inexpensive vegetables with weak Kool-Aid drinks. Breakfast was generally eggs and day old bread. Sundays, we were allowed breakfast cereals. If mother made a good score or it was payday, we might get a little chicken mixed in. Several times a week, grandmother would drop off different kids of cooked meats, quarts of milk or juice and fresh fruits she said they gave her at the diner. The meat looked to be remnants of uneaten meals but the milk, juice and fruits were fresh. I always suspected grandmother was stealing them for us but never knew for sure.
With mother away working or whatever most of the day and only we kids to do the laundry and dishes and clean the house, the place stunk pretty bad. I'd wear socks three, four days in a row then take them off in the kitchen area just to piss off Brenda. We had to wash our own socks and underwear so I hardly wore underpants or undershirts, especially during the warm months and when the building's boiler was working well. Underpants were a dress up item to me.
I ran around the apartment and even the hallway bare assed until I was eight and my big sister Brenda started smacking me to put on at least a pair shorts. I loved the feeling of air on my totally bare body. I disliked underwear because it didn't allow the sensation of clothing sliding back and forth against my skin. Many a time I'd stand nude in front of the open bedroom window, legs apart to let the air flow between them and over my little balls. I did stop doing it during daylight after neighbors complained. Even in the winter before going to bed, I often raised the window and let a blast of cold air cool me down to make the warm bedding feel better.
Delia, my supposedly religious sister, would lie on her bed and comment on the muscles in my legs and gut. I'd challenge her to try and hurt me with a punch to the stomach. She never would but, each time, did look over my bare crotch as I stood, hands on hips, in front of her. However, if I got her mad enough about most anything, she'd lay into me with pointy hard fists that really hurt no matter where they connected.
My favorite pants were a pair of skimpy elastic band shorts. The air flowed easily up inside them and, if I sat cross-legged on a chair or with my legs up, everybody could see my dick and balls. It pissed off Brenda something terrible. Delia just laughed. And, it was easier to stick my hand in and play with myself.
Except for Delia, none of my sisters liked me. One reason was I was prettier than them. It wasn't just my wide set green eyes that wowed the women. I had a head of flaxen, curly dark brown hair that hardly ever needed brushing. It just popped up nice and even first thing in the morning or as soon as I dried it after a bath. My face was a typical broad mixed race face with smooth lines and lips that even turned me on later in life. At age five, I was muscular head to toe with a flat tummy even my grandfather liked to touch.
Being the middle kid was a bitch, especially with girls above and below. They could all punch me but I wasn't supposed to hit a girl or anybody younger. It did help me develop a high threshold of pain. I never wanted to give my sisters the satisfaction of seeing me cry. We fought over everything you can imagine from what radio station to turn on to which bowl we were going to eat from. Always petty stuff. It would start with words, motherfucker being a family favorite from toddlerhood, to pushing, hair pulling then throwing things. Brenda broke it up when things got really rough or something got broken. Then she'd dictate what was going to be done. Her decisions never went my way.
One of the great continuing battles was over what kind of music to play on the radio. Brenda loved popular romantic ballads. Lisa, the next down wanted Salsa, I liked anything I could dance wildly to. Delia liked to watch me dance so she liked whatever got me moving. Contrary little Maria wanted whatever no one else wanted.
All that is not to say there was no brotherly or sisterly love in our dysfunctional family. If mother really laid into one of us or some outsider hurt or threatened to hurt us, the rest could come to the injured party's aid with a ferociousness that frightened the meanest bully and even, sometimes, my mother. Once, when I was eight and Delia was six, an eleven year old girl on the second floor was beating on my sister Lisa who was just short of ten. In seconds we bloodied her nose and shin and sent her screaming to her mother. The mother called the cops claiming that all five of us had assaulted her daughter. When the police realized what happened, they laughed it off and left. The girl's mother then called the welfare department. She was on welfare. The social worker brought another social worker who badgered my mother so much that she shoved her out the door and threw her files all over the hall. The social worker called the cops back. The cops refused to get involved and said they ought to get a lawyer to settle the matter. They did. The lawyer took one look at our very humble abode and decided he was in the wrong part of town. In the end, the matter died of inertia. Everybody but the girl's mother just lost interest, or, I suspected, were afraid of my mother. Meanwhile, after a day of pouting, the eleven year old was playing with Lisa again like nothing happened.
Delia was particularly protective of me. Many a time when the other three were really pissed at me over something and about to do harm, Delia would wrap her arms around me and scream. That always stopped the attack. Then Delia would look at me and smile or, sometimes, if she was angry too, kick me in the shin. Shins were a favorite family target.
We didn't fight much when my mother was around because she'd get really angry and smack and kick everybody whether they were involved or not. And you didn't dare ask her for anything. Her eyes would open wide and she'd go into a tirade about our poverty.
'You see a fucking clothes washing machine around here somewhere? I got on fifty-dollar shoes or something? How am I going to feed you and buy shit too!' All this was in staccato Puerto Rican Spanish except 'fucking'. She used that word a lot, like 'fucking lavadora' or 'fucking ninos'. She saved special names for my biological father and his 'fucking putas' or whores. She hated him more than the other men who had passed through her life. It took me years to figure out why.
Having put up with all that crap in my house is probably the main reason I was such a son-of-a-bitch in the street and at school. School 212, where I sort of studied, was only a block away so my school and street reputations were well known in that limited area. It took very little for me to start beating on some poor kid, including bigger ones. I wasn't afraid of anybody. I got my ass kicked many a time taking on kids with friends nearby or too big even for me. But I was lucky; both my parents endowed me with a muscular body and the athletic ability to use it effectively. I was always small for my age but my fast fists made up for it, and kept me in trouble at school and with a lot of kids' parents. There were whole sections, even on my block, where I was shooed away by anxious mothers if they were on the street when I came by. When I got older, I wished I had gotten into sports instead of fights. Trouble was, there wasn't much in the way of sports in our part of the city, especially for a part black PR kid.
At school, I was the most feared boy through third grade. Extortion was how I got spending cash. 'Gimme a quarter, motherfucker, an' I won't kick you ass,' was my third grade line. I used it mostly on the better-dressed boys. I hated anyone in nice clothes; especially if they wore those Jack Purcell shoes that my mother refused to buy due to the price. I hated kids whose fathers took them places. I hated being poor and fatherless.
Fourth grade was when the O'Reilly brothers moved into the neighborhood and, during the first week of classes, beat the shit out of me in front of the whole school. I'd like to say that we became friends after that but we never did. It was probably more my fault than theirs. Being hard headed and never wanting to give up on anything, I sought them out individually and beat them up knowing full well that they'd eventually get me jointly on the playground. And, of course, they did. Ray Hoolihan himself put an end to that ridiculous cycle.
'You're stupid, Junior,' he told me in front of our tenement one evening with other kids looking on. 'You get help when you can't solve a problem by yourself. Now you stay the fuck away from them two and there won't be no more problems.'
I was nine and didn't see any sense to that. The last points had been scored by the O'Reillys the day before. Obeying my biological father meant they won. 'But they beat on me yesterday!' I declared angrily.
Hoolihan smacked me lightly on the side of the head. 'Do what the fuck I say. Them kids ain't gonna bother you no more!' He got back into his car and was gone.
The O'Reilly brothers didn't come to school for two
days. I had fantasies that my biological father had killed them. When they did show on the
third day, one had the remnants of a black eye. They glared at me but kept at a
distance. I strutted past them, rubbing against one once but getting no reaction, I forgot
it.
I didn't have any real friends at school. The white third of the student body didn't play with me because I wasn't white. Ray Hoolihan took some chance claiming pride in being my father. It was the early 60's and spics, as Spanish speakers were called, weren't generally socially acceptable with the Irish, especially those who had black blood in them as my dark curly hair advertised. In fact, my nickname at school and among the whites that knew me was exactly that, Spic. The Latinos, mostly Puerto Ricans, called me Gato, cat in English, for my green eyes.
Being illegitimate didn't help either. The mothers of legitimate kids with respectable fathers, which meant, in our community, having a job, didn't want their little darlings playing with a disreputable bastard with white blood who was the bad fruit of a whore and a reputed criminal.
However, my greatest social liability had nothing to do with anyone but me. I had one lousy personality. Having nothing, I wanted what the others had. I bullied kids into giving me school supplies, toys, money and food and tried to force them to hang around with me. All that nastiness netted me was many hours of detention and lots of avoidance. Even in physical education where I excelled, I was always chosen after half my classmates. I could win a game with my ability but just as often lose it due to bad sportsmanship. I made my teammates miserable by insisting on being first at everything and playing a position I didn't necessarily want, but one that I felt someone else wanted badly. Everything had to be done my way. The truth is that I actually believed that I knew the best way to win, that my ideas were the most effective, that the others were wrong in not excepting my leadership. I stayed friendless for years.
I did want friends, desperately, but selfishness and a lack of control over my nasty ways along with a terrible reputation ruined my most wholehearted attempts. During the beginning of my second pass through the fourth grade, there was a boy who I truly wanted to make my friend. He was a nice looking blond boy from out of the area who didn't know anybody. I was a year older than him at ten. I had nothing to give him so I bullied sweets from others. I convinced Mr. Martinson, our teacher, to let us sit together. For a while the boy accepted the social isolation that came with being associated with mean Gato Molina. But I'd get moody when he didn't play the games I wanted, go where I wanted, or do what I wanted. Finally, I hit him hard in the stomach right after lunch one day when he left me to play with a pair of boys from the other fourth grade. He rarely spoke to me again. I hated him from then on.
In short, I was an oppressive bully.
My first attempt at sex at the unripe age of six was an indication of things to come. I convinced two other six year olds from the block to join me in a basement where I tried to fuck one with the promise that he could screw me afterward. My strongest memory from that brief encounter was the smooth roundness of the boy's ass as he pulled his shorts down. There was a small glob of shit on his hole when he spread his cheeks. Unfortunately, it never occurred to me to lubricate my dick with spit or something so, try as I did, with him pulling the hole open wide as he could, my little prick just wouldn't go in. Frustrated, I reneged on the deal and walked away. When the two protested, I knocked the one with his pants down to the floor. The other just stood there looking down at his buddy's stiff cock.
From then on it was solitary sex. My main problem was privacy. There were always sisters in the house and just because I was taking a shit or a bath didn't keep them from walking brazenly into the bathroom. All of us kids slept in the same bedroom until Brenda started getting bubs at eleven or twelve. My mother moved my younger sisters and me into the spare room. I was seven then and Delia and Maria were five and four. They were in the room a lot and the door didn't have a lock.
Having a separate bed allowed me to do some things under my covers at night. As I mentioned, I slept naked so there was no need to pull down anything to get to my joy stick. I developed a number of quiet ways of making myself feel good using soft T shirts to masturbate with or hump into. For humping, I came up with elaborate knotting arrangements that provided a hole for my peter. With my hands I'd hold the bottom corners of the T shirt down by my thighs and pump into the opening provided by the knots. I achieved my first orgasm that way a couple of weeks after moving into our new room.
The next step was using some of my mother's makeup remover, a slick paste in a blue jar, inside a piece of cellophane inside the hole in the T shirt. When I added spit, it stopped the cellophane from pulling out so often and allowed easier orgasms.
From the age of five, I was sticking things up my ass hole. First, I used soapy fingers in the bathtub. I tried them all, pinky to thumb, both hands, from the front and the back, seated, standing and bent over to see which one would go in the furthest and which one felt the best. Before my seventh birthday, I was pushing objects up inside, from pencils covered with cellophane to candles of different sizes to a small broom stick covered with my mother's cream and spit.
By the time I was seven, even before the separate bedroom, I was sneaking into basements where I had greater privacy for longer periods of time. The problems with the basements were the filth, my fear of the dark and big cockroaches, no water to clean up, and junkies. For the dirt, I hid cardboard boxes and newspaper in my two chosen places. The dark and cockroaches were problems I never really completely solved. The dark kept me from seeing the bugs but not from hearing them when they crawled across the cardboard. Most basements with windows had people living in them, often supers, but I eventually found one on Forty Seventh Street in the block below mine that could be entered from the back of the building, had two small windows in the rear wall which, even partially blocked, did let some light in though not enough to see the most of the cockroaches. During the cold months, it was well heated toward the middle by the building boiler. Although occasionally used by junkies for getting high and older kids for sex, it was always unoccupied when I wanted to use it most, right after school.
Gradually, I built a stock of things to be used for sex including jars with lids for water to clean up afterwards. I was always looking for smooth narrow things to stick up my ass while I jerked off. When I was eight, I invented a fucking machine operated by my feet. It was the pole and handle I broke off a junked carpet sweeper I found on my way to school one day. It was rare that anybody walked with me so I could concentrate on finding interesting things. It was the shape I'd been looking for. I got to school late after going back to Forty Seventh, through a basement with a lock that I could open by sticking my arm through a hole in the glassless window grate of the door, out the back and down three buildings to my hideaway. I was particularly distracted in class that day by thoughts about how I'd use that long black shiny plastic handle.
After school, I ran most of the way and arrived sweating even though it was March and still pretty cold. I pushed my shoes off and pulled down my pants the moment I got the cardboard onto the concrete floor. With some effort, I twisted the plastic handle off metal pole. I was out of cream so I used soap and water. I lay on my back. It slipped in easily touching that special spot that made my dick feel so good. I had felt the little lump with my finger but had no knowledge of prostates in those days. The thick plastic was cold at first but quickly warmed up. I slid it back and forth, pushing it in father each time. Even though it was nearly a foot long, by working it around, I was able to get it in so far that I was afraid it would slip in to where I couldn't get it out. The feeling came quickly all three times I masturbated pulling and pushing my new toy in and out of myself.
The next day in school, I came up with the idea for my fucking invention. Once again, I ran to the basement and stripped off my pants. I twisted the handle back on the pole, lubricated it with soap and water, put the tip against my hole and tied the pole to my ankle with rubber bands I'd stolen from my teacher's desk. Lying back, I bent my knee and the handle slipped in but the angle was wrong and it hurt. I tied my ankles together with my pants and tried again. It went straight it. I was the best feeling I'd ever accomplished. I felt like it went clean up to my stomach. I was able to get off three times again then just lay there enjoying the feeling of that thing inside me.
Solitary play was just about all that was available to me in those days.
During the first three grades, I made attempts at friendship with different boys and a couple of girls. My goal was more sexual than companionship. I knew kids would always want to do things I didn't want to do and piss me off so sex was a more practical target. It was just a matter of finding kids who liked sex, watching who played pocket pool the most or, in the case of girls, who was always adjusting her panties. The girls never lasted more than a day or two. There was no way they were going into any basement with Gato Molina. One of the boys, a skinny eight year old Columbian with ragged teeth and so little English we had to communicate in Spanish, showed me his long slim hardon in the school bathroom, giggling all the while. He admitted to playing with it every night, most mornings and always when he took a bath.
'How long you have to do it before it feels real good and starts shaking?' I asked him on the way home.
'Oh, it always feels good when I'm doing it.' It was apparent to me that he had never accomplished an orgasm.
'You want to do it now. I got a special place where nobody can see us.'
He agreed enthusiastically.
In the basement, I was reluctant to show him my fucking machine for fear he might say something to the other boys in my class and they'd laugh at me. He pulled his pants down to his ankles. I took mine off. We sat on the cardboard I'd gotten out of its hiding place behind the boiler. He held his hand above his cock, grabbed it with the tips of his fingers and began pulling up and down, his foreskin covering and uncovering his shiny brown cockhead. I tried it that way to but reverted to the fist that I always used. He'd do it hard for a while then stop, take a breath and do it again.
'How come you keep stopping? You are never going to get the feeling like that.'
'I don't want to pee all over. If I keep doing it, I'll pee.'
'Mine don't pee. It just feels good.'
'Let me see,' he insisted.
I gripped tight but without something up my ass, it took longer. He kneaded his but kept his eyes on my bobbing hand. I thought about sneaking my finger in from under me but knew he'd see. Finally I felt it coming and quickened the pace. Then, wham, it happened. I quickly took my hand away so he could my cock bouncing with my feeling. He got close and touched the side.
'Man, why's it doing that? What's it feel like?'
'Really cool! Now you do it but don't stop. But take your pants off so you can move your legs.' I wanted to get him to take his shirt off too but thought it might scare him. What little I could see of his tummy was smooth and flat. It would have been nice to see it all, even in the dim basement.
He started masturbating and, this time, kept going. Shortly, he warned, 'Watch out, I'm going to pee!'
I backed up involuntarily but he didn't pee. He opened his legs so they wouldn't get wet but they just stiffened as, still working his hand, he felt his first orgasm. 'Oh man, oh man!' he exclaimed in English
We went there three more times before I decided to introduce him to anal pleasure.
'Do you ever put your finger here?' I pointed between my bare legs at my ass.
'Oh, no, man, that is dirty there. You would have to wash you hands for an hour to get off the stink.'
I tried to convince him otherwise, but he saw assholes as the dirtiest of all places. So, that ended that. I couldn't use my fucking machine with him there so only brought him a couple more times a week apart. He didn't ask so I just didn't invite him anymore. Anyway, he was hanging around with a fat Ecuadorian that didn't like me. I think the Ecuadorian told him he shouldn't play with me any more. Apparently the kid never said anything about my basement hideout because no one ever made any comments regarding it.
Then there was Susie Barlow, my brief heterosexual adventure. She was seven, had a tough little tomboy body and was a year behind me in the second grade. Susie liked my green eyes and didn't object when I ran my hand up under her dress and fingered her through her panties. She even went into a boys room stall with me and stood on the toilet while I pulled her panties down and examined her little vagina. Unfortunately, she was so excited she told a few of her friends who reported me to their teacher who reported me to the counselor who tried to have me expelled. The principal decided instead on a three day suspension and a week of detention on my return. It was the beginning of an unpleasant relationship with skinny, big nosed Miss Peters, the school counselor.
I made another attempt at male friendship with a blond Irish kid but that only lasted a week before I got in a fight with his friend over him looking at what I was writing in my notebook. I didn't like anybody looking at my writing because I figured they all thought their writing was better than mine. Generally, it was. Sometimes I could hardly read it myself.
I fantasized special friends, always blond haired boys with long cocks, large rounded rear ends and white skin, who would come with me to my secret basement hideout. We would fuck each other with the plastic handle while using our free hands to jerk each other off. Some of the fantasies got bizarre with the entire handle and pole going up inside my friend and him begging for more. Sometimes we'd put broomsticks up our asses and rub wet, soapy bodies and crotches face to face against each other until the feeling came. The boys always kept hugging me long after we got off. Finally, I daydreamed about the same blond boys with cocks that, when they got hard, would get as long as the black plastic handle. They'd lay me on my back and fuck me with long strokes so I could see that dick, wet and shiny, going in and out. I'd take hold on to their round firm asses and pull them into me. That was my favorite fantasy.
The older I got, the more deeply it bothered me that I couldn't seem to make friends. Try as I might, I had no idea what to say or how to act so others would like me. I'd get so frustrated sometimes I'd sit alone and cry.
When the Spanish language newspaper carried the story of a man killing himself by jumping off a five story building on West Eight-Sixth Street, I saw that as an option. Several times, I went up on our roof and contemplated how I might do it: sitting on the ledge and falling off, taking a running start and jumping far enough out to land in the middle of the street, or standing at the edge with my eyes closed and falling forward. The last was the one seemed the easiest. My mother would finally understand how mean she was and my biological father would know he should have done things with me.
I never got close to actually doing it but the thought of suicide was often in my mind after a particularly bad human relations day.
I was ten, a few weeks short of the start of my second try at fourth grade after a boring friendless summer vacation when, out of the blue, a twelve year old sixth grader named Kenny befriended me, apparently on orders from my biological father. I never had any definitive proof Hoolihan was behind it but I heard partial remarks by Kenny to the others like 'babysitting Hoolihan's kid' and 'lucky he's Hoolihan's kid'. Kenny, athletic, well built and nearly a head taller with light brown hair and a triangular face with wide set eyes and a pointed chin, was, like me, fatherless but had four older brothers, two older sisters, and one each younger. His fourteen year old sister was with him in the sixth grade. Of the older boys, all of whom had dropped out of school by age fifteen, one, sixteen, was in a state reformatory for armed robbery, the eighteen year old had a legitimate job and the eldest at twenty worked for my father. Kenny's eleven year old sister and eight year old brother were in my school but doing poorly both having failed at least twice. Nancy, the eleven year old, was in the other fourth grade across the hall from mine. All but the eldest brother and the one locked up lived in the apartment with their mother. The father had died a few years before at thirty-seven of liver disease after twenty plus years of heavy drinking and violence against his entire family.
Kenny was on juvenile probation after two arrests for shoplifting and burglary. He always had money in his pocket and was generous with it. Rumor had it that he was in on some of my father's burglaries.
He let me hang with him and his friends in a basement on 46th Street where they had cigarettes, beer and circle jerks. We'd go there after school; smoke and drink then beat off, in that order. I never got into smoking but the high the beer provided pushed away a bit of the misery that cluttered my life. The older boys were entering puberty and had hair around their cocks and could fire a stream of cum. I enjoyed watching the action more than participating, especially a couple of blonde haired still prepubescent boys I tried to sit close to when we were going to beat our meat. One was blue-eyed Georgie Shannon who I considered the best looking boy in the school. Georgie was stylishly a bit ahead of his time with long, always brushed blonde hair was nearly shoulder length.
For some reason I couldn't begin to fathom, I found the shape of the blondes' hairless hard penises very appealing. It was hard to take my eyes off them. I wanted to touch them, more, I wanted to smell them. I used those thoughts in my private masturbation sessions in the bathroom or, more often, in my secret basement hideout.
A week after school opened, during my fifth or sixth time in a circle jerk when one of the boys suggested we play strip poker, the loser having to suck off the winner. I hadn't the slightest idea how to play. Worst, I had on the fewest articles of clothing. As usual, I wore no socks or underpants. Kenny explained the basics and promised to help me. He didn't.
Everybody laughed each time I lost. The only consolation for me was watching Georgie and his friend take off their shirts and pants. I'd never seen either bare chested. I couldn't take my eyes off Georgie's smooth stomach and the flow of skin that disappeared so seductively into his briefs. It only took fifteen minutes for me to be completely naked. The winner, Jerry, a heavy set, moderately hung thirteen year old with a nasty look fixed on his face and a tuft of red pubic hair over the top of his over four inches of cock stood in front of me in stocking feet, his pants down to his knees.
'Time to blow, Spic. Come and get it. You know you want it.' and on and on from everybody. I looked to my supposed friend for help but Kenny was urging me on as much as anyone. I dropped to my knees and focused my eyes on Jerry's freckled gut, trying not to look at his stiff dick. But I could feel the heat of it on my face. Jerry grabbed my head and pulled me to him. His soft cockhead pressed against my lips. I tightened my jaw and turned my face away.
'Open up, Spic. You lost. You gotta do it,' he insisted.
'Or else,' said another as he took off his belt.
My first reaction to the threat was to stand up and accept the challenge. But quickly I realized that this possibly phony friendship was all I had. These were my only playmates and this was how they played. I cursed myself for not seeing this coming. But there was no way out. I opened my mouth. The boy jammed four inches of cock in. His prickly pubic hair tickled my nose.
'Fuck him, Jerry! Fuck his mouth! Suck! Suck! Suck!' urged the boys, some rubbing their crotches.
The teenager began pumping into my mouth, moving his hips back and forth. 'Keep your mouth and lips tight. Use your tongue,' he ordered. I wasn't sure what to do but gradually realized that I didn't mind this as much as I thought I would. One of the blonds, Georgie, sat crosslegged beside us and watched closely. I wished he had been the winner.
Jerry bent over me and tried to ram himself even farther up into my mouth. He yanked me toward him with each thrust. The skin of his cock shaft was soft and smooth, the head spongy over his boner. I wanted to hold onto his legs but what machismo I had left wouldn't allow it.
'He's gonna cum,' someone shouted softly. 'Make him swallow it all, Jerry.' It was my supposed friend who had come beside us and was peering down at the action. He grabbed my hand and pressed it against his bare cock. It shocked me. I looked his way out of the corners of my eyes. His pants were down to his ankles. I pulled my hand away and saw his cock, sticking straight up. It was beautiful, soft flesh over a bloated shaft with the reddish head peeking out from his foreskin. I let him pull my hand back over it. 'Feel that, Spic? I'm next.'
I looked up at him best as I could, wanting to stare him in the eye to see if he was serious, see if his friendship had actually been a sham. But Jerry gripped my head as he neared climax. The feel of the smooth lose flesh of Kenny's cock excited me in a way I'd never experienced. The tips of my fingers touched the gentle curve of his abdomen. I'd seen his hardon several times before but only briefly as my eyes were usually on the two blondes. I wanted to feel more.
Jerry came. He tugged my head to him so the sperm went right down my throat. I could hardly taste it, just feel the throbs and something warm in the back of my mouth. I don't really know how much there was as I swallowed involuntarily. What little I tasted was inoffensive, interesting.
Kenny, my supposed friend, dropped my hand and pulled my head to him. His cock was smaller than Jerry's by half an inch and had no hair to tickle my nose. I was crushed that he would do this but couldn't resist the desire to taste this wonderful morsel. His cock felt wonderful against my tongue. I sucked it in.
But why was he doing this? He hadn't won the game. I'd really believed Kenny liked me, that he was both a friend and a protector. I shouldn't have been allowing him to do this but couldn't bring myself to fight it.
Rather than fuck my mouth, Kenny yanked my head back and forth. I tightened my mouth and lips around his thick pole. Georgie, the blond haired boy, remained where he was and watched. I imagined his cock hard in my mouth instead of Kenny's.
Kenny stopped. 'I can't do it like this. I gotta lay down. Get your black ass over here.' He pulled me by the arm to one of two old mattresses by the wall. He let go and lay back. 'Now, do me.'
For whatever reason, I obeyed, crawled between his legs and lay down, my arms over his warm, round thighs. Immediately, I took his penis back into my mouth and let his hands move my head up and down. It was a few minutes before I realized that he'd let go and I was doing all the work myself. The thing in my mouth had such a wonderful feel and taste to it. I let my tongue explore the form, press against the bulbous soft underside. My dick hardened. I closed my legs so no one could see.
The biggest boy, a chubby fourteen year old pimpled adolescent named Ronny, came up behind me, pulling down his briefs. 'I'm gonna fuck him in the ass while he sucks off Kenny', he laughed.
'Fuck no,' said Kenny sitting up on his elbows. 'Hoolihan finds out he'll fuck us up.'
It was years before I thought much about the meaning of that. Raping my mouth was okay but not my ass. There was a line somewhere not to be crossed.
'Then he's gotta suck me too.'
'Just wait'll I'm finished,' insisted Kenny, my protector.
Kenny didn't provide any sperm, just a crushing hug of my head to his crotch when he reached orgasm. I wrapped my tongue around his cock to more completely feel the throbbing. I missed it immediately when he pulled out.
The big boy yanked me up and around. His cock was twice Jerry's with an ugly fat head and a mass of brown hair at its base. He grabbed my hair and pushed his dick between my lips. I opened my mouth without thinking and he pushed in. I didn't close around it. Someone noticed my hardon.
`Fuckened Spic likes it! Look at his dick!'
`Shit, man, I'm next!'
`Shoulda told us before, Spic. Your mouth gotta be better than my hand.'
'C'mon, Spic, suck me like you did Kenny,' insisted Ronny.
Ronny's cock went deep into the back of my mouth, gagging me. I tried to push him away. Two teens grabbed my arms. Ronny held me tight to him by my hair and fucked my open mouth. I was finally ready to fight back and wanted to bite him but couldn't close my jaw due to gagging and gasping for breath. Ronny grunted loudly.
Someone shouted, 'Get him, Ronny!'
Ronny growled, 'Here I come!'
He pulled his cock out and fired sperm back into my mouth and all over my face. Several voices cheered him on. The taste was terrible. My arms were released. I rammed my head and shoulders into Ronny's middle, knocking him back but not down. I stood and swung with all I had at his face but he easily dodged and pushed me to the side. Laughter filled the room.
I straightened, cum dripping off my face and onto my chest. I looked at my tormenters. All but the two blonds were laughing wildly. One was smiling uncomfortably but Georgie merely looked at me, absolutely no emotion on his face.
Humiliation poured through me. I wanted to kill them all but, even in that rage, knew I was in way over my head. I ran to my clothing and dressed as quickly as I could, putting my shirt on inside out and having to twist the fabric to pull through two of the buttons. The laughter and remarks roared on.
'C'mon, Spic, suck me too!' 'Look at me. I'm hard just for you.' `Hey Spic. Gotta milkshake for you.'
I stomped out the door and up to the street, at the last minute remembering that I had sperm all over my face. I lowered my head and furiously wiped my shirtsleeves across my face. Unbuttoned, they slid over my arm and didn't remove much. The air on my scum dampened chest reminded me my T shirt was back in the basement. I couldn't go back. Muttering and cursing, tasting the foul scum Ronny had squirted into my mouth, I walked blindly down the sidewalk, bumping into a couple of people, not wanting anyone to see who I was. I spit every few steps.
Conflicting thoughts swirled in my head. They had raped me, tried to turn me into a fag. Why had I let Kenny do it? Why had I enjoyed doing Kenny? Why did Kenny get involved in that? I'd get them all. First Ronny and Jerry but then Kenny too. They all laughed at me, Ray Molina, the toughest, meanest kid in school. I could kick most of their asses easy. They were going to find out they made a big mistake trying to turn Ray Molina into a faggot. I'd cut their dicks off, even Kenny's. A vision of Kenny's cock diverted me. How come I let him do that? Why did I do him? If I hadn't let Kenny, then Ronny wouldn't..Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I jumped all five steps down into the areaway under the stoop of the basement I had to traverse to get to mine. I ran to the back of the building and violently swung the rear door open before rushing across the concrete and dirt to my basement hideout. I grabbed furiously at the door three times before getting it open. Inside I screamed 'Shit! Shit! Shit!' as I ran and kicked the wall. I snatched up a box with trash and threw it across the room then chased the box and kicked it further. I started to cry and smack myself in the face to get the feel of the scum off it and punish myself for getting involved in such a stupid thing and enjoying some of it.
I fell on the floor and cried harder than I'd ever cried. How could I have let myself suck on Kenny! I'd even wanted to suck on the two blondes. Why? Why? Why?
Self pity pushed aside some of the desire for vengeance. They had made a fool of me, totally humiliated me. If I went after them, everyone would find out why. Then it struck me. What if they told others at school? In no time, everyone would know. Everyone would call me a faggot homosexual. But they couldn't say anything. If my biological father were to hear what they did, he'd kill every one of them. They wouldn't dare. Nobody's that crazy.
They had gotten away with it. I couldn't do anything, but they couldn't brag about it. I had to get them back some way. I couldn't let them get away with doing that to me. But I wouldn't hurt the two blonds. They hadn't done anything. Why couldn't it have been their cocks flashed though my mind. Fuck! How did I let that happen?