The young brother of
the boy I graduated grammar school with invited me to his parents' house for a
sleep over, asking me to rub it against him, not in, not yet, he said, just
against the crack like a hotdog in a bus, her purring at me in the dark of
night when we alone remained awake, he, 13, had done it before, I, 14, never had,
He wanted to teach me how, there with the collection of his family within ear
shot, telling me how much I would come to like it when we finally did it, not
in, not yet, just rubbing against him until he purred, he telling me later how
much more we could do, with hands and mouths, though for now, all he needed was
for me to press against him, my bare chest against his bare back, my hotdog
rubbing the sides of his bun, not in, not yet, he said, but soon and often,
something he said I would come to love, just as he had, rubbing until I wanted
it as much as he did.
.
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