Barry’s Awakenings

Part 1 – England:
Barry was a young gay guy; eighteen years-old before he found what he really liked, twenty-one before he finally found what he needed. Irish by parentage, he was born and brought up in London, England. Physically he was a dark Celt, tall and slim, with black wavy hair, piercing light blue eyes and smooth pale skin. Barry had high cheekbones and a killer full lipped smile, which sadly he showed all too rarely.

Brought up as he was, strictly, in a devout Catholic family, with religious schooling, regular Church attendance and service as an altar boy, he struggled with guilt over his sexuality.

Barry always knew that he was gay, even at a young age, although he was outwardly very masculine in his general behaviour. He was the very opposite of any ‘queer’ stereotype – the kind of effeminate, rather flamboyant gays as depicted so often on television and in films. He was very much a ‘man’s man’ in his habits; he liked his beer, playing poker and most of all he loved sports. He’d even been the captain of the London area school hurling team, a very fast and aggressive Irish Gaelic sport.

His late school years were, in ways, the best times of his life. He’d run with a group of friends throughout his West London neighbourhood. Well known locally, and to each other, as the ‘Irish Boys,’ Barry, with ‘Mad’ McKeigue, Mullarkey, Gerald and Chris Hennessy, kicked up a storm. They played sports together, fought against others and amongst themselves at times, played hooky from school, scammed for money and generally raised hell, somehow always just avoiding trouble, be it from their parents, the police or worst of all the local priests.

Being good-looking and in great shape, naturally he attracted the attentions of the local girls. In denial, and to maintain his status with his friends, he dated several. On occasion he even screwed with them. Sure he could do it; he could make out. But always as he was thrusting down into a girl’s pussy from above, or riding it from behind, in his mind’s eye, the one that counts, he was fucking a man, a handsome young stud like himself. When he masturbated it was exclusively with the thoughts of men.

To his later regret, he’d even joined in at school with the bullying of Seamus Byrne, a sad very effeminate boy, with a girlish high-pitched voice. He’d joined in the taunting, the sly punches and kicks that the others had meted out. You see, in his community, to be a gay, a fag, a queer, a poof, a shirt-lifter, a sodomite, or whatever name was hung on it, and there were many, was to cut yourself off, to be rejected by friends and family alike. It was a kind of social death sentence.

A form of liberation, or awakening, came to Barry on his eighteenth birthday. Having just eaten a huge meal prepared by his doting mother and rather cloying older sisters, he escaped from his family to the tranquillity of his bedroom to get dressed up. He was going clubbing that night with some friends to celebrate.

Having dressed, and with some time to spare before his best friend Gerald, known as Jez, came round in his car to pick him up, he turned his computer on and surfed around some of his favourite Internet sites. Again and again, Barry was drawn to the same saved pages from his Yahoo groups: Tom of Finland 1, 2, 3 and 4. Drawings and cartoon images filled the screen. Idealised visions of muscular, hung gay men.

Handsome clothed guys posing; bodybuilders’ nude with muscles and cocks pumped; truckers getting it on in the woods; cops fucking prisoners; comic strips of nervous young men getting it on for the first time with hung studs. He loved these images of strong guys with big hard cocks. There was nothing feminine, nothing soft here. These idealised images fed on Barry’s own personality and desires. It almost as if the late artist Tom had read his mind.

Barry’s cock was pulsing and straining inside his trousers. He badly needed relief, and pulled open the zipper and freed his cock. He jerked it and rubbed the mushroom shaped head for a while, then pulled the trousers and his crisp white boxer shorts down.

He leant back in his chair as a slideshow of his favourite pictures played on the screen. Barry slipped one finger under his butt and worked it inside his asshole. From his other hand, his fingers slowly and firmly pulled up and down on his cock. He felt good. Most of all Barry revelled in the ‘cowboy’ scenes. For some reason he had a recurrent fantasy of being fucked by older American men dressed this way, with the boots, the big buckled belts and the Stetson hats

Soon a familiar wave of pleasure and relief hit him and he spurted out hot cum all over his right hand.

Barry was just about to take a tissue from his bedside and clean off when, fuck, the door flew open and a familiar voice greeted him. His best friend Jez entered the room.

“Hey, Bazza, get your lazy ass out of…………. What the fuck!”

Jez was gob smacked, utterly bewildered and shocked as he looked down at his friend sitting exposed in a chair, one hand covered in cum, attempting unsuccessfully to cover his balls and his big erect cock as cartoon images of muscular men sucking each others cocks and fucking each others butts played on the computer monitor. The two friends looked at each other for a few seconds, unable even to speak.

After what seemed to them to be an age, Barry spoke first, with his usual wit and elegance:

“Jez shut the fucking door, for Christ’s sake!”

“Ok mate.”

With this, Barry quickly slipped his shorts and trousers back on and wiped his hands clean on a tissue. He looked at the floor, he felt embarrassed and humiliated. Well, what ensued certainly was a surprise. Jez was not disgusted at all. He just came to the conclusion that the situation was extremely funny. He began laughing almost uncontrollably. This, in turn, as it always did, set Barry off too, and soon they both laughed so much that tears were filling their eyes.

Eventually they chilled out. They discussed things, Barry admitted that yes he did find gay stuff a turn-on, because “Jez I am gay.”

Jez just nodded and slipped an arm around his friend’s shoulder. No-one had actually stopped the slideshow, which was running on a loop. Gerald looked at it for a moment, deep in thought, then turned and looked Barry straight in the eye.

“Fuck it Barry,” Jez said, “I might as well ‘fess up too; I like guys sexually; I’m not gay, well not entirely, I’m bi, and I’ve been active both ways for months. Jez had a regular girlfriend, Theresa, he but revealed, “One or two nights every week I go to gay clubs in Soho. I’ve been picked up, I’ve kissed men, been sucked off, had cocks in my mouth and my ass, and Bazza, I fucking love it mate, and I find you very, very sexy.”

With this, they fell into a mutual kiss, tongue dancing against tongue. Jez then dropped to his knees and quickly freed Barry’s cock. Although it was only a very few minutes since he had cum powerfully, he was young and fit, and his tool was pulsing and leaking pre-cum even before it hit Jez’s mouth. Jez sucked his friend greedily until he came, and swallowed each and every drop.

At Jez’s prompting, Barry dressed and cleaned up in the washroom after this, and they left the house after saying their goodbyes to Barry’s family.

In Jez’s car, Barry reiterated the plan for the night, call for the boys and hit a cheap ‘happy hour’ pub, sink a few then hit the clubs. All in all, a typical Saturday night, except for the birthday situation.

Pretty much this happened. Infuriatingly to Barry, Jez even started kissing and hugging with a girl on the dance floor at one club, before disappearing with her, then returning looking somewhat flushed 20 minutes later.

Barry was fuming, and as he sat at the bar and watched his friend dancing rhythmically once again, he almost felt sick. Jez was actually slightly camp in his manner; there was a sort of femininity about him. He was shorter and slimmer than Barry, and the way he walked and pouted his lips as he talked exaggerated this.