I remember. I remember when Johnny and I discovered sex on “that” day.
We began to glimpse what love might mean the summer of “that” day. We were thirteen. It was going to be “that” summer, for us. The one where everything changes while everything also stays the same. Yes, it stays the same: the world would continue in its humdrum way. But we changed dramatically; and it was the new us that set out to explore this wonderful new dimension that had suddenly opened. Opened up “that” gorgeous day in Anaheim “that” one July.
My Grandparents lived in Anaheim. They doted on me, so it had been the practice for the last few years to have me spend summer with them. They had one of those wonderful old California bungalows that seemed to stretch from room to room forever. There were high ceilings and lots of polished woodwork, built-in cabinets and bookshelves; there was a beautiful brick fireplace with an elegant mantle in which nothing had been burned in living memory. Someone had once built a fire in it as there was some light scorching at the back. But the scorching didn’t even reach the flue and my Grandparents did not know who the someone was that built that fire. I always remembered this because I spent the winters at our ranch in Nevada where our fireplaces got a lot of use.
What I liked best about the place was the backyard. Down the steps from the back porch was this wonderful grape arbor: deeply shaded, it was a mass of thick leaves and clusters of delicious purple grapes. They were Concord Grapes, very sweet but you ate them slowly because of their seeds. Somehow, it always seemed cool in the arbor, even in the sometimes breathless heat of Southern California. At the back of the lot there was a veritable jungle of Catalina Cherry trees that made passage difficult, but was a great place for birds and boys. There were other trees, too, on my Grandparents' spacious lot. These were mature trees of established character. After suitably stringent warnings, I was permitted to climb any of them except for the avocado. This was really okay because the avocado had no lower branches. I’d have had to get a ladder to reach the lowest branches and this would have made it more like work than adventure, so it remained unclimbed. There was the apricot tree, the walnut, and the peach.
This magical summer started like the others had. My Grandparents and Johnny met me at the train station. Johnny was my best friend. He lived two houses down from my Grandparents and we were all but inseparable every summer.
I was required to undergo a transition every summer. Through the rest of the year I lived in the relaxed Episcopalian atmosphere of my parents’ world; but in the summer, I moved into the rather more formidable world of the Dutch Reformed Church—church attendance, for example, was not voluntary and there could be no companionable games of cribbage, or gin, because as all know, cards are one of the devils many workshops.
So for the first few weeks, Johnny and I ran around, discussed school and related stuff, and resumed our companionship. It was almost as if we’d not been apart at all. Some Sundays, I would even be permitted to go to church with Johnny. Johnny was a Presbyterian which was almost okay.
Then “that” day. Johnny and I were walking back from the miniature golf course that had recently opened where orange trees once had grown. We had not been permitted to play even though we had plenty of money. We were wearing cut-off levis and sneakers without socks. It was a hot day in early July so we hadn’t thought to bring the t-shirts that we would sometimes wear or let dangle from a hip pocket. Like I said, we were both thirteen and this was virtually our summer uniform. There was this old man running the miniature golf course. A weirdo. He was wearing a yellowing long-sleeved shirt that had once been white; he had primly buttoned his collar and cuffs, but was not wearing a tie, as he should have been if he was going to wear his shirt that way. I have opinions on these sorts of things.
“No naked torsos,” he proclaimed when we sought to buy our tickets. Now I knew him to be a weirdo. I mean, if there’s going to be a dress code, you should just have a sign saying ‘No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service’ or whatever. But “naked torsos”. Who even thinks like that? Behind him, a frowzy woman shook her head grimly, every bit as poorly dressed as the weirdo. We were turned away. Vaguely mystified, our bad humor lasted about one block. Who needed miniature golf, anyway?
We stopped in front of Halvorsen’s Furniture Store and watched the new television for a bit. There, a tiny black and white picture showed people talking about something. There was plenty of movement, but we couldn’t hear anything on the sidewalk, of course. Pretty amazing if you think about it. Pobbin thought the whole thing was a “flash in the pan” and wouldn’t consider getting one. We couldn’t have one at home in Nevada as there was no station close enough. My Dad thought it was here to stay though.
“I wish you had a swimming pool,” I commented to Johnny. He nodded. I had recently read Tom Sawyer and had very much enjoyed all the parts where Tom and his friends go skinny dipping in the river. I told Johnny all about the skinny dipping and he thought it would be pretty neat, too. But he didn’t think it was likely that he’d have a swimming pool anytime soon. He lived with his mother who had just divorced his father. His father seldom came around except for his scheduled visits; he had a new job back East somewhere. His mother worked at a local real estate office and was gone most of the time. If he had a swimming pool, we could have run around naked all day long. It never even occurred to us that my grandparents might have a swimming pool. They were just not the swimming pool sort.
What I hadn’t told Johnny about skinny dipping was that when first I read about it in Tom Sawyer, I got all warm and tingly and hard. I had learned, at recess naturally, that being hard down there is called a “boner” or a “hard on”. I had been given a book by my parents that explained what was going on and why these things were happening. Or tried to, anyway. But it was not until I had read Tom Sawyer that I began to make a connection between boys running around naked and a hard on. And that both were pleasurable promises.
So we’re just walking down the street and I start getting a boner. Did the skinny dipping thoughts trigger it, I wondered. Can just thoughts do it? Must be, as there were no other likely suspects.
“What’ll we do now?” Johnny commented idly.
“Dunno,” I replied helpfully and threw the ball back. “Whadda you wanna do?”
This discussion went nowhere, amiably enough until it was decided that a popsicle was in order. So we about-faced, and went down to the corner Mom & Pop store where naked torsos were no big deal. I got an orange one and Johnny got a grape one and we started home sucking on our popsicles.
Then, from right out of nowhere, Johnny wonders, “Does yours ever get hard?”
“My what?” I responded densely, my boner straining against the denim of my cut offs.
“You know. Your weiner.”
“You mean a boner?” I ask, hopeful but feeling the need to be specific.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.” Uncharacteristically, I volunteer some information. “I’ve got one now.”
“Me too.”
This mutual condition established, we continued down the street. My mind was all awhirl. I had, of course, studied my boner, but had never seen another and I very much wanted to see Johnny's. But I’m also kinda scared, There’s this whole business of hair. I had somewhere in the vicinity of thirteen to thirty pubic hairs with no hair whatsoever on my chest or under my arms. What if Johnny had a lot more hair? Would he tease me? But then, he had no hair under his arms or on his chest either. I was only vaguely aware of these issues of masculinity and maturity, but somewhere I had come to equate an abundance of pubic hair with some sort of undefined virtue.
Johnny made the first move, “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.” Great idea. How had he known what I was thinking about?
“Okay,” I agreed, all concerns about the mystery of pubic hair banished at the prospect of seeing his boner. Johnny continued, “We can go to my house. Mom won’t be home for hours.” Great, another problem solved.
We move on with purpose. Adventure.
Not only were Johnny and I of an age, but we were also pretty much of a type: we each had hazel eyes, we had the golden tan that comes quickly with years in the sunshine of Southern California. Johnny had sandy blond hair that fell over his forehead while I had light brown hair that was in the regulation flat top that so many of the sons of veterans of World War II were expected to wear. I really liked Johnny's hair and often thought I should adopt his style. Right now, though, I was more concerned with seeing his boner.
When we got to Johnny’s we went around to the backyard and entered through the kitchen. I followed Johnny as he made a beeline for his upstairs bedroom. Basically, since the divorce, Johnny had the entire upstairs to himself; his Dad’s old den was now a hobby and games room for Johnny. A sort of den for a thirteen year old. His Mom had the downstairs to herself. Johnny never mentioned, and I never heard of, or saw, any visitors that his mom might have entertained.
In Johnny’s room, Johnny turned around smiling as he kicked off his shoes and unbuttoned his cut offs. He looked me right in the eye as he dropped his cut offs to the floor and stood there completely naked. His boner stood stiffly upright, his balls swaying slightly with his motion. The tip of his boner came just to his upper tan line, while his lower tan line was several inches below the lay of his balls.
I was transfixed: transfixed by his beauty and his twinkly eyes. I was also stunned by the speed with which this had all happened. Somehow I had imagined that he would carefully unbutton his fly, and then I would carefully unbutton my fly; then we would slowly take out our respective boners for inspection. All the while, with our cut offs up, on, and closed. Johnny’s plan was much better. It was kinda like Tom Sawyer only with boners.
I attempted to catch up as quickly as I could. But my eyes were riveted on the beauty of his sex and my hands seemed to fumble as they opened the buttons on my cut offs, a chore that was usually almost instantaneous because it was so routine. It seemed like it took forever, but it was probably only seconds and we were both naked and looking over every inch of one another. I looked into his eyes as he stepped up to me and reached down to feel of me. His touch caused me to shudder at the pleasure of it and I put my hands on his shoulders and gently caressed him. I trailed one hand down his back and began to stroke his silken butt. The sensations were too awesome to be anything but good and right. We stepped together as one and began to slowly rub against one another.
“This is great.” One of us said.
Johnny was now stroking me. Sometimes with his hand, sometimes with just a finger or two. Then he’d release me to touch and caress my butt, my chest, my flanks and elsewhere. I did the same to him; only I also liked to massage his butt with both hands while I pushed against him, but I could seldom do much thrusting because Johnny never let go of me for very long. Johnny mostly had his eyes closed, and he was kinda cooing with pleasure as all this was going on. I’d close my eyes sometimes too; but then I’d jerk them open again as I loved to watch—the way his face worked as our passion rose. I was probably cooing with pleasure too, but I don’t remember it.
He opened his eyes and looked into mine. “Let’s kiss,” he suggested. For once I had nothing to say and no clarification was necessary. I put my lips to his and kissed him. He tasted of grape popsicle; he tasted of many other things, some of which I did not understand, or was only vaguely aware of; he tasted of the great mystery of sex and this was my first kiss of passion; he tasted of manhood; he tasted of youth; he tasted of unknown pleasures. He stuck his tongue between my lips and ran it around. I opened and our tongues caressed. I began to understand what ‘sexy’ really meant. It was bliss beyond words as we kissed while our hands explored everything within reach on our naked bodies.
Not so very long ago, I had had my first orgasm. I didn’t really know what it was, and I certainly didn’t call it an orgasm at the time. It happened when, daringly, I was sleeping in only my pajama tops. I was asleep when it started and only woke up when I started spurting. The dream that I’d had was vivid, and Johnny was in it, but I didn’t remember any of the actual details. I never wore pajama bottoms to bed again.
We were still kissing wildly, running our hands all over each other, though we were beginning to concentrate on the stroking. I knew the sensations were building but I really had no idea where they would lead us. We were young. We were certainly inexperienced. Time was running out.
Johnny pulled me to him as he moved backward and we fell onto his bed. He had released me and was now thrusting against my stomach. I followed his example and we were soon pumping against each other in that ancient rhythm that we were just discovering. It only took seconds and this divine sensation came erupting down there. It was way better than my first orgasm. Or any of my solitary fumbling. Soon we were resting quietly in one another’s arms in a glow of satisfaction and a certain sheen.
Neither of us seemed in the least interested in getting dressed or up. I rolled off Johnny onto my side and ran my fingers over his chest. We were relaxed now, but I looked his sex over very carefully because it was beautiful the way it lay across his leg. I also determined that he had almost exactly the same number of pubic hairs that I had and his were even harder to see because his hair was lighter.
Johnny said that we should clean up because his mom would be home in about an hour. I wanted to stay naked with him and was not at all anxious to end this moment. Johnny said, “We’ll take a shower together. You can wash me then I’ll wash you.” What a super idea. We walked down the hall naked, (I thought this was pretty daring) and I loved the way Johnny’s butt swayed as he sexied down the hall. His bathroom was tiled in a light green color and the shower had a glass door. It was a roomy shower, it was precisely the right size for two thirteen year olds who wanted to do a lot of touching. Johnny stood with the door open while he fiddled with the faucets so the shower would be just right. I admired his lithe form, his tanned body with the white stripe around his middle where the cut offs usually were. The sweet curve of his butt. He beckoned me to follow and we got into the shower. Johnny stood beneath the showerhead and got completely wet, then he pulled me gently to him and got me thoroughly wet also. Then he turned off the shower and handed me the bar of soap saying, “Okay, wash me all over.” So I took the soap and turned him around so that his butt was even with my boner. I rubbed the soap into a lather on his back and then worked it down into his butt. I spread his cheeks and thoroughly soaped every inch. By now, we were both harder than hard. We took a break from bathing and clasped each other tightly, resuming our primal thrusting. Then I knelt down and started soaping his legs, one at a time. When this was done, he turned around and I was looking right at his semi-boner, which needed to be thoroughly washed. I considered kissing it, but it was all soapy. I decided in the future to kiss first and soap second. I stood up and finished his chest. I handed him the soap.
Johnny pushed me back against the shower wall and immediately went down in front of me; wiser, he kissed me first, and only later started lathering me up. He spent a great deal of time washing my butt and he even pressed me with his finger. This felt a little odd, but just about anything he wanted to do would have been okay with me.
We rinsed and dried each other. Leaving the towels on the bathroom floor, we swaggered naked back to his bedroom where, reluctantly, we got dressed. It was our first time and we had done it twice.
“What’re we gonna do tomorrow?” I wondered. Johnny smiled. I had never noticed before just how long and elegant his eyelashes were. He kissed me lightly. “Come over in the morning and we’ll figure something out.”