I grew up in a very conservative part of the United States, a place where, if you were out, you were very quietly so. Though I'd known I was queer for years before, I really didn't feel comfortable exploring that side of myself until my early twenties arrived. The only openly gay person I knew was the choir director at the church I attended, who, when I confessed my own sexual orientation, was immediately sympathetic and more than willing to educate me on the particulars.
"I'll be glad to answer any questions you might have," he said, immediately, as though I wasn't the first gay man he'd ever schooled in the particulars. As for myself, I knew he meant what he said and I acknowledged it came from the heart. But most questions I'd had could only be solved by direct experience, and I didn't have the courage quite yet to attend the one and only gay bar in town. I would, in time, but that's another story for another time. And the only other confirmed queer kid I'd known had just moved to Texas, so with his departure went my only available opportunity to at least theoretically experiment sexually with another man.
I really wanted to seduce the choir director, as I trusted him. He seemed safe enough, harmless and passive, even though the age difference between us was massive. One big problem though: he had a partner. Still, I made friendly overtures, and after months of convivial conversation—one day that followed the service—he offered to drive me over to his residence so that we could watch a film together. That was at least the stated intent, but I admit I had other ulterior motives.
We got about halfway through the film before I put my plan into action. We'd been sitting next to each other on a comfortable couch in his den. Sensing my opportunity, I spontaneously buried my face in his crotch and with my right hand rapidly unzipped his fly. He grew instantly hard. I pulled out his rapidly expanding erection with my right hand and began rapidly masturbating it, same as I would for my own penis, rubbing the soft skin up and down the shaft.
Caught completely off guard, he moaned involuntarily, and I could tell he wasn't going to turn this opportunity down, partner or no partner. I'd never sucked a cock before, but I'd certainly fantasized about it. In those days, before the Internet, I had to make my way downtown to the adult bookstore to obtain my porn, which was my first source of erotic education. My first involved sexual fantasies about men came from these glossy magazines, and I read the stories printed in their pages, interspersed, of course, with pictures. I had some idea of what to expect from gay sex, based on what I had read, and I was quite curious to experience it for myself.
I took as much of the shaft as I could into my mouth, trying to keep my teeth as far removed as I could from what I knew was an intensely sensitive organ. I found, much to my satisfaction, that I could perform head with ease. I didn't have much of a gag reflux and while I couldn't necessarily take in as much as I would have liked, I found myself more than up to the task. And, I liked it. I liked the tactile sensation and the arousal it provided me personally as well as the arousal it provided to whomever I was pleasuring.
By now he had closed his eyes. "Oh God, Oh God, Oh God," he kept repeating, like a sex mantra. I was a bit surprised at how long the process was taking. Ignorant as I was then with the entire process, I figured the whole thing would be over in a matter of a couple minutes. Had I timed it, I think from start to finish he lasted for about ten minutes.
He made sure to let me know that he was going to ejaculate in my mouth well before it happened.
He momentarily took a pause from being serviced, snapping back into reality, in order to confirm something quite crucial. "Are you sure you want to take this?"
I nodded up and down.
Once again, my assumptions were challenged. I expected forceful volumes of semen, one after the other, shooting down the back of my throat. I expected what I had seen from porn DVDs and those glossy magazines. Instead, I received the faintest volume of cum, and with it a kind of world-weary disappointment on his behalf.
"You've had to do so much, for so little. It's all been you." He said this, crestfallen, head down, as though he was a failure in some regard.
And though he never had to say it directly, I knew he was feeling guilty. I certainly wasn't. I was feeling elated. This had been a joyful experience for me. I'd always managed somehow to try to trick myself into thinking that I wasn't really queer, that all these feelings were some sort of elaborate mind game, but all the rhythms, patterns, and actions I read described in those stories had come true in the end.
