I am 18 and a senior at Boston Technical High School. My homework is finished and I'm looking for something to do on a dull Thursday night. My father and mother have commandeered the TV to watch boring Perry Mason and Dr. Kildare fare, so that avenue is closed. Eureka, I have a thought. It's team competition night at the Mount Pleasant Bowladrome and my older brother Joe bowls for one of the teams. I call him and ask if it's OK if I come and watch him. That is about a younger bro being respectful to his older bro -- asking permission when it is not needed. It's from the Italian book of silly macho etiquette.
"You haven't watched me bowl in a while," he says, his ego aroused. "Meet me there at 7? You can keep score for us." I head up Dudley Street toward Uphams Corner. My brother has already arrived with his three teammates as have four guys from the other team. His team's nickname is the Red Raiders. They are bowling against the Comanches of neighboring Dorchester. Joe introduces me to his four opponents -- I already know the guys on his team -- and they are happy to see me.
Keeping score is a pain in the ass while you're bowling competitively, so I am freeing them up just to bowl, drink beer and concentrate on winning.
I have a seat in the middle of things as they get started. I have to pay attention. I am used to keeping my own score. Now I will be doing it for eight. By the way, this is candlepin bowling, New England's version of the sport. You throw three balls instead of two, but it is harder to knock down candlepins as the balls are smaller and the pins are bigger.
My brother is 29; most of the others are in the same age bracket. I know several of them from watching Park League baseball games. There is Huck, Jerry and Al. The Red Raiders and the Comanches represent the Italian and Irish tribes of Boston. They grew up together, hang out together, play together. There is none of the ethnic gang tension you might expect from watching West Side Story. Some of the Irish boys have married the sisters of the Italians and vice versa. Most of them wear wedding rings, grateful for a night out with the guys away from nagging wives.
On closer inspection and in the bright lighting, I can see that the years have not been kind. After a few short years of marriage, they look older, have gained weight. Some are balding. They seem to have the weight of the world on their backs and they're barely 30.
When I was 13 or so, I lusted after Jerry, one of the Irish guys. He used to be magnificent -- handsome, twinkly blue-eyes, trim and fit in his blue dungarees. (This is the '60s. Levi's were called dungarees).
Now, Jerry's face is bloated, tired, with red blotches from too many beers; he has bags under his eyes. He is no longer in shape and looks shorter, although it's more likely that I have gotten taller. What has marriage done to these poor fools, I think.
Jerry comes by my perch and gives me a warm greeting, "You're growing up, kid," he teases. "Are you getting lots of poontang?" I imagine he's not getting a whole lot of that himself as he and the missus have slowed down sex after four kids. I mischievously respond, "What about you?" and chuckle. He shakes his head, "Nope. Catholic girls like my wife lose their desire after having kids. I hear you're going to college next year. The girls there are slutty. Cute guy like you will get laid every night."
The other guys laugh and I do also, but for a different reason.
As the match wears on, I focus on the other team. I don't recognize any of them. Boston is funny that way. People tend to stay in their own little neighborhood enclaves, even if only a few blocks away. Again, I see out-of-shape bodies, wedding rings and tired faces -- all except one face, the one on Dennis, as in "Knock down those friggin' pins, Dennis. We need to beat these bums."
Dennis is the Comanches' captain and best bowler. They count on him as their anchor. Betraying family and neighborhood loyalties, I am secretly rooting for him. His sexy looks have turned me on.
He looks to be about 30, about 6 feet tall, slender, and blond. Not phony bleached blond like Justin Bieber, blond like Brad Pitt -- "dirty blond" we call it. Darker, more masculine blond. Dennis has short hair -- a military cut, a whiffle, we call it. It suits him. I take in his eyes, which are dark brown and set close together. They are a nice contrast to his angular, lightly freckled white-pink face. His eyebrows are thick and darker than his head hair. His nose is ramrod straight, not large and bulbous like some of the Italians and not too small and buttony like some of the Irish. It is the perfect nose. Dennis has blond scruff. He hasn't shaved in a few days.
I fall into a reverie of wondering what he looks like naked. His arms are covered in blond hair. That's a sign that his whole body is hairy.
Halfway through the match as the action and the bowladrome heats up, he pulls off his sweatshirt. Now I can see his white T-shirt, more grayish than white. It looks as if it has been washed a thousand times but not lately. It has sweat stains at the armpits. The collar is yellowish.
I can imagine how delicious it smells. I forgot to tell you that I have perved on masculine smells as far back as I can remember. I've gone so far as to sniff my brother's boxers that lay on his bedroom floor, although his looks do nothing for me.
Lucky for me, too many washings have rendered the cotton threadbare and shrunken enough that when Dennis glides athletically as he rolls a ball, his shirt rises high and exposes delicious parts of him. His lower back is smooth, but his flat stomach has a forest of dark blond hair. Sprigs of the same color hair spring out of his collar. His T-shirt when lifted reveals something else that thrills the fetishist in me. The elastic band of his underwear has the blue and yellow stripes of the BVD brand. Unlike my brother, who wears boring boxers, Dennis wears tightey-whiteys.
I have been a devotee of white cotton briefs since high school, eager to join my schoolmates in the locker room after gym class. They wore BVDs, Hanes or Fruit of the Looms. I stole glances, being careful not to get caught, even though they would never believe that I was "a queer," as they called a kid like me. I was too good an athlete for that in their stilted minds.
A vision of sinewy, blond Neal Bennett, reaching high into his locker in his tight Hanes briefs, pops into my head.
Dark and hairy Richie Casagna wears looser briefs, which summoned the hope that his dick might pop out of one of the legs at any moment.
John Kopinski, a prettyish Polish kid with delicate features, had the whitest briefs of all. His mother didn't spare the bleach.
Theo Sotiris, Greek and the tallest and best built kid in my class, posed unabashedly at his locker in his FOTLs and took far too much time getting dressed. I think he was inviting the other kids to look at him. I was happy to oblige.
Then there was William, my first sex partner. I had blown him several times in the basement bathroom that was off the beaten path. I remember me pulling down his pants in one of the stalls. When his white briefs popped into view, encasing his thick cut penis, my eyes lit up. One day I ran into him after baseball practice and he took me home and deflowered me.
But ultimately, my taste has settled on more on older guys like Dennis and the men I sucked off in the balcony of the Strand Theater.
My fond memories are interrupted by a sad thought: Will all of those beautiful high school lads marry and wind up like the ruined bastards I am watching bowl tonight?
I snap out of my reverie and ask loudly how many pins Dennis has knocked down after rolling his first ball after a spare. I have spaced out.
"Eight," he responds, and for the first time all evening he stares into my eyes and doesn't turn away when I stare back.
"Got it, big guy," I say and lick my lips self-consciously, hoping he'll pick up a smidgen of my desire for him. The next guy's turn is up, but my eyes follow Dennis as he takes a seat right beside mine.
Now, I am nervous. It will be uncool if he or the others, especially my brother, find out that I like guys. I should be careful. Close to me, Dennis's T-shirt has unlocked his spicy odor of tangy man sweat. He doesn't wear deodorant, thank Jesus, and he is making me horny. He isn't wearing a wedding ring either, unusual for a guy his age in marriage-obsessed Dorchester, Mass.
I like that Dennis is not squeaky clean like some preppie who showers three times a day, does his laundry more than needed, changes his undies at the drop of a hat and irons every bit of his clothing. Dennis's clothes look lived in, a bit grimy, his jeans are molded to the contours of his body, and they all hold his manly scent, which makes him even more appealing. I told you I'm a perv.
"So you're Joe's brother Pete," he casually makes conversation as he lightly taps my hand. "I am," I squeak out, more nervous than if I had been taking the SAT test.
"Al just bagged a spare," Dennis points out. "You want to pay attention to the next pin fall, so you can add the right number to the total." Then he squeezes my shoulder.
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He has touched me twice. That must mean something, I hope. I love Dennis's modulated voice. Masculine, but not loud and braying like my brother's. It sounds commanding without being bossy. He is trying to help me, not correct me, as my brother likes to do.
Suddenly, I have lost my enthusiasm for my dutiful role as scorekeeper and just want to flirt with Dennis. What can I say that will hint at my fantasies and lead to more?
So far, he does all the talking. "So, are you planning on college, Pete?" He seems genuinely curious. I nod. "Happy to hear that. Nice to see a handsome kid with brains." And he gives my thigh a squeeze and winks.
That’s two squeezes, two taps and several winks. Is he coming on to me or am I dreaming? And, gee, he thinks I'm handsome? How can I pay back the compliment by telling him that he's the hottest guy I've ever seen and that I want to blow him?
In truth, he is right about me. I am pretty cute -- Italian olive skin, long dark brown hair in a Beatles cut that is fashionable for the ‘60s. My striking blue eyes from some recessive Sicilian gene get lots of compliments. I have been told I have nice features, perhaps more delicate than what I personally like in a guy, but I am still a teenager. I am 5-9, about 150 pounds and have an athletic body from playing basketball, baseball and flag football.
"How old are you, Pete, if I may be so bold as to ask that question?" Jeesh, I can't believe it. He's polite, too. "I'm 18," I say and wink back.
Was his question about my age his making sure I'm not jailbait? My fantasies run wild.
Between attending to the bowling scores, I sneak glances at Dennis's body. He has stretched his legs out to reveal black boots, not close to being polished, cotton socks that were once white and faded dungarees that fit him just right. His jeans are tight in the crotch and thigh area. He has a promising bulge. I remind myself to get a better look at his butt when it is his turn to bowl again. I want to pull off his jeans then and there and sniff and lick his whole body. My dick is getting hard in my shorts.
I am struggling to make conversation. Asking what he does for work doesn't seem out of order. I ask. He drives rapid transit trains for the T, Boston's public transportation system. A working class bloke in a working class neighborhood.
A ton of questions I shouldn't ask run through my brain: "Do you have a girlfriend and if not, why not?" "Why aren't you married? All of your teammates are." "Do you like getting your cock sucked?" That last one makes me chuckle. I could picture his shocked face if I had the balls to hit him with that one.
I wonder where he lives? In Dorchester somewhere or maybe South Boston. I can't ask my brother for his address. I could ask Dennis himself, but what would he make of that? Conversation with an object of my affection is new to me and it's awkward. I have never flirted with anyone, especially a grownup.
What would happen if I knocked on his door one evening and he answered in just his worn BVDs? My dick is now fully hard.
Dennis goes to the concession stand for a bottle of Budweiser and squeezes my thigh again. I think the squeeze was higher this time, closer to my crotch, but I'm having trouble telling fantasy from reality. Shockingly, he brings a Bud for me. "I know the drinking age is 21," he says, "but you're 18 -- close enough."
So he likes breaking the rules. Does this mean he'll break them in other areas, such as having sex with a male teenager?
Sitting next to him all my thoughts run in a sexual direction. I watch his perfect lips wrap around the tip of the beer bottle and think of what I could do with my lips. Everything he does turns me on.
"Thanks, that was nice of you," I say politely. "Hope I don't get you in trouble."
"I asked your brother; he said it's OK." I told you he was considerate.
The match is nearly over; the Comanches have a commanding lead. I fear that the evening is fading away, that Dennis will remain only a dream. I can go home and beat off to a vision of him fucking me, but I have done that using other guys a thousand times.
He jolts me back to reality. "Hey, little man, thanks for keeping score. I hope you're not too disappointed your brother's team lost. They put up a good fight." And he gives me that sly grin. "They really did, ya know. I'm not blowing smoke up your ass."
Woah. I have never heard that expression before, but I love the image of him doing that, his mouth blowing smoke in my butthole. Can a guy actually blow smoke up another guy's ass?
I tell Dennis I am not disappointed. "Don't tell Joe this, but I was rooting for you all the way, especially after I watched you in action. Your technique is perfect. I studied how you approach the release and follow-through because I want to bowl just like you."
Dennis looks a little disappointed. "So that's why your eyes were drilling a hole in me all night -- you were picking up bowling tips?" His voice is louder than it has been all evening. "You like my technique? That's all!"
I am taken aback until he smiles and says, "I was hoping something more was going on." And he winks again.
Oh? How do I tell him something else was going on, that my lust was going on.
As we walk out the door onto Dudley Street -- the others have already left; the beer has given me just enough courage to say what I want to say in an explosion of words.
"Dennis, I need to tell you this. I find you unbelievably handsome. That's why I couldn't take my eyes off you. It had nothing to do with bowling tips. It wasn't about your technique. I can't let you think that. It was about me loving how sexy you are, how hot you look. I hope you're OK with me saying that."
Dennis looks pleased and his eyes light up. He is miles from angry. He is not turned off. He doesn't even seem surprised. "Thank you, Pete. The feeling is mutual. I've been staring at you all night as well. I noticed you when you walked through the door tonight and felt a spark. You are a damned good looking young man and I'm feeling a connection with you already.
Then came the words I had not expected. "Would you like to explore that and have coffee with me and talk more?"
My heart is pounding. I want that more than I want to breathe. I nod yes repeatedly. It is that moment when you realize your fantasy has a chance of coming true.
(to be continued)
