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River Road Bridge

Boys Being Boys

By David Zinke aka ZINKPublished 3 years ago 8 min read
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River Road Bridge

Boys being boys

His name was Bill. At least that’s what he said his name was. He said he was from Chicago. It was not unusual to hear someone say they were from Chicago, at least not in my small southwestern Wisconsin town. Heck, half the people who lived in Chicago had visited that town in the short time I had been alive. At least it seemed that way. My hometown was what some called a “tourist trap.” That he was from Chicago is not the most unique thing about Bill. Bill was a Black man. He was the first black man I ever talked to.

“What brings you down here under this here bridge at this time of day, boy?” asked Bill.

I told him this was the end of my paper route and I always came down here to listen to the waves backwash after the tour boats go by and to relax after delivering all forty-two newspapers. I told him it was my special place. I didn't tell him I came there to smoke cigarettes in hiding.

“That so?”

Sure.

“Hmm. I guess this is a pretty special place.”

At that moment Bill stood up and I could see that he was older than me and real skinny. His skin was the color of dark chocolate. He smiled and his teeth gleamed whiter than any teeth I ever saw. He stood and stretched his arms to the sky. I figured he was tall enough to be a Harlem Globetrotter. It was then I noticed the palms of his hands. His skin was much lighter there; sort of pinkish-white. He turned quickly and reached into a niche in the girders were I kept my stash of Montclairs.

“Well, looky here what I found-a-hiding in the rafters.”

I assured him there was a difference between girders and rafters.

“Oh. You must be a pretty smart young whitey boy.” He smiled again and took a cigarette out of the pack.

I wanted to tell him that the cigarettes belonged to me but I was more than a bit nervous about anyone knowing about my clandestine smoking. I watched him light the cigarette and inhale deeply. He held the smoke in his lungs for a long time and then exhaled through his nose. That was something I had yet to master. It always made me cough.

“You ever smoke a fag, boy?” His eyebrows raised high up on his face and his smile grew to Cheshire Cat proportions. I had heard the term fag used to refer to a cigarette, but I just shook my head no.

“You should try it, boy. Make a man out of you.” He offered me the pack. I took one and replaced the package where he had found it. He stuck his burning cigarette toward me to sponge a lite and since my Mom was a chain smoker, I knew to push his lighted smoke to my unlighted one and inhale. I didn’t hold the smoke for long and was more than a little relieved when I didn’t cough. I inhaled again as he watched me. He looked at me like pastor Schwimmer does when he thinks I’m hiding something.

“I think you have smoked a fag before. And you putting the pack back suggest the stash might be yourn. How old are you boy?”

I told him I was 15. I lied. I’d be 13 in the fall.

“Then you must be going through the change.”

Perhaps it was the look of total incomprehension on my face that prompted him to go on.

“THE change. Puberty. You grow pubic hair and a moustache and…you have any wet dreams yet? You mas-tah-bate, mastah?”

Turns out I did know something about puberty, having spent many past summers at Pine Lake Bible Camp with boys my age and some boys considerably older. It was there I learned that getting naked in front of girls was a big deal. But titillating as it may be, running naked past the girl’s cabins was also punishable by being sent home directly as was the fate of my ministers’ son, Jeremy. It was at Bible Camp I heard the dirtiest jokes and it was at Bible Camp I acquired a working knowledge of how to beat off. And though I had been practicing daily since, I had yet to actually ejaculate. The best I could muster was making my eyelids flutter, unable to continue touching myself for hours. It was delightful torture and suddenly I wanted, no, I needed to know what Bill knew about the subject. But I digress.

I didn’t answer him. I smiled and took another long pull on the fag. I looked at him and he stared back. When I asked him how old he was I felt a stirring between my legs and I had a flashing vision of Bill naked as a jay bird. He was still standing where he stretched and in one quick move had removed his pull over shirt. He watched me watch him stroking his chest and patting his washboard abs. He was skinnier than he seemed with clothes on.

“How old do you think I am?”

My mind raced back to the state fair and the barker on the midway who tried to guess your age and weight. He nailed both my age and my weight. I had no idea. I’d never seen a black man before, not so up close and personal anyway and when I said I thought he was 15 my voice cracked, and I sounded like a squealing pig. His laughter was loudly robust and sounded much older than 15. I’m sure it carried across the water. When he finally stopped laughing one of the river tour boats chugged by whipping up the waves I loved so much. He stomped his cigarette out and waved at the people on the tour boat. They waved back.

“Wave at the pretty peoples, boy. They’s my family out there. Leticia is wearing the yellow hat, Sasha is wearing the green one and that’s my Momma in Purple.”

I stood to wave with him but my shorts tented out in front of me. I was so embarrassed. I nearly burned myself with the cigarette trying to hide my youthful erection.

Bill laughed again and this time he stepped closer to me. A flash of internal heat revealed to me what sexual attraction was like. I yearned to touch his chocolate skin and explore his tall thin body. But I was embarrassed.

He reached out to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, my little man. Relax. Boys will be boys, right? Have you ever messed around with another guy?”

I shook my head; no.

“Do you want to mess around with me?”

For what seemed a lifetime, we stood facing each other; he was smiling and inviting; I was slack-jawed and nervous but eager. Our eyes were locked on each other. We breathed the same air. We exhaled the same tension. He touched my chest and I thought my heart would explode.

How long had I wanted this? How many times did a faceless entity embrace me in my dreams and caress me lovingly? Was this what I have been waiting for; a stranger from Chicago under the River Road Bridge?

“The reason I’m not on that boat with my family is because they are embarrassed by me. They think I am too flamboyant to be seen in public, at least if I’m seen in public with them. Flamboyant, hell, did you see them hats? I told them to take this damn vacation without me. I told them I’d be just fine all by myself in the windy city. Hell, it’s only a four-day weekend. But, no, they insisted I come along but stay out of sight. You see, little man, I am what people call a homosexual. Do you know what a homosexual is? Hmm. We are sometimes referred to as pansies, pouffes, fairies, fluffers, girly boys, and my personal favorite, “the damned.”

I did know something about homosexuals; how they are the brunt of cruel jokes. I knew how they were ridiculed and looked down upon. At that moment I had a flash of understanding. I knew in that moment what I had been unable to grasp. I was a homosexual. I was attracted to this man with every sinew of my being. I was in lust. He looked at me as if he expected me to side with his family. But I was more than a little excited to be standing so close and I wanted him to keep on touching me. I wanted to touch him.

We heard another tour boat approaching. Without consultation we both hurried as far back into the woods as we could from the shoreline so no one would see us. Bill unbuttoned my shirt and when his hand touched my bare skin it felt like electricity. I grabbed him and pulled him to me and we kissed.

I kissed him like I knew what I was doing. My lips pushed against his ample lips and suddenly his tongue was in my mouth and then his hand grabbed my tented shorts.

I wish I could continue this as a saga of unbridled passion. I wish I could weave the epic tale of love triumphing over hate and bigotry and stupidity. I wish this was the beginning of the great American Queer Novel. Perhaps this is chapter one? Perhaps.

I never saw Bill again after that day. I did grow to embrace my sexuality; and finally got to a point of feeling comfortable with being gay. I do know it felt right that day. It felt pure that day. It was memorable for a slew of reasons, but I’ll remember it mostly because it was the first time I ejaculated.

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About the Creator

David Zinke aka ZINK

I'm 72, a single gay man in Tucson AZ. I am an actor, director, and singer. I love writing fiction and dabble in Erotic Gay fiction too. I am Secretary of Old Pueblo Playwrights I also volunteer with Southern Arizona Animal food Bank.

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