Coming of Age - 1. The Swim Meet

I stepped up onto the starting platform and shook out my arms.

Looking over my shoulder, I made eye contact with Coach Brooks, nodded at him once, and stretched one leg and then the other. I arched my back, turned my neck to each side, checked the swimmers on my right and left, and bent forward into racing position, waiting for the signal to dive in.

I was confident I had the advantage. Not only was I a better swimmer than the whole goddamn lot of them, but when I had looked at them, it was obvious my competitors couldn’t keep their eyes off the girls’ team, over on the sidelines, preparing for their races.

One blond with bodacious tatas struggled to squeeze them into the top of her suit. I could see she was the main attraction for the other swimmers.

Fine, I thought to myself with private pleasure, you horny fuckers go ahead getting hard for the broads, and meanwhile I’ll whip your sorry asses in this race.

Coach had drilled it into me that I had to think of nothing but swimming and winning. There would be plenty of time for other thoughts later, and I had been having a lot of those lately. But now I knew I was going to fucking kick ass today!

At the starter’s whistle, I sliced in like the blade of a knife, something I was sure Coach would notice and remark on after the meet.

The water was the perfect temperature—80 degrees—so my skin didn’t feel either warm or cool. Wearing my tiny Speedo, I felt like some kind of magnificent and mighty sea creature, streaking naked and free through the oceans. It almost got me hard, so I deep-sixed the thought.

I powered forward with my best stroke, the butterfly. Repeatedly, I soared out of the water like a dolphin surfing the wake of a speed boat. Over and over, I let my power kick propel me back to the surface, charging toward the opposite side of the Olympic-sized pool.

I stole a quick glance to my left as I approached the turn wall. My only real competition in this race was a kid named Will Shepherd who everybody called “Shep” because he would have beaten the shit out of any guy who dared to call him “Willy.” He was strong and fast, and for a moment I also thought about how hot-looking he was.

Fucking concentrate, goddammit! I reminded myself with annoyance.

I was two strokes in front of Shep as I effortlessly dove down and spun back up for my turn, kicking with all my strength off the side of the pool. My body wriggled up and down like a porpoise under the waves. I surfaced at the fifteen-meter mark and propelled myself down the return fifty meters.

I touched the board five seconds before Shep, and a hell of a lot more ahead of everyone else in the race. I looked up at the scoreboard to see my time and grinned, knowing I took first place, and Shep would stand to my lower on the podium.

As I pulled myself out of my lane, I grabbed a towel and quickly wrapped it around my waist. I couldn’t say whether it was because of the physical exertion, the thrill of winning, or the thing I didn’t want to think about, but I was sporting a victory boner.

How fucking embarrassing! Eyes darting around, I willed my cock to shrink, hoping nobody had noticed my hard-on.

Coach Brooks met me on the sideline, handing me my warm-up jacket. If he noticed my Speedo bulge, he didn’t say anything.

“Good race, Hutton,” he rasped gruffly.

“Thanks, Coach.”

“I think you might be set for State in a week or two.”

With a jolt, I looked into his bright blue eyes. “A week or two?” My stomach clenched in horror.

My mind fucking raced as I pondered his statement. Was Coach saying I’m not ready to compete at that level? Here I was a Senior, just turned eighteen, and the 1981 Colorado State Swimming Tournament was supposed to be the crown of my career as a competitive swimmer.

I realize I won’t be able to pursue my sport after high school. I’m good—hell, even great—in Denver and Colorado, but California is a big-ass state, and everybody who lives there is some kind of swimmer or surfer, or some shit like that.

Not to mention that Dad has made it crystal-clear my focus in college is going to be earning my degree so that I can go to work for—and someday take over—one or more of his businesses.

After State, my swimming is gonna be limited to exercise and recreation in the regulation-size pool my parents built next to our house when I started competing at age seven.

Bringing me out of my funk, Coach half-smiled, reassuring me it was not a put-down. “You haven’t peaked yet, Bruce, and I want you to take it easy, hold back a bit—nothing but the regular stuff until then. No need to jeopardize your chances by killing yourself, just to prove you’re faster than...” he nodded his head at Shep, who was toweling off ten feet away, “everybody else.”

He squeezed my right bicep, nodded and winked at me. A shiver went up and down my spine, and a rush of desire tingled in my groin, which I immediately quashed. I wondered for the thousandth time if Coach was queer, and if he was sending me a message by touching me that way.

I’m not fucking queer! I scolded myself, so why the hell did his friendly touch give me such a chill? I shook it off, knowing I’d think about it later, even though I didn’t want to.

The meet ended soon after my race. During the medalist ceremony, I took my position at the top of the victory podium, with Shep in second place, as I had predicted. As I surveyed the crowd, my best friend and biggest fan, Craig Johnston, gave me a shit-eating grin and a joyful thumbs-up.

Near him was my sister, Natalie. As usual, she was paying no attention to the races, instead chatting with girlfriends or flirting with dudes. She was four years older than me and a senior in college, so I wondered why she bothered to come at all, but I naively thought she cared in some way that I won.

After the official photographer finished, Shep turned toward me. “Great fuckin race, Bruce.” He grinned at me with envy as he shook my hand with a crushing grip.

“Thanks, Shep. You you nearly had me.” I met his grasp with equal force and let my hand linger in his a second or two longer than necessary.

“Bullshit! You were two strokes ahead of me at the turn.” He struggled to jerk his hand out of mine. “There was no fuckin way I was gonna catch up with you, unless you threw the goddamn race.”

“And you know I’d never fuckin do that,” I stared him in the eye.

“Damn straight, and neither would I,” Shep stared back at me, daring me to blink first. I could tell how much he wanted to win, and for a split second I wondered what he would be willing to do if I agreed to throw a race and let him beat me. I didn’t blink, but I forced myself to kill the idea before it got me hard again.

We shook hands and stepped down from the platform. Now I was trembling with anticipation, ready to enjoy the best part of the day: standing in the showers with Shep and the other guys, all cursing and laughing at dirty jokes and horsing around with each other, bare-ass naked. Without a doubt, Shep had the biggest cock on the team. If it was that size when it was soft, what must it be like hard? I blocked the thought and headed into the shower. I was fighting hard to keep from thinking “bad things.”

As the hot water rained down on me, I took stock of myself.

I’m eighteen years and two months old. At the end of May I’ll graduate and then go to Stanford University in September.

As I soap my body slowly and sensually, I gotta say I’m pleased with myself—blond hair, cut short to fit inside a swim cap, blue eyes, six feet tall, one hundred seventy-five pounds of muscle. My arms are pumped from the years of racing, and I’ve got well-defined pecs and six-pack abs from lifting weights, plus muscular calves from the hard kicks of the butterfly stroke.

My belly is flat, currently lacking the thin line of hair below my navel due to the need to shave my entire body for swimming. I’ve still got pubes, although I have to keep them short, so they won’t stick out of my skimpy swimsuit.

Goddammit, I want the whole fucking world to see how sexy I am, but at the same time I’m scared shitless somebody might think I’m queer.

My mother tells me I’m “handsome,” and I am secretly pleased whenever she does, though I pretend I don’t like her saying it. What good does it do me to be handsome, if the people I want to notice it don’t have a fucking clue?

My Dad...well, he’s pissed I missed being goddamn Valedictorian by a hair, especially since I’m heading to Stanford to study engineering. For shit’s sake, can’t he accept that I needed to take classes with less fucking homework, so I could spend more time practicing in the pool at home.

Even with all I have going for me, I still feel like there’s something about me I can’t or don’t dare name. I realize I’m not quite like the other guys, but for the life of me, I don’t know what the hell to make of it. I go to parties and hang out with the dudes, join in the bullshit sessions, and talk dirty about girls. But somehow, it doesn’t seem right.

I go to school dances, each time with a different date. I won’t explain why I never take the same girl twice, but somebody told me it gives me “an aura of mystery,” whatever the fuck that means. I never make out with any of my dates on the way home or anything. I sometimes wonder why they don’t tell anyone, but I figured they don’t want people to know the most eligible stud at school didn’t want to kiss them.

Shaking my head to clear the fog, I gazed down at my dick. I wasn’t worried about showing a hard-on in the showers, because everybody else did, too, or at least a half-mast one. We were all so heated up after the competition that it usually showed in our cocks.

Once in a while, I imagined how much fun it would be if a few guys my age hung back after the others went to get dressed, and then jacked off together over the giant drain in the middle of the shower.

Hell, it makes sense—we can’t go out and have a beer together or smoke a joint, so we need some way to de-stress, for shit’s sake, don’t we?

I wondered what my team-mates might say if I suggested a circle jerk, but I knew damn well I would never dare say anything like that.

After I got dressed, I headed out of the locker room, ready to drive home in my brand-new cherry-red ’81 Z-28 Camaro—an early graduation gift from my parents. My pal, Craig, stood waiting for me outside the gym entrance.

“Way to go, asshole,” he greeted me with a friendly slap on the butt and a wide grin. The way we razzed each other might make you think we didn’t get along, but we were best buddies, and we shared a whole bunch of things, including some shit we couldn’t tell anybody about.

“Fuck you,” I responded, as I feinted a couple of one-two punches in his direction.

We hurried over and jumped into my car. The three hundred and eighty horses of the V-8 roared to life, and I burned a little rubber exiting the parking lot.

Craig teased, “Who you trying to impress? Coach Brooks?”

“Fuck you,” I repeated, forcing a laugh.

“Fuck me? Or fuck him?”

“Whoever wants it,” I chuckled and Craig joined me. We had been best friends since eighth grade, and we had told each other dirty jokes about sex and queers from the day we met.

But it was all bullshit talk. If truth be told, we were both scared shitless over the idea of having sex with another person—of either sex. For now, our trusty right hands were our only lovers, and they got plenty of exercise on a daily basis.

From what I could tell, the same was true of most of the other guys in my senior class. Oh, sure, we all talked about sex a lot, but no more than one or two claimed to have done it—and I wasn’t convinced they could be believed.

As we turned onto the street where Craig lived, I caught sight of a cop car, lights off, parked on the corner. I checked my speedometer and took my foot off the accelerator.

“What the fuck?” Craig asked, alarmed.

“It’s that asshole Billy Sanders,” I told him. Billy was a local cop who had been a senior when Craig and I were freshmen. He was a cool dude, always ready to give a kid only a warning if the infraction wasn’t too serious.

“Hey, I hear he’s fuckin Marie Hilbert,” he replied, and we both guffawed. I tried my best to fight off the mental picture of Billy having sex with one of the hottest babes in town. But I would have given anything to see them doing it—or joining them. As I thought about them, I had to admit I would have paid more attention to Billy than to Marie. Shit! Another uncontrollable thought I have to crush.

I dropped my pal at his driveway, and he hauled ass up to the open garage door. His father was doing something with the car’s hood up, and he hurried over to see what it was.

As I watched Craig join his Dad, I envied him. Oh, sure, their family didn’t have the kind of money my father made with his seven or eight companies. Still, you would never find my father looking under the hood of a car or inviting me to join him in exploring the mechanical mysteries hidden there—shit I was going to learn all about in my engineering courses at Stanford.

I was home in another fifteen minutes. Our house was about ten miles outside Denver, on the slopes of Doublehead Mountain, surrounded by fifty acres of woodland including a small lake.

As I drove up the long lane leading to the house, I braced myself for the third-degree my father was sure to give me, inquiring about every aspect of the swim meet and my prospects of winning at State. With a shudder of anticipation, I realized that, once again, whatever the fuck I did, it wouldn’t be enough for him.

My mother, Julie Hutton, had often told me Dad only did that because he was so proud of me, and because he had never achieved anything when he was my age, being the son of a drunk who pissed away every penny he ever made.

Coming in from the garage through the kitchen door, I greeted my mother with a kiss on the cheek and a loose hug. She pulled me tighter and squeezed for dear life.

“My little boy has grown up so much,” Mom sighed with fondness and sadness in her voice. I got the distinct impression it was something she was not entirely happy about—she would have preferred if I had stayed her “little boy” a hell of a lot longer.

Then, for some reason I couldn’t explain, I got a tremor of fear: Does she know what I’ve been thinking about—I mean other guys, instead of girls? If she did, would she ever say or do anything?

“Oh, come on, Mom.” I squirmed a little, but not enough to break away from her. I was itching to get upstairs to my room for the little “thing” I liked to do whenever I came home from a meet. Changing the topic, I asked, “What’s for dinner?”

My family had people to “do” just about everything that needed doing—gardening, cleaning, washing the cars, but Mom loved to cook and insisted on doing it herself, except when there was a party in the house.

“Steak au poivre avec pommes de terre en escalopes et petits pois,” Mom smiled. “Now you translate.” She always like to test me on at least one school subject.

“Easy-peasy. Hamburgers, French fries, and peas.”

She grimaced and then smiled at me with love in her eyes. “You’d better go change your clothes.”

I was wearing the unofficial “school’s out” uniform of the Wyndover-Grantham Academy: a blazer and school tie, white shirt, and navy blue slacks. Only, the knot tie’s knot was at roughly the level of my nipples, and the shirt was un-tucked all the way around. I had the coat slung over one shoulder.

With a quick, “OK, Mom,” I dashed up the back stairs from the kitchen to the upstairs hallway, eager to get into my bedroom and lock the door. My room was on the right, with a view out the back toward the pool house and the mountain behind.

Across the hall, my sister Natalie’s room faced the front, so she could keep her goddamn nosy eye on everyone who came and went. My parents’ master suite was at the opposite end of the house.

I entered my room, shut and locked the door. Most people didn’t know it, but I was a neat freak. I preferred my world to be orderly and reliable—thank you very much. Looking around, I saw my queen-sized bed had been freshly made by Assumpta, the kindly Mexican woman who did the housework.

Everything was in place on my desk, the way she knew I liked it. My trophies and sports gear were arranged on the top shelves of two bookcases, and the books below them were all lined up like little soldiers. I smiled, pleased.

Cautiously, I went over to my dresser and slipped open the bottom drawer, pulling it out. I stretched my arm and felt for the back wall of the chest. I grinned with pleasure, nodding with satisfaction as my fingers made contact with the forbidden object I had concealed there.

My hand shook a little and my heart pounded as I grasped my hidden treasure, gingerly extracted it, and placed it on the floor. Then I returned the drawer to its proper place, picked up my forbidden stash and flopped onto my bed, kicking my shoes off as I did so.

Leaning back against the padded headboard with eager anticipation, I opened the latest issue of Hustler magazine I had taken from my dresser drawer and hungrily turned to the centerfold, praying it be different this time.

A naked woman smiled at me from the first sheet of the tri-fold. Tantalizingly, I pulled it forward, revealing the other two panels. The woman wore only a white fur headband and white high heels. She was splayed on a white sofa with her legs spread and her shaved pussy front and center.

One hand sucked the tip of her finger, while the other pried open the folds of soft, wet, pink tissue inside. Her eyes beckoned, I want you to fuck me.

I stared at the picture for a long time, willing my stupid cock to get hard. But, as usual, the sexy naked woman didn’t do anything for me. I mean, I could appreciate her big tits and juicy fuck-hole like any guy, but none of it got me going.

This was my goddamn big fucking secret, the one I wouldn’t dare let anyone find out—except maybe I’d tell Craig some day. Oh, I could bullshit with the other guys about tits and pussy all I wanted, but if they knew I preferred looking at cocks—.

Sighing with familiar resignation, I folded the picture back into the center of the magazine and then flipped toward the back of the issue, where the photo shoot of people having sex was always found.

Sure enough, there it was—three pages showing a hunky guy with a giant dick. He started out in blue jeans and a red flannel shirt, which he shed as he coaxed a platinum blond woman in a miniskirt out of her clothes, bra, and Y-shaped panties.

My pulse quickened as I slid my pants and briefs down around my knees, freeing my hard cock to slap up against my belly.

In the next scene, the hot dude presented his massive erection to her, and she took practically the whole goddamn thing down her throat. I kicked off my clothes and softly traced my right hand’s fingers down and gripped the base of my hard-on between my thumb and forefinger. I squeezed tight because I knew I would come too fast if I wasn’t careful. I wanted to prolong the growing ache of delayed pleasure as long as possible.

The man knelt between the woman’s legs and started eating her pussy, and I gently ran one finger up the length of my cock to the head, increasing the sheer animal lust raging inside me.

When he slid his enormous pecker into her wet slit, I stuck the middle finger of my left hand deep into my asshole and began lightly stroking my cock up and down. I was careful not to rub too hard so as to tease my eager prick until it quivered with the need for release.

There were a bunch of photos from different angles, ending with the fucker stretched out with the babe lying back on his chest facing up. He was squeezing both of her tits, and his dick was halfway inside her. Gradually increasing the tightness of my grip on my dick and the speed of my jacking, I began sliding my finger in and out of my hole, bringing me closer and closer to the point of no return.

The final image showed the man flat on his back, eyes closed with a grimace of ecstasy. The women gripped his cock with both hands as it shot ropes of cum up to her tits. The expression of victory on her face was more than I could take. I dropped the magazine to the side. It was time for me to come.

I stretched out my legs and pointed my toes. My thigh muscles went rock-hard. I arched my back, threw my head into my pillow, closed my eyes like the man in the picture, and gritted my teeth imitating his rictus of pleasure. In my imagination, I was mounted on top of him, his cock deep in my hole, triumphantly milking every drop of cum out of him.

With three vigorous strokes of my prick, I squeezed my ass tight and came with a volley of carnal explosions. Each jolt of cum started out deep within me and erupted like a jet of hot lava, draining me of all energy and consciousness. The first hit me in the chin, and five more spurted down my chest. I forgot how to breathe and my body shivered with glorious agony.

After my sperm was spent, I always liked to lie without moving, basking in the flood of endorphins (I was grateful my sex ed class had explained all this). In the afterglow I imagined myself lying back on my lover, sliding his cock, still hard and slick with cum, back inside me, and relaxing as he held me in his arms and nuzzled my neck and ears.

At last, I took a few deep breaths, reluctantly returning to reality. I opened my eyes and stared up at the ceiling, thinking back over the day, particularly my victory in the swim meet and being naked afterward in the showers with the other guys.

I took a shaky breath, knowing the thing I was most unwilling to do now had to be done. It was time for some deep thought, something I had been avoiding for a long time. I had to face my reality, whatever the fuck it was. I unleashed a floor of forbidden thoughts, one after the other.

In my mind, I pictured Coach Brooks, tall, muscular, masculine, and sexy, and remembered how I always got a thrill when he squeezed my arm or patted me on the ass. He was my coach, and he knew a hell of a lot, so I always tried to do exactly as he said. I thought about what I would do if he asked me to blow him—or do something else. With a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I kind of wished he would.

I next thought about Shep standing beside me on the podium, and how everybody could see his huge dick crammed into his tight little Speedo. I thought about all the other guys on the team, half-hard in the showers, cursing and telling dirty jokes. I wondered how they’d react if I suggested jerking our cocks over the drain and how hot it would be if we all started jacking each other off—or more.

I thought back to seeing Billy Sanders in his cop car, waiting to catch a speeder. I would give anything to see him fuck Marie Hilbert like the dude in the magazine. If only he would let me watch!

And what about the pics in Hustler? Why the hell couldn’t I get hard looking at the beautiful woman offering her pussy to me, and why the fuck did I always shoot my load at the scenes with the man’s dick in them?

I remembered Craig’s happy face greeting me and his friendly pat on the butt between friends. It always gave me a shiver of pleasure whenever he touched me. He had been my best friend since junior high. We were super close—closer than any friend I’d ever had. Hell, we had been jacking off together every chance we got for years. I wished I knew what he was thinking about while he was doing it.

Is he thinking the same thing as I am? Is Craig queer? Does he want to have sex with a guy? Does he want to do it with me? Do I want to have sex with him? What would we do? What would it be like?

My cock stirred again, like it always did when I thought about him. Deep down, I kind of hoped the answer to all my questions was “yes.”

Now I was pissed at myself. What the fuck? Am I queer? Sure, I jack off thinking about guys and men, but they’re just fuckin sex fantasies, aren’t they? It doesn’t mean I would ever do anything with one of them, does it?

A sinking sensation swirled in my gut.

Being queer is wrong—right? Any guy my age would shit a brick if he thought there was the slightest possibility he was into dudes. I know guys call each other queers or faggots all the time, but it’s only bullshitting. If we thought anybody actually was gay, we’d stop using those words and keep our distance from him.

One thing I’m sure of—Dad would fucking hit the roof. He might even refuse to pay for college. Hell, he might take the Camaro away, kick me out of the house, and cut off my goddamn allowance.

Now, I was totally freaking out.

Shit! Goddammit, I’m eighteen fucking years old. I’ve had these thoughts about guys for years, but it was just for fun, something I would grow out of, once I began fucking girls. Shouldn’t I have figured out who and what I am by now? How old do you have to be to figure out if you’re queer or not? When am I gonna know for sure? And what the fuck am I going to do about it if I am? Goddammit to hell!

A tear formed in the corner of one eye. So much for my “orderly and reliable” fucking world. I threw the Hustler across the room, got out of bed and headed for the shower in my bathroom, thinking, Fuck it! I’ll only make myself miserable worrying about this shit. Maybe I will figure it out some day, but I can’t think about it any more right then.

Five minutes later, the magazine was safely re-hidden in the back of the dresser drawer, and I’d wiped my shirt clean and dropped it into the laundry hamper in my room. I opened my bedroom door and went downstairs to dinner, bracing for the daily cross-examination by Dad.

He was furious because Sandra Day O’Connor had become the first woman on the Supreme Court. It threatened his orderly, reliable world if women started taking jobs that “rightfully” belonged only to men. For some reason, whenever he was pissed about things he couldn’t control, he took it out on me, ragging on me about grades or whether or not I swam my best. I could fucking live without all that.

For shit’s sake! I told myself. It’s fucking 1981. What’s so bad if things change?

And then I thought, I mean...really change?