[This is one of the few sections written by incarcerated men where I am including the writer's actual name. I am doing this at his request, as he hoped that my doing so might lead to his getting some more pen pals. The identifying information regarding any of the people he discusses has been altered. In a letter he said "Publishers do not want hand-written, un-proofread manuscripts. So instead, I share my life with a few pen-pals, through brief anecdotes. I call them my "Blue Pen Memories"." In his letters the anecdotes are made to stand out from the rest of his message by  his us of a pen with blue ink. Hence the name of his writings on this page. More Blue Pen Memories will be added as I receive them and am able to prepare them for the page. ]

No Parole For Love

I am 41 years old, and had been imprisoned for the past 8 1/2 years.  I am serving multiple life terms for the sexual abuse of boys.  For a long time, I felt self-hate about my feelings.  I bought into what society said about me -- that I am a monster and a pervert.  But I never meant to cause any harm.  I wonder how much harm would have been caused if  the social norms included sexuality between men and boys.  Probably none, as my "victims" were willing participants, I never felt I committed rape, despite the opinion of the district attorney.

I first noticed an attraction to boys in the third grade.  I had no idea what sex was at that age, but while all the boys in my class would hope to see a girl's panties up her skirt, I lived for the chance to get a glimpse of white cotton briefs.  Nothing got me more excited, but oddly I lived in fear of mine ever being seen.  Having to dress out for physical education in junior high was a really difficult time.

As I grew older, most boys discovered girls, and I never understood the attraction.  But as boys tried to look their best to impress them, I enjoyed those efforts myself.  At least I did it first.  In high school, as zits, facial hair and muscles appeared, I realized I was not "gay", as men held no interest for me, but I always felt some attraction for the smooth face and slender hips of a boy.  Naturally I could never admit to my feelings, so I pushed them deep inside of me, and lived a lie.  To hide from the truth, I got married at 18, had a child at 19, and filed bankruptcy at 23.  Life was difficult, to say the very least.  

As my son grew older he started having friends over, and life was wonderful.  I was "one of the gang" among his friends, and grew to love some of them very deeply.  I wanted to share my feelings, and to do so physically seemed natural.  Hugs and cuddles became back scratches and massages.  This led to the fondling of their penises and eventually oral sex.  In Nevada that carries a life sentence, so here I am.

Since I will never get out of prison, I see no reason to try to change. In some ways being in here allows me the freedom to be myself.  I do not know how much harm is caused from sexual contact with boys, but I am sure no harm can come from my having the fantasy.  I can now look at the beauty of boys without worry or fear.

Please do not think my only attraction to boys is to what is between their legs.  That is simply not the case.  My only sexual attraction is toward boys, but I would prefer a good conversation.  My happiest memory is floating in "the lazy river" at a water park, sharing an inner tube with a sixth-grade boy as he told me all about his favorite book, Where the Read Fern Grows.  It took the entire afternoon, and I was in heaven. I grew to love him deeper than I had ever felt love before.  When I was arrested in 2003, this boy who was then 12 never told anyone about us.  Sadly I was selfish, and began to groom other boys, and one of them told.

Now, in 2011, the one I first loved came forward.  As I understand it he came home from his Latter Today Saints mission and had an interview with his bishop.  He admitted to his bishop that he thought he was gay.  Being homosexual and a Mormon is not allowed.  When asked why he thought he was gay, he said it was because of how much he had enjoyed what he and I shared.  That naturally lead to questions and then new charges.  So I'm back in the court system once again.  It will not affect my parole date, as I will never get out as it is, but my heart breaks.  This boy is told he was the victim of rape, as opposed to the love I really felt for him.  I no more raped him than Marcus raped Franklin. [This allusion is to the book "Marcus and Me"]  Reading that book I could feel the benefit Franklin felt towards this relationship.  I'm not saying that every boy should have sex with men, but some should.  Some boys are seeking the attention.

 An Uneventful Day

I went to court on Monday the 26th of May for a sentence hearing.  It was a totally uneventful day.  The judge gave me life, with parole possible after a minimum of 20 years are up.  He ran it concurrent to the time I am already doing, except he did not give me credit for the time I already served.  In effect he added 104 months, or eight years eight months to my minimum time.  If Nevada ever decides to show compassion, I could get out of prison before my 62nd birthday. By that time I would have spent about 47% of my life in prison, and will have no savings, retirement, or marketable skills.  I hate to use the word “institutionalized” but I really do not want to leave here.  I'm fed, housed, and provided housing.  On the streets I will not have such basic things.

The one hard part of going to court was reading the victim's account of the crime in the prosecutor's report.  It was not at all what I expected.  Before I tell you what he said, I'd like to give my version of the events.

I first met Sam at church.  He was a classmate of my son in the fourth grade, but not really a friend.  Still, being a fellow congregation member, I wanted the two of them to get to know one another.  My son was having a large sleepover party to watch a USC fight on pay-per-view, and he invited Sam.  There were about 30 boys coming over, friends from school, church, and his wrestling team.  Sam was thrilled; my son was sort of indifferent.

I quickly learned that Sam was an unusual boy.  I don't want to say a 10-year-old boy was “gay” but between his being a gifted piano and violin player, owning a Shih Tzu, wearing sweater vest to church, and a love of musicals theater, I began to wonder.  Having three older sisters and a single mother did not help.  I saw a very isolated boy, and my heart melted.  That weekend while most of the boys would play capture the flag, go roller blading or plate Super Smash Brothers on the Nintendo, Sam hung out with me.  I encourage my son to include Sam in future sleepovers, even though my son protested.  I forced his hand in the name of being a fellow Christian.  I really grew to enjoy being near Sam.

The most sensual memory I have of Sam was a day at a water park.  We had purchased season passes for the family, which had grainy black-and-white photographs.  It was easy to pass him off as my own son.  My son was visiting his grandma in Florida with his mom.  By this time I had known Sam and his family for over a year. I was his Sunday school teacher and his mom thought nothing was out of place for me to invite her 11-year-old son for a day of fun at the water park.  While sharing a two-man innertube in “The Lazy River” I asked Sam about how his summer reading was going.  He had read “Where The Read Fern Grows” and began to tell me about it.  Two hours later he was still talking, and I was intoxicated with the beauty of him.  It did not matter that we had physical contact as his legs draped over mine, nor that he was wearing just a swimsuit.  The day was in no way sexually charged.  I fell in love with him emotionally.

At sleepovers we cuddled.  I would hug him openly, give back rubs and massages, and rent whatever film he asked for.  He loved The Music Man” and would sing along.  As I rubbed him, it became ever more obvious that he was getting erections, and quite naturally, my hand would gravitate to it.  We often fell asleep in each other's arms during the movies.  One night I awoke to find him dry humping in my leg, his erect penis poking my thigh.  I rolled him onto his back, lowered his pajamas, and sucked his dick.  I also guided his hand to my own penis and showed him an appropriate milking motion.

In the morning I felt it best to clear up any and misunderstandings about the importance of not telling anyone.  I told him I was sorry for doing that to him if he did not like it, but I felt he wanted it.  I told him that if he told anyone I would get into all kinds of trouble.  I would not be allowed in church and we would not see each other again.  He seemed to agree.  Later that morning he came into my room, and flopped down on my bed, his crotch at my hand level.  I began to feel him grow or erect in my palm.  I lowered his pants and played with it, then looking him in the eye I asked “Do you want me to stop or to keep going and you never tell anyone?”

His response was to smile and say “Duh, it's not like I would tell anyone,” which I took as an invitation to continue. 

I once again gave him head, and then, as I lay behind him holding his penis I ejaculated between his thighs.  I never tried anal sex, as I was pretty sure it would harm him.  Over the next couple of years Sam was a frequent houseguest, and he always slept right beside me with his head in the crook of my arm.  When he said that my beard made his face itch, I shaved, and we had many more sexual encounters.  They ended when I was arrested based on another boy's accusations.

Now here are parts of Sam's account as presented by the prosecution.

The victim stated that between the ages of 11 and 12, in 2000 to 2003, Robert Stevenson sexually abused him.  The victim informed officers he was now coming forward because he had been seeing a therapist in Utah for a year, and was home from college on the spring break.  He decided to report it because he felt if he did not do it now, he never would.

He told officers that he would spend the night at his friend's house and during the sleepover he would watch movies in the defendant's bedroom.  The victim told officers the first time the abuse happened was while he was watching a movie.  The defendant was lying behind him, rubbing his stomach until he “got hard”.  Then the defendant put his hand on the victim's penis, rubbing it under his clothing.  He then rolled the victim over onto his back and Stevenson started giving oral sex to the victim.  The next morning, he brought the victim into the kitchen and told him that he was sorry, giving him a hug.  Then he told them it was his fault because when the defendant was rubbing him over his clothing,  the victim became erect and pressed his penis into his hand. This made him feel the victim wanted it.  Stephenson told the victim not to tell anyone.

The victim stated the abuse occurred every time he would spend the night.  The victim remembered that the abuse always started when he was asleep at the defendant's residence.  He would awake the defendant, lying behind him rubbing his penis.  Eventually he would start grabbing the victim's hand, making him masturbate the defendent until he would ejaculate.  The victim would stay almost every weekend with his friend.  During the sleepover  the victim would be confronted by the defendant and was forced to masturbate him, sometimes two or three times a night.  The victim also told officers that the defendant would either masturbate him or give him oral sex.  He stated that the abuse would occur in the morning after the night of the abuse also.  The victim stated that on two separate occasions the defendant attempted to have anal sex, but couldn't remember if penetration was made in his rectal area.  He told officers that he knows the defendant's penis went through his butt cheeks and he ejaculated between his thighs.

The victim stated that some time in 2003 the abuse suddenly stopped.  He told officers that he was approached by church leaders and his parents and asked if he had been abused, but he denied the allegations.  He stated he was embarrassed about what happened over the years and has still not disclosed what happened to the Church or his mother.  He told officers he told a friend in high school.

The victim's friend was interviewed and relayed the same information.  He stated that the victim was very closed off when speaking about the abuse, and would break down crying, shaking, and apologized for doing these things.  He stated the victim told him the defendant told him that if he told anyone to church would throw him out.

This is not a verbatim account of the prosecution description, but it is the most accurate reconstruction of that account that I'm able to remember.

I'm amazed at how different his memories are from mine.  I guess facts get distorted in 10 years time.  I am sure the truth is somewhere between his account in mind.  I wondered if I could fight the charges, but I didn't.  I pled guilty because I did not want to cause him the embarrassment of a trial.  I realize I should not have done it, no matter what my intentions were.  He was too young to consent.  I just wish the legal system could see the difference between what I did and rape.  Had it been rape -- violent, scary or traumatizing -- why would he come over almost every weekend for two years?  The state does not see it that way.  I'm trying to get the actual transcript of his interview.  I'm curious regarding how close it is to the state's summary.

I do know this much.  I still love him.  I know better than to try to contact him, but I really miss him.  I own a copy of "Where The Red Fern Grows” and each time I read it, I smile.  I hope Sam finds therapy helpful, and I hold no anger toward him.  I did wish that he had come to court.  I would have liked to apologize for any harm I caused, but he was not there.  I did not apologize to the state.  I believe it to be between Sam and me.  I guess all I can do is enjoy fond memories of our time together, and hope he has a good life.  He is 21 now – attending college and in therapy.  I do wonder if he turned out gay or not.

The Groin Pull

My senior year I was one of two students who worked in the trainer's room.  Pretty basic stuff, like ankle and wrist taping or ice packs.  The other student was a girl named Maria Oulette.  She liked to think of herself as being French.  She spoke French, had armpit hair, and stank to high heaven.  Well, after practice one day, the freshman team quarterback had a sore shoulder.  Naturally I volunteered to give it a Ben Gay rubdown.  As I was doing so, the varsity practice ended, and one of the running backs, an outspoken young man named Judson came in the training room to get the tape cut off his ankles.  As Maria was cutting off the tape, Judson said “oh good God!  Something stinks in here!”

Maria said to him “that's not a very nice thing to say to me.”

Judson flipped and started yelling “I wasn't talking about you, I was smelling the Ben Gay.  I am way too polite to mention that you smell like a dead goat. But if you know why don't you get in the shower?  Why would someone knowingly stink as bad as you do?”

Judson went on and on.  Maria cried but he did not let up one bit.  To Maria's credit she did not quit the training room.

Another day before practice a freshman soccer player came in with a groin pull.  I was busy taping up an ankle and Maria asked me to trade.  Being a groin pull, the school insisted on same gender treatment providers, so I had him follow me to the back room, where the steel tub whirlpool was set up.  We looked at each other and I said “Groin pull?”  
He nodded.  

“Which leg?”  

He pointed to his right leg.  

I said “I can wrap that with an ace bandage which should help during practice.  Okay?”  

Again he nodded.  

I said “lower your shorts for me.  And he dropped them a few inches.  

“No, I need room to work.  Take them off and set them on the bench.”  

When he did his T-shirt hung down below his knees.  

I said “Now lift your T-shirt.”

He shook his head from side to side.  

"Okay go to practice without the ACE bandage.  It doesn't matter to me.”

He thought for a few moments, then lifted his T-shirt.  

It all became crystal clear.  He was wearing Scooby Doo briefs.  

This was not a grade school kid.  He was a freshman in high school.  No wonder he wanted to keep them hidden.  Well I maintained professional composure, and did not say anything.  I acted as if it were nothing unusual, and began to wrap his injured leg.  The ace bandage would wrap around his waist, then once around his thigh, weaving in and out.  Not really meaning to, but also not trying to avoid it, the back of my hand brushed the front at each pass.  Like any boy of 14 in his underwear and with someone's hands down there, nature took its course.  Scooby Doo's nose began to stick out at me in
3-D.  I was so deep in denial that I never even considered moving forward in pleasure.  I looked in his eyes and said “You make that go down right now!”

With tears in his eyes he said “I can't,” and he tried hard not to cry.

I called him a “fag” and finished up.  Oddly enough a groin pull is normally painful for several days, but I cured his injury that day.  He did not come in for getting it re-wrapped.  

What was I thinking? Prison life is full of time to contemplate regrets.  I'm sure I could have handled the situation better.  Calling him a “fag” was so wrong, seeing as how I was as gay as a May Pole.  How many same-sex attractions would it take to get me to see who I was?

 A Passing Grade

Back in 2002, I had taken a long-term subbing job for a sixth-grade English teacher during her maternity leave. These kids were real middle-school punks -- the kind of kids that give kids a bad name. The school and their parents set low expectations, and the students failed to reach even those achievements. To pass the seventh grade they needed to earn a non-failing grade in one of the two semesters. Anyone who had a D-minus or better the first semester was done, and they knew it. They would not do class work or take tests. The old saying of “one bad apple spoils the whole bushel” may be true, but so is the opposite, “a gemstone in a bucket of shit is worth digging out.” For me, this diamond was named Donnie.

Donnie stayed after class one day and said, “Can I speak with you?”

I replied, “Of course, what's on your mind?”

“My grade here is pretty low.” I pulled his grade sheet up and said, “Yes you have a 43%.”

“How can that be possible? I aced every test.”

“26 missing assignments will kill anyone's grade.”

“Can I still turn them in?”

“I accept late work at 75% value.”

“Okay, but I don't know what I'm missing.”

“I can give you a printout.”

“Can I just get another copy?”

“But which one?”

“All of them.”

Most assignments were xeroxed packets of 3 to 5 sheet each. I said, “I will give you one, and when you turn it in you can get another one, but I don't give an entire quarter's work at once.” I gave him an easy vocabulary assignment, thinking he would quickly lose his motivation as many students did, but that day at lunch, Donnie was at my door again.

“There you go. Can I work on another one in here during lunch?”

“Sure, if you want to.”

Donnie did two assignments and said, “Can I come in after school?”

“If you work quietly and do not talk to the detention bunch.”

The after school he came in and completed three more assignments. “Can I come in early tomorrow, before first period?”

“I get here at 7:30 AM.”

“I need a pass.”

“Okay, and because you seem serious, I'll make an exception to the one-for-one policy.” I gave him three long packets to take home.

"Thank you.”

The next morning, a Friday, when I pulled into the staff parking at 7:15 AM, there was Donnie sitting on the curb. “Good morning.”

“Hello, Donnie, how are you?”

“I'm okay.” He followed me into the school.

“I guess you didn't need the pass after all.”

“Nope, I got those three done.”

“Good job.” I entered his work into the grade-book. "Then you get two more assignments. You raised your grade to a 58%, almost passing.”

“I'm going to keep working.”

“That's the spirit. Will you be in again for lunch?”

“If I can.”

I gave him a pass and another assignment. The school had a deal with a local Subway which delivered to the staff. “Hey Donny what's your favorite sub?”


“Just tell me please”

“Ham and Swiss.”

“OK. See you in class.” I ordered us each a ham and Swiss, one plain one with double everything. I figured he could take what he wanted from mine. In class he turned in another assignment and asked, “Why did you ask me what my favorite sub was?”

“To inspire today's writing assignment. The assignment today will be, 'please write one paragraph about why a ham and cheese is or isn't the perfect lunch.'"

“Oh, okay.”

Danny was one of three students who did the impromptu essay.

At lunch he sat right down to work on the missing assignment number 13 of 26. Then over the intercom someone said “Your lunches are at the front office.”

“Thank you. I'll send a student to get it”

“Who me?”

“There's a sub for you too.”

“Really? Thanks.”

After he got back we both set down to eat. I told him to take whatever he wanted. He selected the one with everything. I said nothing, just ate a plain sandwich and enjoyed seeing an all too rare genuine smile. But when he asked for a pass for coming after school, he looked brokenhearted when I told him the school did not allow Friday detentions. To see him go from pure happiness to despair so fast nearly made me cry. So I asked him, "What's going on Donnie?”

Then he told me his tale of woe. “When I got home from school on Wednesday my dad had gone berserk. He had got a notice that I was failing in Tuesday night mail, and while I was at school the emptied my room. The furniture, carpet, posters and everything. All he left was a mattress on the floor, and a milk crate with two changes of clothes. I'm allowed out to go to school or to use the bathroom. Otherwise I'm left to do my homework until I have a B. I get peanut butter sandwich, milk and an apple for breakfast, lunch and dinner. This weekend is going to suck!”

“So I shouldn't have given you a sub?”

“I won't tell him.”

“I'll tell you what. I'll give you the remaining 13 assignments now, and assign you a book report. Do like Harry Potter?”

“I used to.”

“Which ones have you read?”

“The first two.”

“I'll check you out numbers three and four. That should fill the time.”

"He got up and hugged me so fast that I didn't have time to turn it into the “one-hip, single arm on the shoulder," teacher hug. It was a full hug and he really meant it.

Monday morning Donnie turned in all his work, including a report on Harry Potter three, saying, “I'm halfway through number four.” I graded all the work he had done and he had a 79%. I used my discretion and gave him what I called a “mercy B.” He had earned it.

 I Like Lesbians

One of my son's friends was a boy named Isaac. At the age of 12, he was all of 59 pounds. The law requires kids who are under 60 pounds to be in a safety seat, but every time I took him anywhere, he refused to use one. Isaac was really a funny kid. He could make me laugh. Being a strawberry blond with freckles, combined with his tiny size, he was as cute as could be.

My son, Sam, and most of his friends, would wear boxer shorts as pajamas. Isaac preferred to wear gray briefs, but he made no distinction. He wore them as if they were baggy boxers, with no shame. I really loved the way he filled them out. Like everything else about Isaac, his frontal bulge was tiny. For me, size truly did not matter. Many a night, he would curl up against me to sleep, allowing back rubs, as well as other things. Oddly we never discussed our sex life. I would fondle and suck his dick, and he allowed me to, smiling while I did. Then he came back for more. But there was an unspoken agreement that we both pretended it never happened.

I was totally infatuated with his penis. As short as it was, it had a darling upward curve to it. He was not yet ready to ejaculate, but he would really enjoy every dry orgasm that I brought him to.

One time which I'll never forget, Isaac was going to stay with us to the weekend. My son was still at a church meeting when Isaac's mom dropped him off, so he and I went to Blockbusters to rent a couple of movies. “Pick out whatever you want,” I said.

“Can it be rated R?” He asked.

“What would your mother say?”

“Nothing if you don't tell her.”

I smiled at him I had been watching X rated movies since I was nine. I'd be a hypocrite to say no so I said “get whatever you want.”

He picked out a movie with a lesbian scene. More of a “showtime after dark,” than a porn, but he was super excited to see it. He also selected some guns and explosions action films. The boys watched the action films first and my son, being tired from his wrestling tournament that morning and church in the afternoon, fell asleep half way through it. Isaac came to my room with the other movie and handed it to me. “Can I watch this one in here?”

“Alone?” I asked

“Sam fell asleep. Can I watch it with you?”

“Sure.” I put it on. Isaac got under the covers and cuddled up close. I held him in my arms, rubbing his chest and belly. Soon I'd fished his penis out of the Y-flap opening, and was stroking it to enhance the pleasure of his “dirty movie.” When the two women got to messing around, his excitement was clear. I increased my efforts by taking his penis into my mouth. Isaac began to pump his hips and cried out “Oh yeah, I like lesbians!”

Baby Pigeons

I'm one of the few people alive who has ever seen a baby pigeon. During the seven months I was in a cell in the county jail, I watched two pigeons build a nest on the ledge outside my six-inch window. Pablo and Lefty is what I called them. She (Lefty) had no right leg, but it did not slow her down at all. She laid two eggs. The nest was less than a foot from where my head was. A combination of light, shadow, and glare, and years of grime prevented me from being seen. The eggs hatched. Lefty was an attentive mother, while Pablo flew security. One day a blue plastic bag from Wal-Mart was blown up to the ledge by an updraft. It was an impressive sight to see Pablo defend the nest. Actually, I think he was trying to mate with it. Pablo would mount Lefty often, but be packed off. After a while the little ones would leave the nest and walk along the windowsill. The window ran the length of the cell but was only 6 inches tall. Outside, the opening was larger with plenty of room for them to stand. They were reluctant to fly. Lefty would try and try to force them off the ledge but they were determined. Pablo would try to climb on their backs, only to be fought off by Lefty. I guess he and I share a common attraction to youth. Finally they flew off. I was blessed to get to see the whole thing.


When my son was 10 through 12, I helped out at his wrestling practices. The team was run through the “Boys and Girls Club” -- mostly lower income, single-parent kids. They craved attention more than anything else, and I loved to give it out freely. One day I met a boy named Justin. He was a tiny little kid. At 12, he wrestled at 61 pounds while my son was 118. Still, they were good friends. Justin lived with his grandma. His dad came and went, and he never knew his mom. Because I was a coach, father and schoolteacher, his grandma trusted me. I even tutored him in math. I was taking my son to an out-of-state tournament, and Justin really wanted to go. The club would pay his entry fee, and I had room in the car and a hotel room. He only needed money for food. After my explaining this to the grandma, she gave me $40 and asked me if it was enough. I assured her it was. If not, I'd pay for his food, but I didn't tell her that.

So I pulled them out of school on Friday at noon to make 6:00 to 7:00 PM weigh-ins. It was a 6-hour drive, but all highway. I stopped at Arby's to get a stack of beef-n-cheddar – 5 for $5.55. I got 10 of them, four for me, and three for each of them. Also a large-mouth Pepsi for each of us. We were off.

An hour later Justin said “Hey Bob, I need to pee.”

“Already?” I asked.

“I drank that Pepsi."

“So use the bottle.”


“That's why my dad gets large-mouth bottles," my son added.

“No way. I'll wait.”

Driving a little Hyundai, I got good gas mileage. An hour later, I still had half a tank, but my bladder was full. I took my bottle, and doing 75 miles an hour, I refilled it.

“Oh, gross!” Justin said.

“That's one of the pleasures of being a man.”

“So we really aren't going to stop?”

“Dad never stops at above a quarter tank.”

“Fine, don't look.”

“Nothing there to see.”

“Well, just don't look.”.

Finally Justin relieved himself.

We got there at 6:30 PM, and went to weigh-ins, and checked into the motel. For dinner we ordered pasta from the Pizza Hut. We were carb loading for the next day. After a long drive, I was tired. There were two double beds. I fell asleep in one while the boys played the Nintendo Game Cube I brought with it with us. They were on the other bed. At 10:30 I said “lights out boys. Big day tomorrow.”

After some minor protesting, they went to bed. In the middle of the night Justin said “Bob, Jason keeps kicking me.”

My son was always an active sleeper. I just lifted the covers and patted the mattress. He got in bed next to me. I engulfed him into my arms, rubbing his chest and belly. When he did not seem to mind I inched my hand down and softly stroked his erect penis through his boxers. I woke in the same position. There is no sleep which is more restful than having a boy in your arms.

We hit free continental breakfast, checked out of the room and went to tournament I figured we would be done by 3:00 PM then home by 10 or so. Justin and Jason both did well. It was a double elimination tournament, and even though both had a loss, they won in the lower bracket and got to challenge the loser of the championship match for 2nd place. This was late in the evening. It'd been a long day, and I did not want to drive, so we called Justin's grandmother to tell her he took 3rd Place, and we were staying until the next day. She did not mind at all. The hotel had an indoor pool but neither boy had brought along a swimming suit. I suggested they swim in their singlets but do so “commando” style so they had dry boxers to sleep in. I swam in a pair of shorts. The white singlets with purple trim became transparent when they were wet, but Justin never noticed. He was too busy trying to dunk me. I had a raging erection the whole time. When the pool closed at 11:00, went to the room. My son was asleep in 10 minutes. Justin came straight to my bed and joined me under the covers. I again began to rub his belly, but this time he reached over and rubbed me. Following my lead we gave each other a hand job. I used a sock to clean up myself after I ejaculated. Justin thought it was cool. Later, I pulled down his underwear, put my head under the blanket, and gave him a blow job. He had a really little penis, but after all the swimming was totally clean. I did not want to stop, but I had to drive the next day. I finally pulled my mouth away put him into the “little spoon” position and fell asleep. Another really restful night!

 Cub Scouts

I always been a socially awkward child, basically friendless. I simply never learned the social skills that most boys have. When I was 8 years old, the family had moved to a new town, and my mom did what she could to improve the situation. She signed me up to be a cub scout. It didn't work. On the first meeting at my new den, it was a warm day in November. It was den mother's child's birthday. The meeting was basically a party for him. I was not even introduced to the other boys. One of the gifts he got was a set of toy guns. There were six guns in the set, and I was the seventh boy in the den. When they decided to play “army” they split into two teams of three. I got to be a dead body on the battlefield.

The next week's meeting, the den mother's older son was home from college. He had been a high school quarterback, so instead of scouting activities they played three on three football. The older brother was permanent quarterback. What to do with point number seven? I would hike the ball, then wait for the next play to hike it again. The next two meetings were spent making a holiday craft. We glued pasta on styrofoam cones and painted them gold as gifts to give our mother at the big pack meeting/Christmas party. After a month in cub scouts, I never learned the oath, salute, handshake, law of the pack or anything.

My parents could not attend the Christmas party. They had other plans, but I was dropped off on their way out. I sat there, watching all the boys get badges, beads, arrows, etc.. I still had not earned my “bobcat” which requires all of 10 minutes and three signatures. There was a special visitor: Santa Claus came. In his bag was a gift wrapped “Cub Scout pocketknife” for each boy. They were called up one by one. I wasn't called. The den mother forgot to notify the pack leader of my existence. One would think they would have had one or two extras (“oops, the name tag must have fallen off of this one”) but nope. Then we were all brought onstage with our styrofoam and noodle thing to give to our mom. My mom was not there. I'll never forget the pain of that walk home, overlooked by Santa and not one award earned. I threw the craft into the trash and cried. Thirty three years later I still feel raw from it. I quit cub scouts, but when my ninth birthday came up, my mom allowed me to have a big party. I invited each and every kid in my third grade class, all 18 of them. On the day of the party not one kid came. My mom told my sisters to invite a couple of her friends over for cake and ice cream, as if that would help.

My 16th Birthday

I had found a place to fit in high school. Like any other heavyset kid, I joined the football team. I hated practice, and even the games, but the hero worship from the “Pop Warner kids” somehow made it all worth it. Well, one of my fellow offensive linemen had a birthday the same weekend as mine. We decided to have a huge party. Pig roasting on a spit, kegs of beer -- a typical high school bash. Bill, the other kid, was popular in school. He said he would invite everyone, and he did too. He just did not tell people that it was a dual birthday. No one knew it was my party also.

I was never a drinker but I pretended to do so just to fit in. I nursed one red Solo cup of beer all night, but would act drunker and drunker as the night wore on. The plan was that after the people left, I would spend the night at Bill's house to help him clean up the next day before his mom got home. We were on his mother's bed, playing grab ass, and one thing leading to another, I ended up giving him a blow job. I was not out of the closet, but we were drunk, so it did not count, according to the “guy code”. When I finished, Bill said “I'm such a shit. Why are you so good to me, and I treat you like crap. I don't know why I didn't tell people was your birthday too. How can I make it up to you? I know. Tell me who you like. I'll hook you up with her.”

I told him I wasn't interested in a hook up.

“Come on Bob, anyone at all. Just say the name.” I took a chance and jokingly said I liked his brother Ryan. Ryan was five years younger, a Pop Warner football player, and really cute. “Really? Why? Are you into guys? It's cool that you are. I just never knew. Well Ryan's in our room. Go ahead and have fun.”

Bill and Ryan shared a room. Bill had the top bunk and Ryan the bottom. I wasn't sure at Bill was serious or not but I went into the room. Ryan was sound asleep, wearing briefs and a t-shirt. He was curled up in a fetal position. I knelt next to the bed, and rubbed his leg. This was enough to get him to roll over onto his back. He had a noticeable erection which I began to play with. He seemed cool with it, and I lowered my face and took it into my mouth, right over the briefs. His hands pushed down his own briefs, which I took as an invitation. I was kneeling and bent over, not in a good position, so I picked him up and put him on the top bunk. I removed his shorts from his ankles, stood up between his knees, and took him into my mouth. I began to masturbate while I sucked him and too soon I had an orgasm, ejaculating on Ryan's pillow. Being a typical 16-year-old, I was done. Ryan got dressed and went to sleep. I slept in Bill's bed.

We never ever spoke of that night. I don't know if Bill was too drunk to remember, upset that I knew, shocked that I would mess around with the kids, or jealous that I shared his brother. We sort of grew apart. Ryan would ask me at practice why I did not visit Bill anymore. I actually think he missed me.

 First love

 I was 19 when I first felt a real emotional attachment to a boy. I was in the US Army, married to my only ever girlfriend, and was an E-2 private. Not having enough rank to qualify for on post enlisted housing, and not enough pay to get an apartment off post, I rented a 25-year-old, run down, mobile home. The residents in the park were typical “trailer trash” myself included. I was a cook, so I went into work at 4 AM and did not get home until after 6:30 PM, seven days a week. To make ends meet, my wife would babysit for the woman in the next trailer. She was a “dancer” at a club called the Déjà Vu. The billboards advertised “100 good-looking women and two ugly ones: something for everyone.” Our neighbor was apparently one of two, not one of a hundred. She was a single mother of a seven year old sweetheart of a boy named Jimmyclay. Not James Clayton. His first name was Jimmyclay. He had a middle and a last name as well. Jimmyclay's mother worked 7 to 3 at the club, dancing several sets, which ended once she had $10 in her g-string. I'm sure she also provided a variety of services in the parking lot between sets on stage. My wife was paid $40 a week for the babysitting. We were always paid in beer-soaked one dollar bills.

Jimmyclay would be at my trailer when I got home from work, and in such need of a man in his life that he was like my shadow. He did not want to allow my wife to give him a bath. He wanted to take a shower with me. It's amazing how wonderful it can be to shower with a boy -- to shampoo his hair, scrub his back and between his toes, and even to show how to clean his penis. Jimmyclay had a foreskin, and his mom was lax about hygiene. Jimmyclay asked me why I did not have skin to peel back, and I told him the foreskin was cut off when I was a baby. Poor Jimmyclay was shocked at the very idea that “part of my wiener was missing." After our shower, Jimmyclay would put on his nightclothes, which consisted of cartoon character briefs and a T-shirt. We then went to the couch to read a story. I was reading him one of my favorite books from my childhood: “Mrs. Frisbee and the Rats of NIHM." Soon enough, we would fall asleep on the couch. Usually I simply stayed there all night. Given the choice of the heavenly sleep to be had with a boy in my arms, or to go to bed with my wife, the choice was easy. That small, warm body was such a soothing comfort. Rubbing his chest, legs, and all points in between and hearing him sign as my hand gently brushed his erect penis. I woke up at 3:15 AM, his mother got home at 3:30 AM. I would carry Jimmyclay in my arms to their trailer. He never woke up at the exchange. It has been over 20 years since I saw him but I never had such a sound night's sleep since.


My son had a friend who was raised with really good manners. When I would take a group of boys out for a 99 cent 1/3 Slab of ribs & fries after midnight, Nick would actually use a knife and fork while all the other boys ate like savages. Despite his oddities, my son liked him, and so did I, so he was always invited on outings, though he often could not attend. His family was big into "TOGETHERNESS." One night Nick actually got his mother's permission to attend a group sleep-over. My son had invited a couple dozen fiends over to spend the weekend. Nick was allowed to come from Friday after school until noon on Saturday.

On Friday nights the boys mostly played Super MArio Smash Brothers Melee on the Game-Cube. with a 2CD projector, I turned a wall into a 114 inch screen and they set up a 32 man tournament (using a few computer players to fill in the empty slots). Since it was summer in Las Vegas, most of the boys wore what they planned to sleep in, or in other words, just a pair of boxer shorts. They did not give it a second thought, much to my pleasure. The only exception was Nick. who was fully dressed and looking rather withdrawn.

I got him by himself to ride with me to get more soda pop (which we did not need) and I had this conversation with him"

"Nick, are you ok?"


"You seem like something is on your mind"


"Are you uncomfortable because everyone else is in boxers?"


"I ask because you're fully dressed"

"I can't wear them"

"Boxers? Why not?"

"My mom buys briefs"

"Oh, would you like to borrow a pair from my son?"


"Or what if I buy him a new 3-pack, and give you one?"



So we bought a pack, Nick picked out one, and as soon as we got back, he dashed into the bathroom, and came out wearing the boxers. He was as happy as he could be.

On Saturday night, Nick's mom called to thank me for hosting her son, but she added "It's the strangest thing, Nick came home waering someone else's underwear." I told her the whole story. She was amazed that boys that age would actually wear boxers. She thanked me for being so kind to Nick.

I can not help but wonder if she thought of this event when news of my arrest became public. She could have imagined all kinds of reasons her son needed new underpants, but the truth was as simple as he was embarressed to wear briefs in front of his friends.







Comments (1)

  1. winkuman

These are very cool stories

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