TITLE    : Rainbow Boys
STORYID  : rainbow-boys
SUMMARY  : Sometimes, happiness really is in your own backyard.
AUTHOR   : Cal Y. Pygia@lit
DATE     : 2007-08-06
CATEGORY : gay-sex-stories
FLAGS    : e
TAGS     : |gay love|homophobe|gay romance|gay hero|gay anal|gay oral|gay blowjob|out of the closet|


Dean O'Dell's hands were like birds. White, smooth, they soared, fluttered, and dipped when he spoke, reminding friends and foes alike of beautiful, sleek doves.



Those who were, like him, gay, or who are able to sympathize with, or at least tolerate, the gay lifestyle, as some parents, siblings, and straight friends do or may, appreciated, even admired, his lovely hands. Others, especially homophobes, found his perfectly manicured nails, smooth flesh, and long, delicate fingers--and his limp wrists--unpardonable offenses.



More than his slight lisp, his giggly, effeminate manner, his outrageously out clothes, his body piercing and jewelry, and his makeup, his lovely dove-hands tended to invite homophobes' disgust, loathing, insults, and, frequently, violence.



More than a few times during the past year, catching a "queer-hater's" eye as he giggled and whispered, rather girlishly, at a table in a restaurant or over a dainty ladies' drink at the local pub, Dean had returned, early in the morning hours, to his efficiency apartment with a bloody nose, a blackened eye, or worse.



Most recently, in an altercation with a broad-shouldered, broad-faced, mean-eyed blond with a football player's physique and an intelligence quotient just a point or two above that of idiocy, Dean had suffered a split lip and a loosened tooth before his friend, Big Eddie, the bouncer had broken up the one-sided "fight" and evicted Dean's attacker, the blond dolt vowing "to get your little faggot ass." Some night, when the bouncer wasn't there to look out for Dean, the burly bastard had promised, "You'll get what's coming to you, bitch!"



"You have to be more careful," Big Eddie had cautioned Dean, after the blond was gone.



"I didn't do anything," Dean had argued.



"Look at yourself in the mirror the next time you go to the toilet to take a leak," Big Eddie had advised him. "You don't have to dress in lavender satin shirts festooned with lace."



"I like Edwardian dress," Dean had replied. "What's wrong with that?"



"You don't have to wear your hair in a spiked pink-and-purple Mohawk. You don't have to wear all that jewelry. You don't have to wear mascara, blush, and lip gloss, for God's sake."



Dean had shaken his head. "That's who I am."



"I can watch your back in here," Big Eddie had reassured his gay friend, "but, outside, you'll have to watch your own ass."



I remember the exchange of dialogue that Dean and Big Eddie had the night, a week ago, that the big blond boy's fist had loosened one of Dean's teeth because that was the same night I fell in love with Dean, watching him from across the bar.



I never believed in love at first sight until then; now, I know better. I fell for Dean, all right, like a rock through water. Needless to say, I became a regular customer at The Hot Spot that night, when I realized that Dean was a nightly visitor.



Had his run-in with the blond boy not happened as quickly as it had, I would have come to Dean's defense. I'm a big guy, nearly as big as Big Eddie, and I have a mean left jab and a devastating right uppercut. My chin's steel, not glass, and I've been offered chances to go pro. I'm happy to have settled for Golden Gloves, though. Since I discovered I prefer guys to gals, a lot of the fight's gone out of me; I'd rather be a lover than a fighter.



The next night, when Dean left earlier than usual, I followed him. If Big Eddie couldn't watch Dean's ass after he left The Hot Spot, I thought, I sure could. In fact, I'd be glad to accept the task.



Outside, the night, though young, was dark, and there was a bit of a nip in the frosty October air. Thick shadows sprawled at the sides of the cars in the parking lot. Far overhead, the streetlights, in the words of Jim Morrison, "shed their hollow glow." 



As he crossed the pavement toward his car, his tight, compact butt swaying seductively inside his taut jeans, the loud blare of jukebox music muted by the closed interior of the brightly lit pub, Dean looked small and vulnerable. I imagined him in my bed, in my arms, my mouth upon his, open, my tongue probing his warm, wet mouth, my cock, thick and stiff, standing upright between my bare belly and his, pressing firmly against his abdomen and his own erect prick. My penis was swollen, hard, inside my own jeans. I wanted to ram it down Dean's throat or up his ass. I would never be physically violent with him, but sexual violence, done playfully and carefully, in a spirit of love, was a different matter entirely. Rough sex wasn't injurious; it was simply sexy. 



Imagining myself atop Dean--or, better yet, behind him, delivering my stored load of warm, thick semen doggy style--I was so focused on my fantasy, on my desire, on my need, that I didn't see the blond until he'd launched his fist, like a rocket, as Dean sashayed past him. The bully had stationed himself behind a Buick, lying in wait, so to speak, for Dean to pass his way. He'd ambushed the smaller man, slamming a ham-size fist into the side of Dean's delicate skull.



With a shrill cry of terror and pain, Dean fell as if he'd been shot, and the blond stepped forward, revealing his bulk.



"You little pansy-queer bastard!" the big man snarled, sneering. He hawked up a gob of mucus and spat the snot-wad on Dean. The phlegm and saliva splattered against the side of his impossibly handsome face. "Your faggot friend isn't here to watch your back tonight, is he?"



He meant Big Eddie, of course.



"I'm going to break every bone in your fucking faggot-punk body," Dean's attacker warned.



Raising a heavy leather boot, he drew the toe well back. With sudden force, he delivered a savage kick to his victim's head. Dean uttered a stark, strangled cry.



The blond maniac drew his boot-toe back again, preparing another kick. "When I get through with you, you'll be swallowing your teeth for the next week, not some other faggot's sperm."



"No, he wont," I said, my voice steady and matter of fact as I delivered a brutal right cross to the intimidator's chin.



Between the blond bastard's blow and his second attempted kick to Dean's cranium, I had sprinted across the pavement that lay between Dean's sprawled, bloody body and his menacing attacker to smash the bully's hateful, hate-filled face.



The burly man staggered, and I hit him again, once, twice, thrice, in rapid succession. He crumpled to his knees, a giant felled by a man who, although big himself, was not as massive as he was, nor as muscular, but who knew how to fight, how to punish, and how to do real damage.



As the blond was on his way to his knees, I smashed his face a fourth time. He went down hard, tumbled sideways, and was out, unconscious, on the asphalt.



Now that I saw the son-of-a-bitch's facial features close up, clearly, under the streetlight's illumination, I recognized the burly blond bastard. I'd gone to school with Dean's attacker. His name was Randy Harker, and he'd been the star quarterback at West Falls High. Before his knee got blown out in the last seconds of the last game of his senior year's football schedule, he'd received several scholarships to major universities and a couple of pro teams had scouted him, letting him know that a place on one of their offenses was only a college degree away. One of the scouts had even intimated to him that an offer need not wait four years.



Then, the terrible injury had ruined Randy's future forever; in a few seconds of blinding agony, his life had, if not exactly ended, taken an irrevocable turn for the worse.



Before that unspeakable moment, the quarterback had been satisfied to dismiss "homos" as irrelevant, but he hadn't hunted them, as far as I knew, anyway. He'd been content merely to insult them (except, of course, there wasn't anything "mere" about verbal abuse; in its own way, it could be worse than a black eye, a bloody nose, or a broken bone).



His hatred for "faggots," for "homos," for "pansies," for "punks," for "queers," had emerged later, giving the once-promising athlete a purpose--a sick and perverted and ugly purpose, but a purpose, nevertheless--and a reason--a hateful and despicable reason, but a reason, all the same--for living. The all-state quarterback's bright sports career might have ended on the gridiron, but as a persecutor of gays, he could have--if only in his own imbecilic mind--a long and illustrious career ahead of him.



Had he suspected--had I myself known--that I was one of the those he detested as subhuman creatures with no right to exist, much less live, I might have been on his shit list, too, back in our high school days, or I might not have been. As a jock myself, and a Golden Gloves boxer, at that, he might have afforded me grudging respect. My fighting prowess might have earned me a pass from his acid jibes, his bitter tirades and diatribes, and his vicious physical assaults. In any case, despite his bigger, more muscular physique, I never doubted that I could take him.



Tonight, I'd proven it.



Dean stirred, moaning.



I knelt beside him. "You want me to call an ambulance, Dean?"



The slight man squinted past his pain. "I don't know you," he said, his voice shaky, his tone uncertain. "Do I?"



"No."



"Who are you?"



"An admirer. A wannabe lover."



His split lips bowed upward in a bloody smile. "Help me up, hero boy."



"You don't want an ambulance?"



"No."



"How about the police?"



"No."



As I took his hand in mine, an electric current seemed to shoot through my body, especially my heart and groin. I was attracted to him, all right; if I were any more attracted to him, I'd be electrocuted!



I pulled at his bird-hand, and it flew, drawing him along behind it. Dean was standing beside me, tottering.



"You sure you don't want an ambulance?"



"Just your strong arms." He glared at the unconscious bully. "I wish I knew where he lives or works or goes--when he's not coming here to kill me, I mean."



"I know where he lives," I said. :At least, I know where he used to live."



Dean looked uncertain. He drew away from me. "You know him?"



"I went to high school with him."



I told Dean about Randy Harker, former all-state quarterback. I also told him about my Golden Gloves. Nodding toward a vintage cherry-red Mustang, I said, "That's his car."



Dean beamed. "Really?" Despite his obvious pain, he seemed to perk up. He glanced at Randy. "How long will he be out?"



I shrugged. "Usually, when I knock someone out, he stays out for a while."



"Come on," Dean invited.



"Where?"



"My car."



"You sure you're up to driving?"



"You're driving."



I repressed a smile, pleased to be included in Dean's plans. "Where are we going."



"My place."



This time, I didn't suppress my smile; I grinned.



"But, first, there's something I want to do. You can help."



My arm around Dean, I helped him across the parking lot.



"That your car?" I asked, nodding toward a Ford Taurus.



"How'd you know I ride a bull?" Dean asked, punning on the name of his automobile's model.



If he was feeling up to making a joke, I thought, he couldn't be hurt too bad, fortunately. "I saw the bumper sticker."



"Oh." He grinned at me, looking as handsome as ever, despite the blood and bruises. "Duh!"



The bumper sticker to which I'd alluded was simple: an inverted triangle that contained colored horizontal stripes, in the following order, from top to bottom: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple. Above the triangle was the word "PRIDE," and below it the phrase, "Not Prejudice."



"If only everyone agreed with that position," I lamented.



"It's up to us to spread the word," Dean said.



"I suppose so," I agreed.



"Good. Then, you won't mind giving me a hand?"



Dean would be welcome to a hand, my mouth, or my cock, I thought, but not my ass--I wear the pants in my relationships. "Sure. What do you have in mind?"



We'd reached his Taurus. Dean unlocked the automobile, opened the glove compartment, and removed a box. He opened it. Inside were twenty or more of the same rainbow-colored triangle stickers as the one that adorned the rear bumper of his car. He peeled off the backing, exposing the adhesive on the back side of the decal. "Let's decorate the blond bastard's car," Dean suggested.



I grinned as I realized his intention. "You mean put one of those on his rear bumper?"



Dean shrugged. "I'd rather shove it up his ass, but the bumper will do."



We crossed the parking lot to Randy's Mustang.



"Do you want to do the honors?" Dean asked me.



I took the bumper sticker he extended toward me. "My pleasure," I answered, affixing the rainbow-colored triangle to the bumper.



We laughed at decal we'd added to Randy's car.



"He's one of us now," Dean declared.



"Until he realizes what we've done, anyway."



Dean smiled. "By then, the sticker will have done it's job," he predicted. "Once someone's labeled as gay, the label tends to stick. Even if he says someone other than he put the sticker on his car, a lot of people won't be willing to give him the benefit of the doubt."



I lifted the box of bumper stickers. "This is clever," I said, "really clever. I know there was something I liked about you from the start. You're not only a looker, but you're smart as hell, too."



It wasn't quite light enough under the streetlights to see for certain, but it seemed that Dean blushed. "Thanks," he said, "but I can't take credit for the idea. I'm just one of the Rainbow Boys."



"Rainbow Boys?" I hadn't heard of them before.



"I'll tell you later tonight, after we get to my place."



I grinned. "I'm ready!"



Across the parking lot, Randy stirred. We heard him moan.



"Thank God," Dean said. "I was beginning to think you'd killed the homophobic bastard!"



We left Randy in the parking lot, recovering from the series of blows I'd delivered to his head. Although the creep had gotten in a solid punch to Dean's face and a savage kick to the side of his face, Randy had received, by far, the worse from me. Dean might have a spit lip and a bruise or two, but his attacker's face would be a mess of contusions--black eyes, fist-size bruises, bloody lips and nose, maybe a broken tooth. Thanks to me, every time he looked into the mirror, he'd see the results, in this particular case, at least, of his homophobic hatred, and, if Dean was right, he'd also label himself a homosexual. Chances are, in his whipped-dog state, he wouldn't notice the rainbow-colored triangle on his Mustang's bumper, proclaiming him to be one of the kind whom he, for no reason other than his own failures, loathed and persecuted.



With Dean at the wheel, we drove across town, two acquaintances who hoped to become friends--and, from my perspective, at least, more than friends--a whole lot more.



A blaring horn sounded behind us. I looked into the rear-view mirror. A car full of assholes who looked much as Randy had looked a few years ago, in his heyday, wore disgust and hatred on their twisted features, and the two in the front seat jabbed their extended middle fingers at us as their friends in the back seat laughed and jeered.



What the hell? I asked myself. Had they seen Dean's flamboyant dress? His makeup? His hair? I caught a glimpse of his white-dove hands, perfectly manicured--and painted in the French manner, half pink and half purple, due to his choice of the colors. It seemed unlikely to me that the carload of toughs could have seen Dean as anything more than a shadowy figure. In the dim light of the occasional streetlamp and the faint ambient illumination of headlights, neon signs, other exterior lights, and stars, it was doubtful that they'd have been able to see well enough inside his automobile to discern Dean's hairstyle, cosmetics, pierced face and anatomy, body jewelry, painted fingernails, or effeminate Edwardian garb.



Suddenly, the reason for the idiots' reaction hit me like a left jab, quick and hard: the fuckers had seen the rainbow triangle on Dean's bumper: "PRIDE, Not Prejudice," and, apparently, they were intent on demonstrating their opposite point of view. There were four of them, and only one of me. Dean might be a fantastic lover--that remained to be seen--but he sure as hell wasn't a fighter. With my fists, I was good--superb, actually--but four against one might be odds too great even for a Golden Gloves winner, depending on my opponents' own fighting skills.



When no oncoming cars were in sight, the car behind us pulled into the opposite lane. Driving parallel with us, the passenger in front, his window down, called "Faggots!" and flipped us off again. His companions howled.



A plume of foam hung in the air for a moment before a hard thunk sounded against Dean's door. The passenger had hurled an open can of beer at us!



"Fucking queer bastards!" the taunting voice boomed, and the car alongside us shot forward, tires squealing, and leaped into our lane, ahead of us.



I looked at Dean. His white dove-hands remained perched upon the steering wheel, unruffled, and he was smiling.



"Dean?" I asked, uncertainly. "Are you all right?" Maybe he was in shock, I thought. He'd had a hell of a night.



"Get the triangles," he replied.



"What?"



"The bumper stickers," he explained. "The Rainbow Boys are about to strike again."



"You're not going to do what I think you're going to do, are you?"



"No."



"Thank God!"



"We are."



"No, we aren't. This is insane."



"They've had their fun," Dean told me. "As far as they're concerned, it's over. They proved what macho men they are. Now, they'll go to another bar and sop up some more suds and have a big laugh at our expense. They'll hit on some women and get rejected and, if they're not too drunk when they get home, they'll masturbate and pass out in their own cum. Tomorrow, they'll be hung over and miserable, and they won't even remember the 'fags' they flipped off the night before. In fact, they'll be lucky to remember anything about tonight. If we follow them at a discreet distance, they won't even know we're here. Except as targets, gays don't exist for assholes like them."



"It's dangerous," I protested.



One of the doves left its perch, lighting softly upon my left thigh, midway between my knee and my groin. "That's why I have you with me, sweetie."



"It's insane," I said.



He smiled. "We Rainbow Boys are nuts, no doubt about it," he joked, "or criminal, unnatural, or perverse. Take your pick."



Dean knew his tormenters well. Just as he'd predicted, their car--a Pontiac GTO--what we'd called a "penis car" in my high school days, because it was designed, we'd said, to show off its driver's virility and machismo, to be, in effect (or so we'd believed), a "chick magnet"--headed to a nearby nightclub, The Cock of the Walk, and parked. Doors opened, four husky guys, right out of high school, by the looks of them, climbed out of the vehicle's low interior, and staggered toward the club's front entrance. 



We'd parked at the other end of the lot. Again, as Dean had foretold, none of the homophobes had seen us; they probably hadn't given us a second thought since denouncing us as subhuman "faggots" and "queers."



"They'll never get in," I told Dean. "They're too young, and they're already obviously half drunk."



Dean patted my knee. "They'll get in, all right, sugar. They're rich boys, and rich boys are big tippers when they want to be--or, more to the point, when they have to be. Watch and learn."



As the boys stumbled toward the entrance, Dean slowly drove toward the space in which they'd parked their GTO. We parked in a nearby spot and watched the little drama unfolding before us.



At the door, the bouncer on duty demanded identification, and the would-be patrons fished their wallets out of their back pockets, extracted their driver's licenses, and passed them to the scowling, nonsense doorman. Along with his license, the driver passed something else.

<hr pg="2" />"How much do you think he gave him?" I asked Dean.



"I'd say he's letting President Ulysses S. Grant plead their case."



"A fifty?"



He shrugged. "Like I said, they're rich kids."



The bouncer tucked the bill into his shirt pocket and nodded at the boys. They staggered into the club to complete the evening that Dean had forecast for them.



"Ready?" Dean asked me.



I sighed, shaking my head. I didn't feel ready, and doing this was definitely against my better judgment. "Yeah," I answered, "let's do it."



I reached for the door handle. One of the dove-hands landed upon my thigh. "Wait," Dean said.



I paused, hand halfway to the door handle, waiting.



"Did you peel off the backing?"



"No."



He shook his head, rolling his eyes. He looked damned cute, I thought. If he always looked so hot when he was about to remonstrate with me, I welcomed even the most trivial bickering from him. "Always have the sticker ready to affix," he said. "Peel the backing off as soon as possible, so you are ready to slap the sticker on the bumper and get away as quickly as possible."



I peeled the backing off. "Sorry."



"Now you're ready."



I reached for the handle again.



Dean remained motionless, his white bird's-hands back on their customary perch, his Taurus' steering wheel.



"Aren't you coming?' I asked him. "This is your idea, after all."



"Two guys attract more attention than one," he said.



Especially when one of them dresses as you do, I thought.



"You're ready to solo."



I didn't feel ready. Telling myself that this was stupid and dangerous and probably criminal, I opened the door.



"Walk, don't run," Dean instructed. "Be quick, but look casual."



I climbed out of his vehicle and walked to the homophobmobile. A quick look left and right--which probably looked suspicious as hell--told me that no one was around, not that I could see, anyway, and I bent, sticker in hand, adhesive side toward the bumper, pressed the top of the triangle to the chrome, smoothing its top edge with my thumbs, and pressed the rest of the sticker in place. Within a second or two, by this simple act, I'd transformed four homophobic shitheads into four cock-crazy homos. It was amazing how a decal could change a homophobe into a homosexual, just like that, I thought; it was magic.



My mission accomplished, I retreated to the safety and security of Dean's car.



He giggled at the look of relief that had flooded my face. "The first time's always scary," he sympathized with me. "You did great! You're a natural."



"A natural idiot," I said.



"No," he corrected me. "A natural Rainbow Boy."



"Are you going to tell me what the hell you mean by that or not?"



"After."



"After what?"



"We make love."



"That's what I've been trying to do for a week now, ever since I first laid eyes on you at The Hot Spot."



"Hand me another triangle."



"What for?"



"It's my turn."



"You're just going to randomly paper the cars in the parking lot with 'I'm-gay' bumper stickers?"



"No, silly, not that that's such a bad idea." Dean explained his intention: "I thought I recognized that VW over there, the blue one. I checked it against my list of license plate numbers, and--"



I stared at him. "You keep a list of people's license plate numbers?"



"Just of the cars whose drivers fuck with me or some other gay person, male or female. It's standard Rainbow Boys procedure. That car's number's on my list, just as I thought."



"Now, I've heard everything."



Dean smiled at me as he accepted the sticker I handed to him. "Honey," he said, "you ain't heard nothing yet."



He peeled of the sticker's packing and was out of the car in a moment. I watched his slight figure as he sashayed across the lot to the VW. Little or not, he had a huge pair of balls. There was no arguing against that. With a few deft movements of his fingers and hands, he'd affixed the rainbow-colored triangle, marking the vehicle's driver as one of our own, and returned to the Taurus, smiling.



"Can we go now?" I asked.



"In a moment, dear." He took a pen from his glove compartment and crossed off the license plate number on his list. There were, I saw, six other numbers awaiting cancellation. There was a lot of hatred in this world, I thought, much of it directed against same-sex lovers.



"Now we can go," Dean said, and we left the parking lot, The Cock of the Walk the having unknowingly served as the maternity ward for a couple of carloads of newborn faggots.



On the way to Dean's place, he said, "It's really cool when the car the fucker's driving belongs to his parents instead of to him."



I thought about the repercussions of such a situation. Mom and dad's favorite son borrows the family car for the night, possibly for a hot date, and returns it with a rainbow-colored, inverted triangle on the rear bumper that proclaims, "PRIDE, Not Prejudice" for all the world to see. I laughed at the thought--and the images--that this scenario brought to mind. "That would be something, all right," I agreed.



We drove another mile, down Primrose Street. Dean turned left onto Floral Gardens Boulevard and drove three blocks before turning right, onto Pansies Lane.



"Pansies Lane?" I said.



Dean smiled. "What could be more apt?"



The apartment complex in which Dean lived had once been a no-frills motel consisting of four two-story buildings framing a courtyard in which there was a swimming pool; a garden with shrubs, trees, flowers, and a fountain; a community clubhouse; and a laundry facility. A bank of vending machines near the pool's shower rooms offered newspapers, candy bars and other snacks, bottled water, and soft drinks.



Dean's apartment was located on the first floor of the northern building.



He inserted his key into the lock, gave his wrist a swishy twist, and opened the heavy front door. He stepped inside the dimly lit interior--he'd left a lamp on in the kitchen, and I followed him.



He switched on a ceiling light, annihilating the darkness.



I looked around me. The carpet was thin. The furniture was sparse and of thrift shop quality. A threadbare couch sagged behind a low, scarred coffee table. There were small, cheap, matching tables at either end of the couch. On a rack attached to the wall, near the front door, there was a TV set, supplied by the establishment. The kitchen, little bigger than a walk-in closet, was stark and utilitarian. Through the open door to his bedroom, I could see a queen-size bed, made up, and a bedside table that bore an electric clock radio and a large lamp shaped like a funeral urn with a shade on top. The bathroom, I assumed, opened off the bedroom. There were no other rooms, not even a closet, except for the one in the bedroom. The walls were dedicated to posters that celebrated or advocated or otherwise advertised and endorsed what the media are pleased to call the "gay lifestyle."



"Be it ever so humble," Dean said, with a smile both vulnerable and disarming, "there's no place like home."



"It's nice," I lied.



"It's shit, but thanks."



"How long have you lived here?"



"Three years."



Three years was three years too long, I thought.



"Ever since my parents kicked me out, right after high school," he confided, "or, I should say, right after I came out to them, which was right after high school. Unfortunately, for the time being, this is the best I can afford on a fast-food salary. I work at a local Beefy Buns. The manger, Brad, is pretty cool; he's living with a transsexual named Mona."



"Does she work there, too?"



Dean arched an eyebrow, pretending to be jealous--or maybe he wasn't pretending; there was a bit of an edge to his tone when he asked, "What's it to you?"



I shrugged. "Just curious."



"She used to, before she and Brad became an item," he called over his shoulder as he entered the kitchen. Opening one of the cupboards, he peered inside the cabinet. "Want something to drink? I have wine and some tequila--oh, and some bourbon."



"I'm fine," I replied, "but you go ahead, if you want one."



He stood in the doorway. His big, bright eyes outlined in mascara, stared at me intensely. "There's only one thing I want," he said, his voice soft and seductive.



"What's that?"



"Your cock--in my mouth and up my ass."



He stepped forward. One of his warm, smooth, soft hands closed around my bigger, calloused hand, and he led us into his bedroom.



We didn't bother to close the door.



"Don't worry, love," he said, "the bed's comfortable. It's the only piece of furniture in this dump I splurged on."



We undressed and climbed into bed together, naked, our cocks already stiff and swollen with desire and expectation.



Dean was right, I thought. The bed was comfortable.



But I was more interested in him than his furniture. Not having seen him naked until now, I'd no more than imagined him this way. Based upon the draping of his clothing upon his frame, I'd guessed about his physique. In some ways, I'd been correct. Dean was as slight of frame as I'd imaged, with a shallow chest, a concave midriff, compact buttocks, narrow hips, and lean arms and legs. However, despite his slender build, his muscles were well toned. He was likely wiry, and he could probably be agile and quick when he wanted to be. His cock and balls were bigger than I'd imagined, too. His penis, although on the thin side, was of ample-enough circumference. It would fit the hand, the mouth, or, for those who were inclined (I was not) to receiving an erection per anum, the ass. Within the silken pouch of his scrotum, his testicles were golf-ball size, neither, in my view too large nor too small.



His light, honey-colored skin was perfectly smooth, like marble. His nipples and the areolas that surrounded them were soft pink and slightly puffy. The reminded me of rose petals. The downy hair of his pubes was like dandelion fuzz. His penis and testicles were luscious, ripe fruits, the gumdrop glans as soft and pink as his nipples and areolas, and as inviting.



Although American society, patriarchal and homophobic as it is, discourages the application of the word "beautiful" to men, insisting that they be called "handsome" instead, Dean was nothing less than beautiful. In creating him, God, it seemed, had decided to show with just how much allure he could infuse masculine flesh and form.



I studied Dean's face, too, for this was the first time I'd had the opportunity to see him up close. He was as exquisitely beautiful in face as he was in form. His large, luminous eyes were not blue, as I'd thought, but hazel. Their chameleon color counterfeited the hues of his environment. Depending on the dominant shade of his surroundings, his eyes could appear to be blue, like the sky; green, like the sea; or brown or gold, like the sand. Now, as he gazed at me, they were their true color, neither blue nor green nor brown nor gold, but hazel. He had a thin nose, the tip of which was small. I didn't think of it as a button nose, and I dislike reducing its magnificence to such a clichéd expression, but the image creates, perhaps, the closest approximation one may readily imagine. His lips were full, sensuous, and slightly bowed. Their shape and fullness was sensuous, and they'd enable him to pout easily, even when he wasn't deliberately attempting to express displeasure. They made him look cute and--again, the word asserts itself--vulnerable. His lips, red as coral, made one want to crush them against one's own or to slide one's erect member through them. His chin was more pointed than square or rounded, and delicate, like a girl's rather than a man's, and his high cheekbones further feminized his face. His ears were small and delicate. In my view, he needed neither earrings nor any other jewelry, nor makeup of any kind, to adorn him; he was lovely, just as God had created him, perfect in every detail of face and form. Were I too voice any complaint at all, I would have protested his choice of hairstyle. The Mohawk did not fit with his otherwise androgynous appearance. It was too masculine, too "butch," for such an angel as he was to wear. He needed a style that was abundant and luxuriant, softer and more feminine.



Dean, studying me as I studied him, laughed. "Like what you see?"



"You're beautiful," I told him.



"You mean 'handsome,' don't you?"



"No." I gazed into his eyes, into his soul. "I mean beautiful."



He smiled, obviously pleased by my compliment. "Aren't we going to make love?" he asked.



"We are," I agreed.



My lips found his, and our mouths opened to let our tongues slide into one another's warm, soft, wet, tender womb-faces. My hand traveled up his marble-smooth flesh, over his ribs, and caressed his chest. My thumb strummed his nipple, the flesh of which felt just as it looked--like the tender petal of a blushing rose.



I felt a shudder go through him, and he moaned into my mouth, writhing on the bed beside me. His right thigh draped itself over my left hip, and he pressed his cock firmly against my own manhood. We were both erect, and ready to penetrate, but only one of us--only the lovely, androgynous Dean--would be the recipient of insistent and determined manliness tonight--or any night that I shared his bed--for I was given to dominance and the use of force, not to submission and surrender.



"Suck my cock," I instructed him.



He repositioned himself upon the bed. I closed my eyes and made my mind a tabula rasa, a blank slate, that I might know nothing and feel nothing but the sensations that Dean's lips and tongue and inner cheeks created as he nursed at my prick. His head bobbed up and down, and the ring of his rounded lips slid back and forth upon my stiff, swollen shaft. My cock strained within his oral embrace; my balls, risen within the tightened pouch of my scrotum, seemed to sing, an angelic choir, within my soul.



I thought of the one girl, Diane, with whom I'd made love, right after our high school prom, when I'd been trying to pass myself off (to myself, as much as anyone else) as being straight. Her pussy had been warm and liquid and soft and tender. It had felt wonderful! (If only she hadn't been female, I thought, absurdly.) To Dean, thinking of Diane's pussy, I said, "It feels as though I'm being fucked by a disembodied cunt."



He paused in his ministrations long enough to reply, "My mouth is a cunt."



I found the thought he'd thus expressed erotic in the extreme, and I let his words echo within my mind as he continued to kiss and lick and devour my manhood with the true zeal and gusto of a man who enjoys sex with other men and not only loves, but also truly worships, cock.



"I thought your ass is a cunt," I told him.



He let his lips pop free of my prick, making a loud, smacking sound that brought us both to laughter. "It's also a cunt," he agreed.



"Let me change one for the other, then," I declared. "Get on your elbows and knees; I like to do it doggy style." In this position, I could watch my cock vanish and reappear again and again as I drove my erection, fast and hard, between the cheeks of Dean's compact ass.



The mattress dipped and swayed as he complied with my command and I, rising to my knees, took my place behind him.



Dean handed me a tube he took from his drawer, and I applied lubricant to my prick while he anointed my target.



Although both his mouth and ass may be cunts, only the former provided its own lubricant, but the latter would be plenty slick enough, too, now that we'd applied the gel that Dean kept on hand for this purpose. Petrolatum, mineral oil, beeswax, and silicone (or chlorohexidine, gluconate, glucono delta lactone, glycerin, hydroxyethylcellulose, methylparaben, purified water, and sodium hydroxide, as the case might be) could be every bit as slippery as a woman's own natural juices. Technology had come to the aid of us gay men, allowing us to transform anuses and rectums into surrogate vaginas as easily as human beings in general changed or manipulated other aspects of nature to suit and serve their needs.



I took my cock in my fist, guiding the stiff shaft between the smooth, silken cheeks of Dean's buttocks. A thrill, like electricity, shot through my body as my rubbery glans met the stout resistance of his lubricated asshole. I had no illusions that he was a virgin, but, despite his having been penetrated however many times he might have been on the receiving end of another man's cock prior to tonight, his anus was small and tight. I had to shove hard, several times, before my prick pierced his tight little asshole and slid past the guardian sphincters, to slide into the more commodious chamber of his lower bowel. I pressed and shoved and rammed until all seven inches of my bloated cock were buried inside his rectum, my pubes ground hard against Dean's flattened buttocks, and I was balls deep inside his ass. Then, I remained motionless, letting Dean feel me inside him, cramming him full of my manhood, my virility, my manliness.



He never said a word, although, once, he moaned, a short protest, whether of pain or anxiety or both, I couldn't say, escaping his lips before he could stifle it. He never once tightened his buttocks against my invasion, though, which showed me that he sought to be conquered as much as I sought to conquer him. He wanted to be taken by force as much as I wanted to force myself upon him. He chose as fervently to be ravished as I chose to ravish him. His acquiescence was as unmistakable as a white flag or a laying down of one's arms.



His buttocks remained absolutely still, an unspoken testament to the power of his will, for, of course, anyone, man or woman, who's ever had even so much as a finger introduced into his ass--and my stiff, swollen cock was much bigger than a finger--can't help, unless he has learned to control himself through long and diligent practice, but to react, by pulling away or, at the very least, flinching or twitching. However, Dean's buttocks remained acquiescent, accepting--perhaps, one might even say, welcoming.



The only resistance I received from him was the wholly involuntary fluttering of his impaled anus. Neither the strongest will nor all the practice and rehearsal in the world can stop a heart from beating, the lungs from breathing, or a penetrated anus from twitching and flexing about the shaft of the penis that invades it.



I enjoyed the spasms that squeezed and clamped my organ as the circle of Dean's anal entrance--it is, normally, an exit, of course, but we who delight in the pleasure of sodomy make an ingress of an egress--pumped firmly and insistently, as if in a valiant, but vain, effort to dislodge my trespassing member and, in so doing, to stave off its conquest, invasion, and occupation. The frantic fluttering was a weeping and a wailing of the flesh, as it were, at a deeper and more fundamental level than even those of the blood and the viscera. It was as if the soul which animates the flesh were itself in crisis and crying out in the agony of its ordeal. For me, each compressing twitch of Dean's asshole was an ecstasy of lust and power, dominance and control.



Finally, as I kept my balls pressed hard against Dean's perineum, maintaining the full presence of my penis inside his bowel, his sphincter relaxed, admitting defeat, and widened, accepting its master, the organ of its invasion. He was conquered.



However, no man gains entry to another man's bowels simply for the sake of having accomplished this feat. Rather, admission becomes but the occasion for ravishing the impaled man, and I had every intention of doing just this to the androgynous young man I'd just vanquished. One does not fully own another man, after all, until he has fucked him and left his semen upon his buttocks, as a mark, or a brand, and I meant to claim Dean in such a manner, splattering his bottom with my seed, so that both he and I would know which of us was the master and which of us was but the master's property.

<hr pg="3" />Slowly, watching my cock emerge as I eased my hips backward, I withdrew my erection from the depths it had probed, watching as each inch of the rigid, swollen shaft came into view between Dean's skewered buttocks. It was, as always, a marvelous sight to observe! Were my prick 12 or 18 inches long, instead of seven, the additional inches would thrill be that many times more as each came slowly into view within the deep cleft between the sleek cushions of Dean's beleaguered ass.



At last, when all but the glans of my penis had been retrieved, I smiled to see that the stalk of my manhood formed a bridge that spanned the distance between Dean and me, connecting my reproductive organs with his organs of defecation and elimination. Life, as represented by the phallus, was united with death, as embodied by the buttocks and the associated organs within these magnificent globes. Meanwhile, Dean's smaller cock, primed and ready for action, but denied even an anus and a rectum, jutted uselessly before him, a mere ornament signifying his nothingness, his uselessness, his redundancy as a man.



Never once had his buttocks spasm, and never more did his impaled anus quiver. His sphincter, having tried to resist, had surrendered the fight, and it did not quail now, either, from the assault that was about to commence.



With a smooth, continuous propulsion forward of my hips, I drove the entire length of my cock through Dean's anus, entirely into his rectum, and my hips crushed his buoyant buttocks flat between us. The circle of his asshole, even relaxed, felt firm and tight, and the sensation of that ring of muscle sliding along the column of my manhood was exhilarating; it was awesome, and must be repeated--again and again, for as long and as often as I had the strength and the stamina and the will to repeat it.



Whereas a novice at the art of sodomy might suppose, as I, in my amateur days had once assumed, that the sexual conquest of another man is completed and the invasion of his heart and soul, no less than his bowels, is accomplished once one's prick has penetrated his buttocks, the master knows that such a feat is but the beginning of the campaign. A man is not truly buggered until one's cock has fucked him repeatedly, deeply, and thoroughly, with as much force and passion as can be brought to bear in the process. The authority knows, also, that each additional foray into the impaled man's bowels is itself a new invasion, a novel occupation, and a fresh conquest, for the skewered ass of the man so impaled feels the thrust and collision anew each time it is committed, and, at every renewed thrust, feels himself vanquished again, as if for the first time. Indeed, it is the continual, ongoing, repeatedly renewed conquest that so delights the conquered and the conqueror alike, reinforcing, as it does, their respective roles and status.



Drawing back, I launched myself again into the innermost interior of Dean's bowels, parting the globes of his buttocks and stretching wide the circle of his anus before me as I plumbed his depths anew, the explorer and conqueror not of a mere world, but of a fellow human being's soul. Before the continuous assault of my penile battering ram against the gates of his bowels, Dean was a pair of buttocks and an anus and a sphincter and a rectum in defeat, a heart and a soul despoiled, and a man whose own comparatively frail masculinity has been repeatedly and vigorously denied.



How I thrilled to each renewed assault! I could not cram, drive, force, heave, jab, poke, shove, slam, stab, or ram my cock quickly enough or hard enough to satisfy the lust and the bloodlust that possessed my soul and impelled my actions, and I pumped my prick inside Dean's impaled asshole frantically and furiously, my heart hammering within my chest, my lungs laboring like Vulcan's own bellows, and sweat pouring in streams and rivulets down my face, my chest, and my belly to drip upon the gleaming honey-flesh of my conquest's slammed back and crushed-flat buttocks. Each time I retreated in preparation to renew my attack and the full, sleek cheeks of his ass, compressed between my crashing pubes, bounced back, I slammed my cock home again, flattening the smooth mounds before my advance. Were another to have observed us, he would, perhaps, have seen but a blur where my hips should be, so fast and furious had I become in my ravishment of Dean's person.



I shuddered as I felt his clinging anus slide the length of my member, riding it in its retreat, and give way, widening before my next plunge into his rectum. There is power in sex--and lust--and violence of a certain kind. Some say there is love as well, which may be true, for them. After the fact, I may love the person, but in the throes of ecstasy, I love, if anything at all, only the passion, the sensations of lust and power and dominance, and the triumph of the flesh, however momentarily, over one's own spirit and soul.



Valiant Dean! He could not endure my assault in silence any longer, and his moans, wracked from him by the fury of my attack, were forced from his throat by my fierce pummeling of his bowels. He groaned and cried and whimpered. His head turned to the left, and I saw his features contorted, brow knitted, jaw clenched, a look akin to panic in his hazel eyes. The intensity of my attack was exhibited in the intensity of his frown. Tears welled within his eyes. They spilled down his cheeks, and he sobbed, whether from pain or fear or ecstasy, I cannot say. A series of moans, each longer than the previous, escaped his lips before he fell to whimpering. To his credit, though, he never said a word in protest, though, as befits a piece of property--or meat.



I withdrew my cock from his bottom, and still he remained in place, surrendered, available, accommodating, waiting upon my will. His ass looked as if it had been cored; his once-small anus was nearly perfectly round, and, looking into his wide, open asshole, I could see two inches or more into his bottom before the pink flesh was lost to the darkness of his depths. It was my cock that had reamed him so, I thought, and the thought pleased me well.



Supporting myself with a palm flat against Dean's loins, I gained my feet, the sinews of my calves and thighs swelling with the exertion, and, crouching low above him, sweat running from my chest and midriff, I slipped my erection back into its place--it fit easily, as if it belonged within his bottom as a sword belongs inside its scabbard--and, my fingertips tented to support my weight and to balance to my somewhat precarious position, I began to fuck my friend again, with renewed passion. The relative positions of our bodies allowed me to enter Dean to an even greater depth, and each thrust into his backside was a thrust unto my very pubes and balls. His cock dangled between his legs, a metronome keeping time to my lunges and plunges into his bottom, his balls jiggling and bouncing, mere decorations with no purpose other than to beautify.



Whereas before, when we were engaged in the doggy style position, I had been able to thrust with my whole body--my neck and shoulders, arms and back, hips and ass, thighs and calves--now, my hips and ass had to do the greatest amount of the work and, even supported by my hands upon the swaying, dipping mattress of Dean's bed, the labors were intense and exhausting. Nevertheless, by an act of determined will, I held out, fucking him hard and fast, my prick, on each stroke, launching full-length into his penetrated ass and bouncing him--his whole frame--before me 



"Uh!" Dean gasped.



I jabbed my cock into his slick, warm asshole again.



"Ah!"



And again.



"Oh!"



I shoved my prick into his bottom, past the silk-smooth cheeks of his ass, through the snug, clutching circle of his anus, and down the smooth-walled tube of his bottom, as far into his rectum as I could, holding my balls tight against his buttocks as sperm-rockets launched themselves from my balls, and semen-missiles shot up, up, up my urethra, to detonate in liquid explosions deep inside the interior of Dean's occupied bowels. Volley after volley of my warm, thick seed spurted inside Dean's ravaged ass as I emptied the full arsenal of my fecundating fluid into his innermost depths.



Finally, I withdrew, pulling my still-ejaculating, but already-dwindling, erection free of Dean's ass and the well-reamed anus that it had so long and so commandingly occupied. A final streamer of my viscid seed unfurled itself along his back, and a few drops fell upon his ass, one meandering slowly down the cleavage between his buttocks and along the column of one of his thighs. His own cock, I saw, was also firing, the semen wasted upon the comforter of his bed.



I let myself drop backward, onto my buttocks, and gave Dean a light slap on the ass to let him know he'd done his duty and could be at ease, now that I'd drained my balls inside him.



He sat, facing me. My cum, I thought, was probably dribbling out of his asshole, onto his bedspread. He didn't seem to be aware--or to care--that this might be the case. What did it matter, really, whether my semen stained his blankets when I'd already filled his ass with my sperm?



"Wow!" he exclaimed, a broad smile on the same beautiful face that, only a minute or two ago, had been contorted with strong emotion, discomfort, and possibly even pain. "I've never been fucked like that!"



I explained to him how, in giving up the use of my fists to impart pain and suffering to other men, I'd taken up the use of my cock to do something similar. I loved men too much to harm them physically, and rough sex, although it may be uncomfortable and even occasionally a little painful, is seldom, if ever, actually harmful, when done within the confines of a loving relationship.



"Love?" Dean asked.



I nodded, grinning at him. "I guess I do love you." I paused, looking into his eyes, which, in the current light, looked more gold than hazel. "Is that all right with you?"



"There's a reason that my mouth and my ass are cunts for you, dear," he replied.



I nodded. "Now that we've made love, you promised to tell me about the Rainbow Boys," I reminded him.



"They're a group of guys, like us--gay guys--who do what we did earlier tonight: put gay stickers on the bumpers of cars that belong to homophobic fuckers who harass us. We named ourselves 'Rainbow Boys' because of our colors--you know, the rainbow colors--and because we hope that, some day, being gay will be like Judy Garland suggested life could be like in her song, 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow.'"



"I guess now that I'm one of you, I'll need to borrow another one of your rainbow bumper stickers. Let's get dressed."



"You know someone else who's homophobic?"



"We need to label a car in the parking lot at The Hot Spot."



"How do you know it'll still be there? We left that place like--what?--a hundred years ago?"



I looked at the clock radio on the bedside table. "More like two hours ago."



"Even so, how do you know it's still there?"



"Because it's my car. I rode over here with you, remember? I don't have a sticker on my car's bumper because, until tonight, I was in the closet. Now, I'm out."



"What happened to bring you out of the closet?"



"I met you."



Dean blushed, and his eyes, twinkling, looked suddenly green, with gold flecks. "You say the sweetest things," he said.



"I love you," I told him.



"There you go again!"



"Come on, before Big Eddie thinks my car's been abandoned and he tows the damned thing."



We got out of bed, kissed, and, reluctantly, put our clothes back on--temporarily.



A little more than a half an hour later, we were back in The Hot Spot's parking lot.



This time, we broke the rule that prohibits two Rainbow Boys from putting a sticker on the same bumper together. Our hands brushed, mine hard and calloused, Dean's soft and gentle as a dove. Then, our lips met, and we sealed my coming out with a kiss.



"You want to follow me back, or should I follow you?" he asked.



"Normally, you'll follow; I'll lead," I told him, "but, tonight, you'd better take the lead. I'm not sure I know how to get back to your place."



"That's going to change, though, right?" Dean teased.



I looked into his eyes, clutched his hand, and said, "Yes, Rainbow Boy. Tomorrow, you're moving in with me. No offense, but, your bed notwithstanding, my place is a whole lot nicer and more comfortable than yours."



"You talked me into it," Dean said, smiling.



He climbed into his car and waited for me to get into mine so that we could begin our life together. 



I looked down at the rainbow-colored, upside-down triangle and at the text above and below it: "PRIDE, Not Prejudice."



I'd never been prejudiced toward gays, but I'd never felt proud to be one, either.



Until now.



"Come on, sweetie," Dean called to me.



At last, I thought, I was proud to be a Rainbow Boy.

