---
title: 'Go, Wildcats, Go!'
---

### Go, Wildcats, Go!

Date: Mon, 09 Feb 2004 14:12:59 -0600
From: gloryhole JUNKIE <gloryhole_junkie@hotmail.com>
Subject: "Go, Wildcats, Go!" Part One

"Go, Wildcats, Go!"
By: Mr.gloryholeJUNKIE
gloryhole_junkie@hotmail.com


DISCLAIMER

Read what follows only if you are in a location which permits
homosexually-oriented porn to be used in conjunction with masturbation. If
you are not in such a locale, the author strongly suggest you slowly move
away from your computer (no sudden moves...'cept outta town), begin to pack
your belongings and then get your ass out of Backwardsville!

Read the following only if you are of an age where you are cognitively
capable of locating this Internet tale on your own; can pop a woody hoping
the story will be good; are proven fully adept at opening your own pants;
and able to pump the meaty udder between your legs to a milky conclusion.
All others should simply move on to www.qvc.com and consider "Today's
Special Value".

Read for reading's sake...but milk your dick for the sake of needy boners
everywhere.

When ejaculating, aim your penis away from eyes (follow label instructions
on nearest bottle of champagne).

Take the following I.Q. test:

Q.) Actually sucking off a bunch of thirteen year boys when you're a
fifty-three year old man is the same thing as reading an Internet jerk off
tale about a fifty-three year old man sucking off a bunch of thirteen year
old boys.

A.) If you answered "NO", congratulations! You have the intelligence of a
Mr.gloryholeJUNKIE reader.

Answer "YES"?! Something happened to you in utero. Did your mother smoke,
drink and turn a lot of tricks during pregnancy? Cuz, I'm tellin' ya -- some
dude or another's boner pressed against your skull while you were still in
the womb, fella.

Without expressed prior consent from the author, please don't re-print,
re-publish, plagiarize, re-edit or read "Go, Wildcats, Go!" over a
loudspeaker at your son's next junior varsity soccer game (although with
written permission, the author thinks that would be most incestuously sexy,
of course)


PREFACE

Some guys get it...while others don't. Literally and figuratively, that's
the Truth about sex... and about Life.
There are Life questions we all ask ourselves. What is Time? Is there a God?
Why are there so many jerks on our nation's highways? Why's the milk smell
funny?

And then there are those even more vital questions that only guys ask
themselves. All those male ponderings which no woman quite understands; the
thoughts that few men can even get themselves to mutter aloud oftentimes!

But if they're fortunate, and they can bring themselves to open up, they get
to discuss them among other guys.  Yup, its up to we fellas to help one
another out by addressing the "guy questions" which we men can mull over
with only another person packing meat in his slacks.

Hell, think about it, we're nowhere in Life as men if a guy can't ask his
cab driver, "Hey Mac, where can a fella with a nine-incher hose a load of
cum down a throat in this town?"

(Golly, wouldn't you want to be a cabby if all your fares could open up like
that)?

Or if a groom can't ask his Best Man, "Damnit, Tony...can you go see if I
left my used rubber on the back seat of the limo? Ginny will kill me if she
finds it."

Or what is the State of Male if a Marine can't simply ask his fellow Marine
for a buddy-system blowjob? Our military would be lost!

Or if a frat bro can't ask a fellow frat bro at Tau Kappa Epsilon, "Wanna
come along? She's fifty bucks whether thirty or thirty-one of us screw
her..."

And if a newly divorced dad can't ask his son, "Think my bulge is too
obvious in this swimsuit, Timmy? Your mother always said your old man swung
too much meat."  Well, if a dad can't open up that way, then what's the
point in having an heir?

Or if, while stripped down in the locker room, a newlywed husband can't ask
his best friend and racquetball partner, "You think my dick's too thick? My
wife says its too thick."

Or if a lad can't ask his own dad, "When's mine gunna be as huge as yours,
daddy? And when will it make milk like yours does?" Then what's the idea of
having a dad?

If we can't ask and answer those sorts of things between and among ourselves
as guys, well, then we fellas aint doing much for our fellow
buddies-in-testosterone. Guys should be able to ask another guy ANYTHING.

There are a million and one things going through most any and every guy's
mind. Sure, the wife or mom or girlfriend may think that guys ain't
listening to them (and they'd be right). But they'd be wrong to think their
guys aren't thinking about anything as they zone out in front of the
television set or while at her folk's thirtieth wedding anniversary party.
He may have tuned out the little woman but he's plugged into other stuff --
guy-stuff -- as he stares lockjawed out into space while sitting in the
Petites Department waiting for her to try on separates.

A slew of "guy questions" goes through a man's or boy's head at any second
of any given day. Mostly stuff they never get to share sadly. Stuff like:

Can a man really swallow fifty different loads of cum in just two hours at a
busy rest area like I read about on the Internet?

Why does every guy who drives by a XXX bookstore want to go in?

How come a dude's milking throat feels so much better than that of my
beautiful wife, whom I love and adore?

How come I like beating off to gangbang videos almost as much as I enjoy
fucking my girlfriend?

Why do I like to look at myself in the mirror as I beat off and blow seed
...and yet continue to claim I can't "get into" the male body sexually?

How come I love to feed my sperm to unknown cumpigs in adult theaters and
yet understand its preciousness each time I have to beat off at the
fertility clinic as the wife and I attempt invitro?

Can cub scouts really take a man's nine-inch cock in their little rectums?
And if so, how come my wife tells me I'm too big?

Okay, if guys aren't all getting homo blowjobs on their lunch hour, then why
do I have to wait for a gloryhole booth to become available - 'been here
thirty minutes and there are still six guys needing a BJ in line ahead of
me.

Why is it that I want to jerk off to my dad's special edition of "Hustler:
Booby Mamas with Pierced Twats" and yet I equally want to call my buddies,
Ronny and Jason, over so we can circle jerk onto the pics?

Why does a guy spend hours and big bucks trying to get a female date to blow
him by the end of the night when that same guy can easily head to any XXX,
stand in the back, have a few hands unzip his slacks and get head from
twenty different men that night for less than the price of just one frozen
Cosmopolitan?

Does my physician ever beat off thinking about my physique and cock the
second I get dressed and leave the exam room?

If I worked there, I know I'd beat off into someone's chicken tenders
dipping sauce at the local McDonalds...so why shouldn't that lanky kid in
the paper hat whose serving me mine have done the same? And if I taste the
kid's semen in my special sauce, can I really blame him? After all, he's
just a high schooler making minimum wage - he's got to get his job perks
somewhere.

How come young dudes don't want guys their dads' age going with them to a
concert ...but will have hot sex with them on a trail in the local suck
woods?

How come I may like pussy but it's always the dude's money shot in a movie
that makes me and all my frat buddies lose our loads?

Why is it that all that anonymous, mixed semen puddled on floors or shot
onto walls at adult bookstore video booths rarely bothers any of the men who
patronize the place and yet a sticky, spilt milkshake on the ground at the
circus bugs or grosses out most guys?

How many spyholes are drilled into the walls and ceiling at a big university
men's sports center shower room?

Am I really laying in dozens of wads of dried jizz when I sprawl out on the
bedspread at any Motel 6? And if so, how many men suck and lick the
bedspread while staying there?

Which pair of underwear makes my dick look good in this suit?

Why am I also so tempted to freeball in my sweatpants when I'm headed out to
my kid's Little League game?

Why is it that whenever I see one of those pump containers of pearly white
handsoap, I'm drawn to screw off the top and shoot a wad of cum into it?

Exactly who invented seventh grade "father-son wrestling night" and in what
state is he doing time?

Why does it seem that whenever my mom, wife, daughters or girlfriend is
along, there's a mini M2M orgy going on in the men's room at the
mall/campus/park? And yet the place is dead whenever I'm alone?

Did the Internet destroy Southern Decadence?

How come most men get a kick out of the fact that five brothers ranging in
age from four to seventeen all share the same bedroom?

Why did I hate wearing my wedding ring...until I read on the Internet that
cockhungry guys go wild for a man with a gold band? And what's that say
about my marriage?

How many other people at this wedding are looking at the groom's crotch and
wondering how big his dick is?

Did Tommy Lee's dad ever check out his son's equipment on the 'net? And do
people now look at his dad differently - wondering if he's just as well
hung?

How many eleven-year-old boys have seen my forty-something cock shoot its
load on web cam?

Why's it acceptable to experiment sexually with other guys while in college
and yet if you don't attend college, you're simply "... that
nineteen-year-old in the bottling department who sucks dicks"?

How many men online think they're chatting about best gloryhole locations
with another man their own age - not realizing I'm just a horny
thirteen-year-old?

If I'm watching a straight video while ejaculating down the throat of
another male through a gloryhole at the video arcade...what does that make
me? Bi- or just a stud squirting off a round of breederseed into a hungry
queer? And why do I care since nobody ever asks?

Why does Regis Philbin always seem far more excited about his hunky male
guests than at any time talking about Joy, his wife?

Do homophobe sports fans realize that if they're in an arena that seats
50,000 guys, they've surrounded themselves with approximately 2500 to 5000
guys all into cock?

What's taking the Aussie Speedo lifeguard look just decades and decades to
reach the shores of the United States? Other than flying cars, aren't we
suppose to have everything here by now?

How come talk shows will have foul-mouthed ten year old girls on discussing
their having sucked off twenty men in the trailerpark where they live when
we all know that more ten year old boys are actually doing the same in their
local malls and park men's rooms? And why is it "shocking" when such a
little girl admits to being mounted by fifty "lovers" all over the age of
forty but a boy's same tale isn't even fit to air (they're the same men
screwing them after all)?

Why do men, especially married ones, call themselves straight, when
realistically, many of them have far more homosexual than heterosexual
contacts every year?

How come when we see a well hung kid in the gym showers, we always look at
his dad's crotch, too (and vice versa)?

If there are a thousand men in any given city at any one time having secret
homo sex in XXXs or woods, are there also a thousand wives who are truly
that clueless out there? And if so, how can we entrust those soccer moms
with the keys to the mini van?

Who watches college or high school wrestling, diving, gymnastics, swimming
or certain track & field events for the sportsmanship of it? We're there for
the meat, aren't we?!

When did better homo sex show up in the 'burbs than in most any big city gay
sex club?

How come some chicks can make twenty bucks and more to perform fellatio on a
sole strange man, yet guys in a XXX can't charge a red cent for blowing
seventy-five men in a row...and yet nobody including the cocksucker even
cares? Hell, he'd have made $1500!!!!!!

Why are there often numerous men in their late sixties on their knees
sucking off young men all day long at XXXs yet rarely are such men of that
age clamoring to get between the legs of young girls in order to munch out
their cunts? Surely, just because a sixty-eight year old retiree can't
easily score sorority pussy doesn't make him instead simply hit his knees
begging for big, hard frat boners. Does it?

Why is it that although few guys ever go to one -- and instead more commonly
opt to screw the chops of some other guy at the XXX or woods when they get
that itch -- there's still so much talk out there about female hookers?

Did men in the 1950s masturbate to televised wrestling, too?

How come we guys obsess on dick size when we all know a cocksucking cumpig
sucks off virtually every and any dick poking at his lips?

Before Kleenex, where did the millions of sons and dads and uncles and
strangers all shoot their wads of creamy batter as they beat off? Surely,
mom wasn't rinsing out a dozen linen cumrags with the wash each week!

Do mall janitors really polish those gloryholes in the stalls? If not, then
why are they often so squeaky clean?

When are CD-ROM makers going to make the ultimate M2M gloryhole bookstore
arcade game/experience? Choose a vantagepoint - either feeder or eater --
and go from there.

Why do so many ugly fat chicks have two ex husbands, seven current
"boyfriends" and five kids from five different fathers?

Can a man get as much teenage dick to suck as he likes? Can kids in their
early teens really find a man who will blow them all? Do dads really look
the other way when they know some strange man is sucking off their boys and
gulping down their young teen sperm?

Its these last questions our story will try to address, guys.




"Go, Wildcats, Go!"
by: Mr.gloryholeJUNKIE
gloryhole_junkie@hotmail.com





The downstate town of Bulbullocks, Illinois was nothing much more than a
collection of small, rural dairy farms. Most families were life-long dairy
people who worked hard and in conjunction with one another to bring enough
milk to sale each month.

Most everyone knew everyone else in town, although unlike in the movies,
that didn't mean they were always into one another's business. In fact, in
Bulbullocks, being a good neighbor for generations required that, generally,
one kept one's nose out of other peoples business. Like the saying goes:
"Good fences build good neighbors".

In the heart of town, something just a bit more than a single intersection,
there was a hardware store and a wooden Presbyterian church with a steeple,
although the people of Bulbullocks were most proud of their newly built
Subway (not a metro station but, rather, the sandwich place) connected to
the local gas station.

The nearest supermarket was a good thirty-minute drive from most; the
closest mall was way over an hour away in Springfield.

As you'd suspect, there wasn't that much to do in Bulbullocks, especially
for the young people. The local high school, and now the Subway, provided
the only regular hang outs for the local youth. Most of those kids with
driver's licenses simply gathered their friends in one of their parents'
pick up trucks, drove around for a while, and then hung out and talked while
sharing Cokes and twelve-inch three-meat sandwiches on Parmesan Italian
bread.

Sure, some sex occurred among the young folk. Mostly the variety where older
boys showed how big a high school cock can get to awestruck third grade boys
while they beat off onto the kids' faces in the cornfield behind the school.
You know the sort, where a pack of seventeen year olds, with cigarettes,
open their jeans and let the little kids feel their hard erections till the
older boys show them what older boys penises can shoot.

And then there was Pammy Kay McPatrick, a buxom sixteen-year-old with a
taste for unprotected sex and Wal-Mart hair accessories. She was knocked up
twice in fact during her junior year at Bulbullocks High. The first was a
pregnancy courtesy of the best-built senior boy, Tommy Maine. Although his
sperm was certainly prime young bull seed, they were just too young to
commit to parenting. The fact he didn't even much like "the cow" also didn't
help her cause. And so, without much conversation, her parents drove her
into Springfield where the fetus was quickly aborted.

But when Pammy Kay wound up pregnant again, only four months later, and this
time rumor had it by either Mr. Ferguson, a local farmer and father of eight
-- or by any one of a number of the state highway workers at the rest area
ten miles down the road while she was there supposedly collecting littered
cans and bottles for cash -- her parents decided that "small town living"
was not in their busty daughter's best interest. They quickly moved to
Chicago where they felt their daughter could more acceptably get herself
knocked up by strangers every year, if that was her intent in life.

And yes, another hang out for some in Bulbullocks was indeed the interstate
rest area on the outskirts of town. It's the same story from here to there
when it comes to small towns and rural areas; those males looking for
something homosexual or simply for a blowjob on a hot and horny Wednesday
night, would make their way down the pike to the Abe Lincoln Rest Area.
That's where, rumor had it, salesmen and truckers would stop along their way
to St. Louis from Chicago. A quick piss, a Sunkist orange soda from the
vending machine...and a quickie nut-busting bj from a cocksucker in the
restroom.

Rumor in town also had it that Mr. Charlie Wright, a tall dairy farmer in
his early fifties with a dead wife and two grown daughters, would spend his
evenings, in a stall, sucking the dick of every interstate driver who came
into the Abe Lincoln restroom. Well, that's how rumor had it, anyway. Funny
how one only heard those rumors circulating among the menfolk of
Bulbullocks...yet never among its womenfolk.

And it was in Bulbullocks that the Wildcats had won yet another regional
soccer championship. It wasn't so much that the Wildcats were brilliant
athletes, or even all that good. Their wins said more about their
sports-weak region than the middle school team's athleticism, if truth be
told.

But, once again, for the ninth year in a row, the General McArthur Junior
High Wildcats had won their region and were the toast of Bulbullocks. They
had a parade along Route 4, which ran through the middle of their small
town. The volunteer fire truck came out for the occasion, as did the band
from the grade school. Sure it was small and hayseed but moms were happy and
dads videotaped every second of the festivities.

As a reward for being such sports, although they ultimately lost the state
championship (placing dead last), the town mothers arranged to send the team
and their coach to a Soccer Camp out in Fresno, California once school was
out for the summer.

Yup, clear cross-country. But the soccer moms thought it was a great idea
after one of them saw the camp mentioned on both "The View" and on "Oprah".
It was a ten-day camp and workshop for kids just their sons' age.

As the brochure stated: "An intensive fourteen-day summer soccer experience
for boys between the ages of eleven and thirteen. Whether enrolled as an
individual or a team, the boys will learn inside tricks of soccer pros as
they frolic beneath the open skies of Fresno. When not honing their soccer
skills, the boys will enjoy swimming, trampoline and campfire meals. Cabin
bunkhouses and showers available. Coaches and male chaperones only are also
invited. Sorry moms!"

To rural dairy folk in downstate Illinois, it sounded like a California
dream. And the best part was that it was surprisingly affordable -- if the
committee of moms could figure a way around the cost of airline tickets for
all the boys and three adult chaperones, that is.

Although they could have probably coughed up the money for tickets, since
milking was generally profitable, most parents and even the team's coach,
Mr. Bob Patton, weren't all that convinced it was important enough a summer
trip to pay their own airfare.

So, quickly, the soccer mom committee, determined to send their semi-winning
team of little soccer star wannabes to Fresno, came up with another plan.
For only a fraction of the cost, they'd get old Mrs. Emma Jenkins who ran
the local U-Haul and school bus service, to rent them a school bus cheap in
order to take the boys out to California.

So, the committee arranged to charter one of your typical yellow school
busses, most probably the same one that carried the boys to school during
the semester. Then, suddenly most parents, seeing a four-hundred-dollar
decrease in expenses, agreed the trip would be worthwhile for their boys
after all.

The chartered bus would be driven by Mr. Al Perkins, the same man who drove
the kids to General McArthur Junior High morning after morning. But he'd be
doing this job for a little extra cash and a free vacation in California. It
was that agreed that since he knew all the boys, the soccer mom committee
would reserve and pay for a room for him at the soccer camp as well. But as
he had a niece in the Fresno area, he couldn't promise to double as an
official chaperone.

Also along for the trip were one of the boys dads, Mr. Dan Roscoe and, of
course, the team's coach, Mr. Bob Patton. And since it proved cheaper to
charter the bus and book cabins at the camp with a larger number of boys,
the invitation to attend was extended to any boy in the seventh and eighth
grades. Therefore, besides the team, another eight students quickly jumped
at the chance to also go along. That made the number of participants leap to
nineteen of the school's mostly twelve and thirteen-year-old boys - a tally
that required yet another chaperone to officially sign on.

And that's where things got tricky. The soccer mom committee, as well as old
Mrs. Jenkins, required there be one chaperone for every six boys. They'd
overlook the one additional child, being it was a small town. But there was
no way they could go with just the two officially designated chaperones.

Word went out that one more chaperone was needed. And yet none of the dads
bit. It was a slower milking season than usual and so most of the men had to
work any odd job here and there during the early summer which left none with
the luxury of a Fresno vacation. And besides, going would mean having to
cough up more cash for one.

That's when Mr. Charlie Wright stepped forward. He'd heard the final plea
for a male chaperone from one of the soccer moms who made an impassioned
plea after church on Sunday. The soccer mom committee and the middle school
boys already signed on were getting nervous that the whole trip may have to
be cancelled if they couldn't get another man to go along. In fact, some of
the moms juggled the budget a bit in an effort to give whichever man might
step forward, fifty whole dollars in McCa$h coupons to be used at any
participating McDonalds.

It wasn't for the McCa$h though that Mr. Wright wandered up to the table
that the soccer mom committee had set up in the vestibule of the small
church. It wasn't even for a cheap trip to the Golden State since he'd been
there once before when he had to sell a man some bull semen.

Instead, it was because he knew he may just have walked right into the
perfect scenario for a cocksucker such as himself. Although the widower
never had any boys of his very own, as he liked to say, "I just had boys of
your very own..."

So when he wandered up to the table and offered to be the third chaperone,
the soccer moms were obviously delighted. Surely, they'd not have stood up
and kissed his cheeks as they did while stuffing the McWallet of McCa$h into
his poplin shirt pocket had they ever caught wind of the rumors that
circulated about this man -- proving once again, that word of his
indiscriminate toilet cocksucking only seemed to circulate among the town's
teenaged boys and men.

As the soccer moms signed him up, three of the dads hovered in a huddle near
the church doors looking and whispering amongst themselves. When Mr. Wright
left after having written a check and getting the info for the fourteen-day
camp, the three dads walked up to the table and asked what had been going
on.

"It's wonderful news", one pretty but porky soccer mom spouted as she
stuffed the check into her purse. "We found a third chaperone and the boys
will be going to Fresno!"

The three men stood there -- obviously none with the balls to say anything
to the women, especially in the vestibule to the house of God. Besides,
those were just rumors 'bout Charlie. Just nasty rumors which surely have no
place in the hearts of good Christians. The mere fact that word was Charlie
Wright blew any piece of meat hanging out of a pair of slacks or bib
over-alls was just rumor after all. And heck, for all the three men knew,
that rumor might even be nothing but vicious lies.

Well, make that two of the three men. One of the dads knew for fact it was
more than the rumor mill, since he'd seen Charlie in that rest area toilet
on numerous occasions blowing strangers all night long. But there was no way
for a man to assert he knew Charlie was out there blowing drivers dicks
without admitting he himself was one of the men standing unzipped before
Charlie's sperm-soaked lips.

So nothing was said of Charlie Wright being the third chaperone, although
most every male in town who heard he'd be going along either chuckled or
grew red with the news.

That following Wednesday morning, bright and early since farm folk are up
anyway, the families gathered outside General McArthur Junior High to see
their team and boys off to soccer camp. It would be a three-day drive to
Fresno but Coach Patton, along with the soccer mom committee had created a
"perfect" cross-country drive plan. Rooms were pre-arranged at Holiday Inns
and the driver was to stop every two hours for a bathroom break along the
way.

As the nineteen boys kissed goodbye their parents, siblings, grandparents,
aunts, uncles, cousins...and everybody else who showed up for their
momentous departure, Charlie Wright stood back a bit, watching the bevy of
young boys he'd soon be spending twenty entire days with.

Suddenly his eldest daughter, Bev and her two towheaded toddler twin boys
came up behind him. As she kissed him goodbye, the bleached blonde she said
her husband Mac was sleeping in but that she and the boys wanted to wish him
a safe trip.

"Send a postcard from California", she said.

"I'll send one to each of my best little boys, too", he replied as he
squatted and gave the two toddlers an affectionate squeeze of their little
buttcheeks.

"Give gramps a big old kiss now boys", his daughter said to her sons. And
the two boys obediently gave simultaneous pecks to either of their grandpa's
cheeks.

He stood up again and said he'd be back in three weeks or there about and to
give his middle daughter and her husband a call up in Des Plaines.

Suddenly two other women came up to his daughter and walked off with her as
they began to talk about an upcoming bake sale committee preliminary meeting
for the upcoming annual Father's Day picnic at Gazebo Park. Charlie Wright
waved at his two little grandsons as they blew him kisses.

The sun was risen and it was time to board the bus. Waving and holding a
banner were the high school aged sisters of many of the boys. They'd painted
the sign while practicing cheers - never mind the fact that Fall try-outs
wouldn't be for another three months.

Bus driver Perkins was inside the running bus already, helping Mr. Dan
Roscoe, one of the seventh grader's dads as he piled all the kids' bags in a
most strategic way among the seats of the bus. A few seats piled with bags
and other assorted provisions would separate each of three sections. This
into-thirds separation created by piles of assorted backpacks and duffel
bags filling two or three rows between them was to keep the boys in line
during the long drive. One chaperone could sit in the back monitoring a
third of the kids; another would chaperone in the center; and the third
chaperone would be in charge of the boys seated in the front of the bus. The
boys would then be distributed and separated in rotating shifts of six so
they all had a turn in each sector. It simply kept any potential goofing
off, which could get out of control, from occurring while the bus was in
motion.

Once the bags were loaded, Coach Patton called out to and waved over Mr.
Wright. "Chuck...you want to get on first, you'll be chaperoning in the back
this trip."

It was apparent that Coach Patton had some sense of the rumors which swirled
around his fellow dairy farmer. Since he couldn't ever say anything aloud,
it was perhaps his nod to shoving it to the rest area cocksucker that he
should sit in the bumpy back of the bus the entire trip to Fresno. Although
the boys would rotate during the trip, Coach Patton, who had the front
sector had decided that the chaperones would not.

Mr. Wright climbed aboard and exchanged an uncomfortable glance with bus
driver Perkins. Had the driver heard the rumors about the third chaperone as
well? Or had Perkins perhaps popped into that interstate rest area one night
when he was horny and the missus was at her sister's in Memphis? Whatever
fueled that loaded glance was something only Perkins and Wright seemed to
know.

Then six boys' names were called. From where he sat in the very back of the
bus, Mr. Wright could see the lads bound aboard full of volume and energy.
"Hey!", said a couple of the middle school youngsters to the middle-aged
man. "Don't we know you?"

Mr. Wright immediately knew that none of these healthy little lads had been
in a stall with him out at the rest stop. A little too young for that -
after all, they couldn't have peddled their bikes that far. No, these kids
weren't yet as fortunate as their older brothers who had access to a family
car or pick up truck - the one they'd aimed toward the rest area men's room
the minute they got their driver's permits. He'd sucked down a lot of
learner's permit sperm out of the boys from the local high school -- but
never from these new cummers who flocked around him now in the back of the
bus.

So he knew these soccer kids must have seen him either at church or perhaps
at the local hardware store where he, like most of the men in town bought
their widgets and power tools.

"You go to our church", one of the boys said. "You sit across from us
sometimes there."

"I'm Mr. Wright", Mr. Wright said as he shook each of the boys hands. Six
boys surrounded him in the seat across the aisle to his right and in seats
directly in front of him. Beyond them, occupying seats ahead sat stacked
piles of bags and other soccer equipment - all making for a perfect
screening. Hell, from one sector, you couldn't see much of what was going on
in any other sector. His eyes scanned up and down each of the boys assigned
his sector for this first leg of the drive and knowing male anatomy inside
and out, he recognized that each was quite the little studlet. With the easy
excuse of reading the school logo "Gen. McArthur Junior High Wildcats", that
decorated the front of their sweatpants, Charlie Wright was actually openly
assessing each boy's bulging equipment. As he watched the handsome boys hop
from seat to seat - or more accurately, as he watched their surprising
prominent crotch bulges flaunting the fact these lil'jock were growing up
big and strong - Charlie Wright knew he'd enjoy chaperoning this soccer camp
trip.

To be continued...?

gloryhole_junkie@hotmail.com
