Robby's First Was A Double

Everyone has a "first time" story but not everyone tells theirs. Think I'll switch from one group to the other and tell you guys mine. See, I was pretty lucky. My first time was cool. No quick fucks in a bathroom stall for ME! No no. And you'd never see ME sprawled over a trashcan in an alley somewhere. No way. Not me. I'M sophisticated. I'M classy. MY first time was intricately planned, and flawlessly executed.

Not by me - by the guy who nailed me. I was fuckin' clueless.

Took me a long time to finally be able to stand up and say it out loud and in front of people, but I was an abused child. I was the youngest in a family that included some "step" relatives. I was always the one blamed, framed, and maimed. And I do mean maimed. I got the hickory switch (that I was required to select myself. And if it wasn't good enough I was whipped for that). Also got the belt a lot too. The buckle end - against my bare ass. I've been thrown across the room and slammed up against walls, then slapped open palm and backhand. Had pots, pans, spoons, eggs, and other food thrown at me. Seems my butt was always marked in one way or another. Either with bruises, welts, or scabs where I'd bled. My older brother used to practice his boxing skills on me. That was okay with every body. It only became unacceptable when I tried to fight back. He used to hide around corners, wait for me to come by, and beat the shit out of me. If I told my dad I got beat for being a tattler.

My dad caught me one day with drugs in my pocket. Pot and speed (I don't do drugs anymore). I was grounded my entire senior year in high school. Not that any one at school noticed. The shit didn't stop with my family. The whole fucking town got into it: typical for small town America. Thinking back, I know that I always knew I was gay, but it wasn't something safe to talk about in my little town. But even though I denied it to myself everyone else knew. In high school I was known as the “Freshman Faggot,” the “Homeroom Homo.” I would get hate notes shoved into the little slits in my locker addressed to the “Klass Kweer.” The only time I had any friends or anyone to socialize with was when I had drugs to share. When my pockets were empty, so were the streets.

Sorry guys. Didn't mean that to be such a downer, but maybe now you can understand why, on the day I turned 18 I left. Spent the day going around to my relatives collecting my birthday money, and at 2:00 am after everyone else had gone to sleep, I left. Picked up the grocery bag full of my jeans and extra t-shirts I'd hid earlier in the garage and just walked away. Walked down the quarter mile country driveway, down the road 'til it curved out of sight of my house, and to this day I have yet to look back.

I went to Papa C's place. Papa C was an old Greek guy who ran an all night restaurant/bar at the edge of town. He was from old Greece. His last name had two hundred some odd letters in it, but it started with C. He looked like everybody's grandpa. Overweight, bald head except for the sides, and that was all gray. His place was a bar until 2:00 AM. After that all the kids my age would come in for soda and non-alcoholic drinks until 6:00 AM. There were lots of bars in town, but Papa C had the only place other than the few burger joints where underage kids like me could gather. Papa C was a loveable old guy who treated all us kids like his own grandkids. We would talk to him about things we were too scared to talk to our own folks about. I always knew I was welcome at Papa C's place, even if it was only by Papa C himself.

I got there that night about 3:00 am, got a soda and sat down at a table. I was wondering how I was going handle the confrontation with my folks that I knew would come soon as they figured out I wasn't coming home. Papa C came over and sat down with me. He gave me his famous critical eye (with a wink).

"You look like shit," he told me.

"Gee, thanks," I said, then lowered my eyes, "But yeah, I feel like shit." He just nodded. One thing about Papa C all the kids liked. He always listened. You'd always see him walking through his place when the kids were there, usually with his arm around somebody, dispensing advice without lecturing. Talking to us, but not talking down to us. Yeah, we all liked Papa C.

And then I, like a lot of kids before me, said, "Hey, Papa C." I looked around to make sure no one could hear me, (again, like a lot of kids before me), "Can I talk to you?"

"Shoot," he said. Well, that started it. Spilled my guts. Talked 'til the place closed at 6. Papa C led me to a back room, with his arm around my shoulder when I couldn't hold back the tears.

"Listen," he told me, "You just took a big step; took a lot out of you. What you gonna do next - you worry about later. There's a room upstairs with a bed in it. Go get some sleep. As far as I know I ain't seen you all week. Go get some rest. We figure something out when you wake up."

I stayed at Papa C's place two nights. On the third night I was sitting at a table about 3:00 am when Sanka came in. Sanka, of course, isn't his real name, but I like the movie, "Cool Runnings," so I'll call him Sanka. He was from Jamaica or French Polynesia or somewhere down there. He was black as coal and spoke with the coolest accent. I'd seen him several times in Papa C's and talked to him, but didn't really know him all that well and never saw him any where other than Papa C's. Word was that he was gay, but he wasn't the outcast that I was. He was in college but no one knew just how old he was (I found out later he was 36). He was a very witty guy and always made all of us laugh, so he was kind of accepted by everyone.

Sanka got a cup of coffee ("Java" he called it) and sat at my table.

"You look like shit, mon," he told me with no preamble, just the way Papa C said it. I replied the same way I did with Papa C. "Heard you left your folks. Stayin' here?" he asked me.

"Yeah."

"What you goin' to do? Where you goin' to go, mon?"

"Dunno. I'll find somethin'."

"No need to look so bad, mon," he said. "Come stay at my place. I have a small house, but just me, and no one to talk to. I could use some company. Come on."

I grabbed my grocery bag, thanked Papa C, and went to Sanka's house. Sanka gave me the grand tour, which took all of two and a half minutes. A tiny living room. A kitchen/dining combo, one bedroom. Sanka pointed to his bed, "That's it, mon. That's where we sleep." And a tiny bathroom.

Back in the living room, beer in hand, joint in his mouth, Sanka said, "Don' worry, mon. You okay here. No one to bother you. What you want, mon? Something to eat? More beer? Here. Have another hit," and passed me the joint. Joint? More like a cigar. Sanka said that's the way they roll them down where he was from. I thought of the bathroom sink I'd used the past three days to wash up in, and told him I could really use a good shower.

"No problem, mon. Take your time. You know something? You too tense! After your shower, I will give you de best massage you will ever have your whole life. You will feel good."

The beer and pot was taking hold, "Sounds good to me!" I said. I went into the bathroom, stripped, and stood under the shower for a long time. Then it finally connected that when Sanka showed me the bedroom, he told me it's where "we" sleep. 'Oh my God!' I thought, 'He wants to fuck me!' Then I thought about it some more. 'Allright!!! I'm gonna do it! I'm fucking gonna do it!'

I came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist. Sanka had a couple of candles burning and passed me another joint (he must have finished the other one by himself!). I took a big hit and sat it in an ash tray. It wasn't the same stuff he gave me earlier. This was much better. Exploded in my head. "Wow!" I said, "What the hell is THAT?"

"Columbian, mon," he answered, "Best in all de world! You feeling good now, eh?"

"You got THAT right!"

Sanka told me to lay on the bed on my stomach. "No no, mon," he said, "You got to be relaxed," and he worked the towel away from me. 'Yeah!' I thought. I was nervous, but felt strangely sexy laying naked on his bed. 'Fuckin' A,' I thought, 'I'm gonna do it!! I'm gonna let him fuck me!' It's kind of a weird feeling, ya know? Knowing I was gonna get fucked, wanting it, but never done it before, scared as hell, and didn't know what to expect, what I was supposed to do, but wanting it just the same. Behind me I could hear Sanka taking off his clothes. I thought about the things I'd heard about black guys and their huge cocks. As bad as I wanted it at that point I remember thinking, 'I hear anything other than his pants thump on the floor and I'm gettin' the fuck outta here!'

Well, I didn't hear anything else thump on the floor so I relaxed. I turned over onto my back. Sanka was standing naked at the end of the bed holding his pants in his hand. I smiled at him. My own cock was solid as a rock and flat against my belly. The candles he had lit were those real thick ones, and they were very much used, so they didn't really give out a lot of light. The room was about as black as Sanka was, and in my drunk and stoned condition I couldn't see very well anyway. But Sanka turned to toss his pants over the dresser and I noticed a movement between his legs. I tried to focus my eyes and looked closer. At that time I didn't know what a Beer Can Cock was, but I'd just found out! His cock wasn't all that long but it was actually as thick as the beer can sitting right next to me. I realized he intended to stick that thing up my ass and it seemed the blood immediately drained from my cock and made a beeline to my eyes 'cause they were so bugged out.

Sanka took a look at me and started laughing. He normally had a cool laugh - sort of like Eddie Murphy's, but with a much higher pitch. This time though, I didn't even hear him laugh. I just stared at his cock. He was as stoned as I was and was laughing so hard now that he almost doubled over. I just stared at his cock. He reached into a bowl on the dresser and pulled out another joint. I just stared at his cock.