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Date: Fri, 27 Feb 2004 16:43:49 -0600
From: gloryhole JUNKIE <gloryhole_junkie@hotmail.com>
Subject: "Whoring with Dad" Part 9g

Whoring With Dad
Part 9g: "In (Kevy) Like a Choo Choo..."
(or "Little Boys Love Trains")

By: Mr.gloryholeJUNKIE
m_g_h_j@hotmail.com


Disclaimer & Warning


I suppose these could be distilled down to the point of simply saying, "Now,
fella, remember that you're a big, strapping adult man and he's just a tyke
half...a quarter...an eighth?... (oh my!)...your age and...(oh my,
again!)...your stature. Give 'im a break and be a good boy, or man, rather,
and don't get "sexual" with him. 'K?

It can never be overly stressed that a man mustn't, under any circumstances
or for any reason (even reasonable reasons) get into a situation where he's
having sex or even being merely "sexual" with a minor.

Sure he's a little cutie. Sure, you've grown bored with regular sex with the
wife. Sure, you've got some quirk that enjoys hot tubbing with tots. Sure
you have a paperboy who is always staring at your crotch when he comes to
collect money. Sure, your thirteen-year-old son is fucking hung like a
future porn star. Sure, your brother and his wife left you in charge of
their kids for a month while they go to Japan...where they die in a plane
crash...leaving you sole custody. Sure, you like showing your big man dick
to wide-eyed gigglers...

...but none of it is any excuse for an adult man to actually cross that line
or "act" out sexually with a minor.

Yes, its that simple.

And please refer to earlier "Disclaimers & Warnings" because they also apply
to this chapter.



Preface


The Art & Craft of Writing. That's often a toughy for some readers to
understand. And perhaps, sometimes, understandably so -- especially when
addressing the structure of a "true life story".

As the "New York Times" proved recently, hard news journalism, at times, is
often proven to be more fiction than Truth.

Whereas, contrastingly, a Fellini script, however seemingly "bizarre", may
in fact speak the ultimate Truth.

So apparently, its not merely the tone or form of a piece which guarantees
its truthfulness. Its what is being related and not necessarily its style or
presentation  which determines a story's veracity. In fact, one would miss
an awful lot of the world's "truth" if one were to wait to hear it in only a
certain manner. In fact, it's the work of most writers to sort through the
myriad ways others reveal the (or their) Truth.

For example, if a journalist were waiting for a crack addicted mother who
just slaughtered her two kids to speak the truth only eloquently and with
clarity, one would never gather a story.

And the Mafia rarely sits down for a one-on-one chitchat with a nosy
journalist. And yet there are other ways that writer can get to the truth of
their organization. Would you have really walked away from an interview with
Al Capone after he reassured you, with a charming smile and glass of
Chianti, that all he and his boys are involved with is the hotel towel
business? Perhaps you would have.

Does the "Southern Pride Gazette" with its glowing comments about Mrs.
Prudette's peach cobbler and repeated oversight about that lynching last
month speak the truth? Or does Tennessee Williams? Perhaps they both do. But
certainly the latter gathered his knowledge of the truth via observing and
experiencing what is often unspoken.

How does one know what Kennedy said to Castro during some phone call? Or
while at the White House, exactly what did Nancy Reagan do with Frank
Sinatra while "lunching" alone? It's an amalgam of truth-gathering
techniques and evidence, which can help a writer to recreate such intimate
moments. Are re-tellings "word for word"? Probably not. After all, unless
one is reading a transcript - and trusts its not been altered - no one is
privy to much of anything less than a widely-televised State of the Union
speech. And even then, most pundits will later have opposing understandings
of that truth.

So how do I, the author of "Whoring with Dad", know the things it may seem I
could not or should not have known as I relate them to you, the reader? How
could I know what my dad was or wasn't doing as he'd leave me alone with a
horde of erect men? How did I know what my mother was "thinking"? How did I
know what Sid was doing with Tomas...when I'm in another room pulling a
train?

Well, as "Whoring with Dad" is not an experience in "real-time", I have had
over thirty years to collect the "rest of the story". Yes, I got filled in
(goodness!) over the years, learning more only as I got older.

And my firsthand knowledge of "other things" related in detail, will become
more apparent as the story unfolds.

Think of story-telling (and that's a term often misinterpreted as its
applied to both fiction and non-fiction) as something which must be crafted
to some degree in order for it to be understandable. Even elderly Greek
grandmothers must "craft" a telling of how they went to the supermarket and
then the nurse hurt them with a needle. Listen to her, next time. The spin
or way a story is told is simply a reflection of human interaction.
Otherwise, we'd all be speaking as and to automatons, programmed to simply
spout data (and just how truthful its programmer was would be fodder for
another time). One can "get" to the truth by either listening to the old
woman for hours...until she mentions the dark angel nurse. Or, perhaps,
learn of it quickly by her screams. Or, maybe, just maybe, by looking at her
and seeing the bruised and bloody arm where she'd been clinically assaulted.
There is no single way to discover or know the "truth".

How does little Kevin "know" it was nine men who ejaculated in him and not
eight...or ten? He might not certify the number, but that's part of the
license given to any author when telling a story. In a sense, would it make
all that much difference if there had been eight dwarves and not seven in
"Snow White"? The Grimms chose seven to allow "enough cross chaperoning" as
to make it sexually less tension-filled in that cottage (could have been too
heated with little Snow White coming upon the house of a masturbating Doc
forty years her senior, after all). Or perhaps "seven" was chosen because
it's a lucky number that always makes for a good, solid gangbang. The
broader 'truth" of the story lay not in how many little men may have
fingerfucked Snow White as she slept in her glass coffin. Instead, the
story's intent is to speak the truth about how humanity often wants "Good"
to triumph over "Evil" (and get itself a hung'n'handsome hunk in the
end...yowie)!

So, a reader must trust one's storyteller to bring them to the truth, in
whatever manner he finds best suits the revelation of that Truth. You may be
a "Facts, ma'am...just the facts" sort of reader. Or you may be a fella who
never wants to read a directly naughty word. But it's the author who must
unveil events in his own way - especially when its his own true story. And
that's when you, the reader, ought to just sit back, drop your trousers to
your ankles and merely "enjoy" - knowing that what you're reading is,
however "unbelievable", the completely true recounting of my perversely
sexual childhood.

That's not asking a masturbating man too much, is it?




Whoring With Dad
Part 9g: "In (Kevy) Like a Choo Choo..."
(or "Little Boys Love Trains")

By: Mr.gloryholeJUNKIE
m_g_h_j@hotmail.com


I can't say I was "great" lay at age seven, although most any man who took a
turn on my little butt may tell you otherwise. But, even then, I would think
that was due to a man's own self-awareness of the licentiousness of his act
and not the way my butt milked him for his "DNA output".

I had tried to be a good little fuck, of course. I mean, I wanted to be a
great fuck for men and tried my hardest to relax my butthole enough to
accommodate even the biggest men. And I tried to remember what some men had
told me to do the last time I was at the Lawson, in the toilet stall -- to
squeeze or "milk" the men's cocks once they were inside of me.

But, to be most honest, I must have been pretty useless a partner when it
came to being a "wild ride" -- although that didn't seem to bother most any
of the men. They screwed me just as easily as if I'd been the hottest sex
toy purchased at the adult bookstore.

As the second man energetically ejaculated up my butt, at the urging of some
voice in the steamroom that again said he was "worried" about time, other
man's erection quickly took his place at the entry to pint-sized,
cum-dripping hole.

Some might think that being screwed by man after man  -- or pulling a train
- is more demanding or more difficult on a tyke than merely getting
sodomized by one man. And for some, that may be true.

But although they all sort of hurt because of our size differentials, as a
kid, I found it easier in many ways when a number of men took their turns in
rapid succession. Perhaps it's that my butt became accustomed to the
constant penetration when a number of men would fuck men and the fact that
I'd get into some rhythm of breathing when lying forward, knowing, my
butthole would be used for an extended period of time by a number of
ejaculators.

Or perhaps it was "easier" on me because when men are gangfucking you, even
as a kid, they feel less responsibility in making it your "most fabulous
encounter ever". After all, they see another six or ten men standing there
waiting to unload. So they "get on with it"  - giving the others a chance to
also get in their nasty fun by getting their rocks off inside a kid.
Although as a group, they may be showing off who is giving the kid the
biggest dick or load of daddymilk, none bears the weight of taking sole
responsibility for it convincing the kid that men are the best sex partners.

It was more frequently when alone with just one man that anal sodomy would
be harder "work". I think it was because he'd feel more pressure to show a
little kid how great fucking could be...or how great a man was at fucking.
Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that when alone, other than
when in a men's room or other public space, the man usually felt far less
pressured by "time" and would go on too long (in my opinion). Even as a
little kid laying face down on the bedspread in a stranger's motel room, I
knew exactly why hookers kept a clock nearby.

I was born a whore. I always knew that from the earliest age. So it didn't
take a lot convincing to get me to suck on men's penises. I loved doing
that. Sucking on men, their erections lodged in my throat as they
ejaculated, was, quite honestly, my very favorite thing to do as a little
kid.

Sure, I enjoyed coloring and riding horses and building sandcastles at the
beach. But sucking on men's penises and swallowing their cum was, however
naughty, my 'raison d'etat'. And it didn't merely end with my appetite for
licking and sucking at the most beautiful thing in the word, that "thingy"
between men's legs, it was the fact I preferred - no, demanded - that I suck
on as many different men as I could.

Even at age seven, although I loved sucking on any man who would open his
trousers, my libido was already formed to prefer the company of many
strangers. Why exactly that is, I don't quite know. Perhaps it was indeed a
"sexual possession" which happened to me by age three or four. Perhaps some
kids are just "born" to be slutty cum whores. Perhaps I'd been raised on
numerous adult penises even before my earliest recollections.

I was cognizant of my desire, even when in the first grade, that I lusted
not only for adult penises, but a lot of them - all of them, in fact. It may
sound unbelievable that such a little kid would salivate at the sight of
most any man's crotch in dress slacks. But as that little kid, I can attest
to the fact that men's cocks and semen were my main focus in life.

It's solely testament to my I.Q. that I even learned to read, quite frankly.
In another family, or another brain, I think I may have been one of those
illiterate four-year-old street urchins, with a face streaked with grime and
dried semen, giving out blowjobs to men as they passed by my alleyway. But I
was destined for something else it seemed -- to be that boy slut who could
perhaps communicate certain things about men and boys that a scruffy cumdump
in the gutter could not..

And I know I had my parents to thank for that. My mother gave me much in the
way of skills to navigate well in the world. And my father, even though I
wasn't aware at the time, was teaching me to be as big a cocksucker and
cumdump as I could be...and to enjoy it. My dad was the guy who was guiding
my young life to the understanding that being a cumpig kid did not
necessarily need to conflict with other parts of my young life - or in the
future as an adult. Perhaps he was merely training me to do what so many
other males do so well.

And that is, the ability to "compartmentalize".

When I was seven and eight, I could be the center of a blowjob gangbang in a
room at the Holiday Inn on Lake Shore Drive (the one with the skyline
restaurant that, like a gigantic lazy susan, turned 360-degrees), and yet,
the very next morning be at my desk, bright and earlier, all groomed and in
uniform, ready to learn how to add by coloring in apples and oranges.

And that ability continued throughout my life. In the third grade, I could
literally get fucked by a lecherous stranger in the alley behind Dominicks
and right afterwards continue on my way to Webelos.

Or I could suck off ten guys in a restroom in Lincoln Park and then go home
to concentrate on fifth-grade homework. And the reason I was able to do that
was not merely due to "training" but because I loved the sex with all those
strange older boys and men.

I recall going to the Planetarium alone one day after school when I was
nine-years-old. This is before the reconfiguration of "museum plaza", when
one still had that long, isolated and beautiful walk to where the domed
museum sat at the end of a fingered point on the Lake.

I was walking along and two rather handsome guys, perhaps in their
mid-twenties, were smoking as they stood at an open car door. The car was
parallel-parked along the curb, one of numerous other parked vehicles. No
one was within eyeshot as I approached.

I got closer, perhaps three car lengths away, I could see that both men were
not merely standing at the open car door but were unzipped and erect. Some
other person was sitting in the driver's seat.

At first, one of the two guys, upon seeing me, jumped a bit. But almost as
quickly, his "friend" knocked him lightly in the shoulder as though to tell
him to stay put. It was he who must have seen my curiosity rather than any
fear or disgust in my wide-eyed gaze.

I slowed my pace and could see just barely through the windshield, a man,
maybe in his fifties, rather portly, sitting behind the wheel slowly
stroking the erection of one of the men.

I stopped completely and looked up and down the infinitely long sidewalk. No
one was around. Then I stared again, more openly this time, at the vehicular
sexual tableau before me.  The one guy who sensed I was maybe interested,
smiled. He was really very handsome as I recall. He sported a heavy five
o'clock shadow and an almost matinee idol "...if we were in a swarthier
country" sort of face. He quickly and insistently waved me over to their
side of the car, the side with the open door. He waved at me just like any
traffic cop might, with choppy short moves, great authority and purpose -
and so I complied.

I stepped off the sidewalk and saw the portly man begin to suck on the other
of the two men. He evidentially had stopped the first moment they saw me
approach. But he now resumed his sucked as if performing for me -- showing
me what men "do" with one another when ladies aren't around or some such
thing. Of course, he, nor the two younger men he serviced could not have
known that I had long been aware of cocksucking.

The two guys, who could have been either Chicago meter cops or
Yugoslavian-born busboys, grinned a bit as though they were getting their
little brother into something nasty with a pervert behind the wheel of a
1965 Olds. One stepped away as to let me better see what the man was doing
to the other. I watched the fat man suck and thought I could do better. I
mean, he was alright, and I knew guys liked bjs - even bad ones sometimes.
But his technique, in my opinion, wasn't quite "hungry" enough in my
childish estimation. By that age, I had sucked off so many men, I think I
could have fairly judged any fellatio competition held in the Castro.

I looked upon the scene as the fat man stroked the guy's scrotum. He stared
at me the whole time he sucked, as if loving the fact he was doing something
so lewd in front of a little kid. You could just tell - the way he had a
slight smirk as he nursed on the big, hairy erection.

The handsomer guy was standing watch, his head turning all around like some
owl on speed. He, again, then waved me to come closer...closer. His jeans
were unbuttoned and his cock stuck out like a fat, uncircumsized hotdog. He
waved me to come next to him and without saying anything, he insistently
pointed to his throbbing erection, as if to say, "Look...LOOK at it, kid!"

I did more than that. I think I may have even surprised him as I wrapped a
small fist around his shaft. Immediately he turned his body toward me, one
of his hands on the roof of the boat-sized car as to keep his balance. He
just stared with this look of disbelief as I leaned forward and started to
suck his penis. He then looked all around, continually, as to check for
anyone approaching. I sucked and within only three or four minutes he
flooded my mouth with salty, watery semen. I recall thinking it was as
watery as the lake whose choppy waves pounded all around us. I think I then
surprised him again as I swallowed his copious load of semen. I loved semen
although no man could have expected that from a little kid.

I then looked up and down the sidewalks again. I didn't want to get caught
either. When I looked back, the guy's "friend" had pulled his erection out
of the portly man's mouth and turned toward me. That's when the first words
were spoken. The fat man with a happy smile, said, "Suck it. Suck this one,
too, if you want it, boy."

I came closer to where the other guy stood inside the open door. He also was
unshaven and looked like a hard working guy. Not as quite as handsome as the
other, he was a good six inches taller than his friend and pointed a cock
that was about three inches bigger toward my face. And he was nearly shaking
with the combination of his fear and lustful need to perv his cock on kid
lips.

As I was in the doorway of the vehicle now, this hairy guy's big cock in my
mouth, the obese old man took the opportunity to reach and squeeze my crotch
as I sucked.  Like a pro, the rotund man deftly unzipped my uniform pants,
reached a fat hand into my fly and was soon molesting me. His nimble fingers
pulled at my underpants, got to my young erection and pulled it out of my
pants. As I sucked the hirsute hunk, the fat man huffed a bit as he turned
in his seat and leaned to swallow my cock into his mouth.

"Somebody coming!", the other, handsomer guy, all buttoned up already and
playing lookout, warned. Immediately I stopped sucking and the fat man did
too. I stepped away from the door of the car and, sadly, watched as the hung
guy shot his huge load of cum all over the pavement. One huge squirting
volley of semen after the other - maybe eight power blasts of very white,
thick semen.

I recall being so torn. I feared getting caught yet cursed whomever it was
approaching. Damn, people ...its just a freaking Planetarium...return to
your homes!

Without even looking back (I knew the story of Lot's wife, after all), I
just continued on my way to the museum. But I kept thinking of that huge
load of semen the guy could have shot into me, fed me, had we not been so
rudely "interrupted".

I went into the Planetarium where found I had arrived just as one of the
regular sky shows was about to begin. I was alone but always preferred being
alone; I learned more that way.

When I left, it was late afternoon and the sunlight was beautiful as it
cascaded through the line of trees, which stood like guards along the long
promenade. As I passed numerous parked cars I thought I'd look for the exact
spot where I had blown the strangers. In fact, I went into the paved street
and looked for "evidence". And sure enough, perhaps because it had been cold
outside - or perhaps because he'd shot so much of it - sitting on the
surface, still like streaking globs of very thick pearlescent spit, was the
one guy's blown semen. I stood there as if I were visiting the tomb of the
unknown soldier or something. I wanted to salute all those lost spermies. I
was that much of a cumpig at age nine.

Since I also saw on the pavement, a wad of dirty chewing gum, stains of
motor oil and fallen leaves with bird droppings on them, I didn't bend down
to scoop up the delicious babybatter. At that moment, I became an advocate
of the "Don't Litter" campaign.

When I stepped back up the curb, I was startled to hear a man's voice
calling for someone. I looked around and saw no one - no one at all on the
sidewalks. I walked some more and again heard the voice - this time shouting
a bit more insistently. I looked around again and saw no one yet wondered
who then was calling for someone.

I continued only another few steps when a beat up car pulled along side of
me. I looked over and saw it was the two hunky guys I had sucked on my way
into the Planetarium. Apparently, they must have waited in their car until I
had exited. And they knew they'd come across me again since there was but
one, isolated ingress to the museum park.

Their side window was down as they very slowly paralleled me, pacing their
car to my stroll.

"Hey, kid", one of them said. It was the handsomer of the two I had sucked
-- the one whose semen I got to eat.  He was driving and was slightly
shouting a bit over his buddy in the nearer passenger seat. "Wanna get in?",
he shouted a he looked all around.

I shook my head. Although I'd suck off any man who asked, I never got into a
stranger's vehicle. At nine, I was a slut, not stupid.

"Come on", he again urged me. "Come on, we just want to talk to you."

He spoke clearly but had a definite accent of some sort. I looked up and
down the sidewalks and as I saw no one, I stopped again and just smiled.
"No, I don't think so", I said nicely.

"Aw, come on", the guy in the passenger said. "You already sucked us...we
know what you're about."

I smiled and said, "No, I can't. I have to get home."

"We'll drive you", the driver said jumping at what seemed an opportunity to
get me into their car. "We'll drive you home, no problem."

I laughed, knowing what these guys wanted. And although I wanted their
semen, I wasn't about to get into the car.

The driver then knocked his buddy's arm as if to get him to do something.
"Here...wait...wait...". he said as he waited for his friend to dig through
his jacket.

For a moment I feared he might be reaching for a gun. I looked up and down
the sidewalks and still no one was around. I cursed to myself as I thought,
"Sure, people come along when a hung man is about to squirt his huge load of
semen into my mouth...but never when you're about to be kidnapped and
murdered."

But my fears were unnecessary as the hung guy in the passenger seat waved a
five-dollar bill at me.

"Come on", said the driver, as though he was positive this would work.
"We'll give you five dollars to do it again with the two of us."

I was sort of tempted although the shoes on my third-grader's feet coat ten
times as much as these men were offering to ejaculated into me. It wasn't
the money I found alluring - just the fact these men would make such a lewd
offer. I thought they were sort of sweet, two adult men, obviously horny,
thinking they could buy a cocksucking little kid for the price of some
school supplies.


To be continued...
m_g_h_j@hotmail.com
