Gay Interracial - Sex Stories

Gay Interracial

... was extraordinary. She would mention the theater, as if what went on there was amusing, or I'd be laying there with my dick in my hand, hearing her tell him: "You know . . couples go there Bill . . . " There were long TV background silences, punctuated by mom's attempts to engage him. I'd hear scatterings of what she said. Sometimes she'd tell him about the movie, as if it was something funny, not to be taken seriously. But I knew one thing: if she mentioned it she took it very seriously indeed. She'd describe some of the men in the theatre, masturbating. That was enough for my father, he mumbled something, all I heard was ". . .Jigaboos. . ." The theatre was ten blocks uptown, so he knew what I had seen: all the men going inside were black. You should have listened, Dad. Maybe then she wouldn't have needed Les. She was different. She had always seemed a typical mother, someone who seemed above the animal feelings that were overwhelming me now. But the exposure of my father's weakness and the strange place she worked in must have shifted some fault line in her soul. I can see how it must have happened, how one day she must have given in to curiosity and used a lull in the flow of patrons to walk slowly up the balcony stairs; knowing as she did so she was about to see something sordid, something base. But while she expected something bad, she must have been completely unprepared for the shock of it, the dizziness she felt seeing the same screen that once featured Julie ...

... Andrews or Audrey Hepburn now with the beaming face of Marilyn Chambers while she was taking it right up the ass. ** There was one, and only one bright spot in my father's life. During the preceding summer and fall I had started playing baseball. I was really good. Games I wasn't pitching I played short, and I could hit too. I was by far the best player on my team, and maybe even the best kid in my league. Neither one of us had been baseball fans before that. Boxing was my father's sport, but when he saw how good I was, when he heard the other parents speak of me with admiration, he seemed to find some purpose in this, at least. Several times during the winter he commented on my growth, saying I'd be even better in the spring. It was the only reference he ever made to my body changing. I was in a serious league; we started practicing the first week of March, a full month before the other teams. My father came to watch me, and his hopes were fired. The ball was streaking off my bat; the cold stung my hands, but I didn't care - I was locked in, hammering almost every pitch with the clubhead. The extra inches were all strength. And when I stepped to the mound, I was amazed at the lightness of the ball, and the power I felt when the catcher ran back to the bench to get a sponge for his hand. This was going to be a great year. My coach, Mr. Puglisi was a firemen who worked all his hours in three days, so we practiced after school Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. The third Saturday in ...