A Hobo Boy's TaleRated: X 11 & 13, mild rape
Have you ever felt like you had something to tell? No idea what, just the need to start typing.
On Halloween night, I was working on Circulatim: Arcs 2, and three First Time stories for readers.
I was in a pissy mood, and I wanted to write, but I didn't want to keep working on any of those. I needed to make something up.
I took a break, got something to snack on and a drink, sat down with a fresh, empty LibreOffice page.
After a few lines, it felt like I knew the story, or was being told it as I wrote it. It came out quickly. No editing.
All I did was go back over it and correct bad grammar and other mistakes. The story didn't get added to or changed.
A WARNING: This is not a pleasant little wanking story.
I was born in 1960 in a tiny valley mining town in Tennessee. There was a one-room schoolhouse, a general store, and a gas station, but I don't remember anything else. There had to be, but the town is long dead now, and I didn't go back after I left in 1976. Except once.
There were not a lot of kids. Mike, Ricky, Ben, and me. And the girls. Yuck. Some younger kids, but they didn't count either. And the older kids, but we didn't count to them.
My parents were fine, just not very interested or involved. Sort of distant. I don't remember hugs or kisses from Mom. Just this once, when I came home with a bad gash on my leg from falling out of the tree house at Ricky's. It was bleeding like crazy. That one time she kissed me on the forehead after cleaning the gash and putting several Band-Aids on it. Dad never hugged me. I often thought he never wanted a kid.
I was eleven. Mike was the oldest, just turned thirteen. Ricky was ten and my best friend. Ben was seven or eight. We hung around with each other all day long all the time. School was five days a week, from nine to three, all the kids in the same room that was also the town library, of sorts.
The only thing to do was swim in the river or one of the creeks or ponds, or run around in the woods, or play in Ben's tree house.
Usually it was all four of us. Sometimes just three. It was rare when it was just me and Ricky. Even rarer was it just me and Ben or Mike.
But one day, Ricky was at a funeral somewhere far away and Ben wasn't around. It was just me and Mike.
We'd been swimming, but it was chilly, so we got dressed and went to the tree house. We swam naked. Swimming trunks were for adults or people in movies. Our families didn't have the money for something used just to swim in. And being naked around each other was just something we did when we went swimming.
So I knew Mike had a big wiener, big balls, and some hair. We all knew. He liked to brag about it. And how he squirted stuff.
I remember I was kneeling at the window of the tree house, looking at cars sometimes going by on the road in front of the house. Ricky's house was on the edge of town.
That was when Mike said he knew something we could do. I asked, "What?"
When I turned around, he was right there behind me taking his pants down. I thought we were going to have a peeing contest out the window. We'd done that before. He got his pants down and his wiener was big and hard. I'd only seen a boner a few times before. Only seen his for the most part. He liked showing it off.
He turned me toward the window, and I started opening my zipper so I could pee out the window too. He reached around and undid the button on my pants. I was surprised, for sure. I was more surprised when he pushed my pants all the way down. We didn't wear underwear. Then he bent me over the sill of the window.
I asked him something like, "What are you doing?"
He said something like, "I'm gonna corn-hole you."
I only knew that meant he was going to do something with his wiener and my butt, but nothing more than that. But I knew I didn't want to.
I knew what sex was. I'd seen cattle and horses and sheep and dogs and cats doing it. We all had. We'd even seen a couple doing it by the river once.
But that was what men and women did. Males and females. Not males. Not boys.
I said, "No," and tried to stand up, but he was a lot stronger than me and kept me bent over the sill of the window.
"It's fun. You're gonna like it."
"No it's not."
I was sure it wasn't fun. How, I didn't know. I just knew it was something that bad boys did with bad boys that adults thought was really bad.
I told him to stop, but he didn't.
I felt his wiener up against my butt.
He pushed it into me.
It wasn't as bad as when I'd fell out of the tree house or off my bike or that time out of the tree at the creek, or many other times I'd gotten hurt. But it hurt.
He got the whole thing in, too. His front slapped against my butt cheeks. It felt like he was tearing my butt-hole.
I started crying, mostly because it was scary as hell.
I started yelling, "Stop! It hurts!"
He kept saying, "Shut up. Take it like a man. Stop crying like a baby," and things like that.
At least it stopped hurting so much. It wasn't pleasant though. I was not enjoying it. At all.
I was more scared than in pain after a while.
I sort of just stopped trying to get away and let him do it. I remember feeling the tears running down my face. And wondering if now my parents would hate me. And if Ricky and Ben would not like me anymore.
'Not if I don't tell them,' I figured. 'No one has to know.'
He did it until he pushed harder than ever before. I felt it deep inside me. I worried he would rip something and I'd bleed and Mom would see it in my pants and I'd be asked and she'd know and all kinds of scary thoughts.
I remember the grunt. Just like a bull steer makes when it does it to a cow.
I felt wetness spreading inside me. I knew I was bleeding. My mom was gonna find out.
He kept it in there for a little bit but didn't move it. Then he pulled it out.
It finally felt good. Sort of. I was just so glad his wiener was out of me.
I didn't move. I didn't know what to do. I stayed there, bent over the window sill, looking out the window. I felt the tears running down my face. After a bit, I felt the blood running down the inside of my leg.
"You ever tell, and nobody will like you anymore. It's our secret."
I watched him walk away. He walked like he was happy. A sort of skip in his step.
I wondered what I'd done that he did that to me.
I sat in the corner and cried for a long time. I worried about my mom finding out, Ben and Ricky finding out, being a bad boy now, a lot of things.
I got up and looked to see how much blood I'd leaked. There wasn't any. It was like he'd peed in me. I reached around and felt my butt-hole. It was sore and hurt, and there was some blood there, but none in my pants. I was really relieved!
I wiped my butt with a page from a beat-up old comic in the tree house, so the blood around my butt-hole and the pee running down my leg wouldn't get on my pants.
I pulled my pants up then I walked home. I pretended like everything was normal. But when I took a crap, it hurt.
It hadn't happened. No one had to know about it. I am not a bad boy.
I played with the guys the next day. I did my best to never be alone with Mike again.
But I was. By accident. A few days later.
It was the creek this time. I think Ben was sick and Ricky was going to meet me there later, so I went ahaed.
Mike showed up.
I was scared right away.
He seemed okay, though. Friendly and everything. Even happy. He didn't try anything. We just swam and had an okay time, but I got scared and worried sometimes when I'd see his dick as we swam or rested on the bank.
It got toward dinner time, and Ricky still wasn't there.
Mike and me were resting on the bank. Nothing on. We were talking about something normal. I looked over and saw he had a boner. I got that scared feeling.
He saw that I saw. He rolled over me and started grabbing my arms.
I remember screaming and yelling and trying to fight. He was just too big for me to win against. He got me rolled over. I got weak from fear.
Then he put his wiener there, and pushed it in me again.
I instantly gave up and let him do it. It didn't hurt as much this time. It still hurt emotionally though. Maybe even more. I felt like such a victim. Such a wuss. Such a bad boy. Such a dirty boy.
This time he told me how good it felt. He said I would understand when I was a teenager.
He did it harder. I was sure of that. Way harder. And way faster.
He made his grunt, I felt the wet stuff inside me, and after a bit he pulled it out.
"If you tell, everyone will hate us."
He left. I walked home.
I didn't cry. Not even when he did it. Not even after.
I just felt like a pussy. Literally and figuratively.
The third time he came to my house. My dad worked long hours at the mine almost every day, Mom worked doing whatever she could get, usually helping older folks or doing gardening or errands.
I was home alone again. I wasn't doing much with anyone. It was less than a week after the second time.
He didn't even knock. I was in my room doing nothing, laying on my bed. Afraid to go anywhere. Afraid of Mike.
Then there he was. That grin.
I backed up against the wall.
He pulled me down flat on my bed by pulling on my legs. I didn't even try to fight.
He kept saying how much fun it was, how good it felt, and how'd I'd learn to like it so much.
He opened my pants. He took them off. He said I was going to have a big one. He played with it. He seemed confused that it didn't get hard.
I was pretty much turned off. Not sexually. I wasn't turned on that way either. I never had been. Not yet. I wasn't even twelve yet. I mean I sort of just didn't think or feel anything. I was in a waking coma of sorts.
He rolled me over.
It hurt some, but even less. I didn't know why then.
He did it until he grunted and I felt the wetness inside, and then he laid down on top of me.
I'll always remember this the most clearly...
He whispered in my ear, "I love you, Norty."
I didn't so much as blink. I just wanted him to go away and leave me alone.
After his wiener popped out of me, he pulled his pants up and said, "Don't tell. No one will like you anymore. Not your folks and not the guys."
He left, but I didn't move for a long time. Not until I thought of my mom coming home. Then I stood up. That runny stuff dribbled down the inside of my thigh. I wiped it off then pulled up my pants.
After that afternoon, I was his whenever he wanted. Almost every day.
I tried not to be alone with him, but he would come to my house if I wasn't with Ben or Ricky.
If I got through a few days by being around Ricky and Ben at all times, he'd come late at night.
That first night visit I almost yelled for Mom and Dad. Almost. But there was the worry of being found out. So I let him climb on me and do it, the sounds of my bed and our skin slapping covered by the frogs and crickets.
When he was done, still laying on me, he always said, "I love you, Norty."
After a few dozen times, I got good at being somewhere else in my head when he had me.
I got good at forgetting it when it wasn't happening. I played with the guys, including Mike, and it wasn't part of my real life.
To keep him from coming to my house and that risk of being caught, I started letting him get me alone during the day. It was safer that way.
It got so that it didn't bother me. It didn't hurt anymore. It was just a function.
He always told me that he loved me after he did it to me.
It seemed like he had me every day. It couldn't have been every day. It just seemed like. It still does seem like it was every day. But it couldn't have been.
I turned twelve. It was still going on. Now it was just something that happened when it happened, but it had never happened at any other time - I forgot about it.
He turned fourteen. His wiener was getting bigger and bigger. It still didn't hurt much. I didn't know why not. I figured I was just used to it.
It got hard to keep from crapping myself sometimes.
He sometimes played with mine before he had me. Not every time. Just sometimes. And not for long. He asked me why mine didn't get boned. I didn't know. He asked if what he was doing to it felt good. I didn't feel anything. I told him so. He said it must not work until you get hairs and it starts growing. He said doing that to his felt really good. But not as good as my butt felt.
I began puberty. I began dreaming about sex. Not girls. Mike. Sometimes Ben or Ricky. Sometimes some guy on television. Always guys. Well, sometimes girls, but usually not. Sometimes a girl dream was scary.
I began masturbating. It was just like one day I wanted to. I was awake early one day, it was hard, I grabbed it and did what I'd seen Mike do to his a long time ago before he had my ass for that urge, and what he did to mine sometimes before he had me.
I had a few pubes by then. I hadn't been sexually excited before. I swear to you. But that morning it was like a switch had been flipped on. It was the best thing I'd ever felt in my life.
The next time was under the railroad bridge. Mike had me laying down next to a pylon. I got excited. I got very hard and turned on. It was entirely different. Just like that switch had been flipped. That time I liked it. It made me feel tingles and sexy and get erect and want it.
When he was done, I rolled over and did it to myself. He watched and said I had a really big one again.
I hadn't paid any attention to it before. But I saw mine was almost as long as his. Thinner though.
"Does it feel good to do it now?" he asked.
It really did. So good. Just the best ever! I made a few drops! It was just the best thing ever! I remember kicking my shoes in the red dirt, making dust rise up.
For the first time ever, he didn't pull his pants up right after. He watched me do it to myself, and when I was done, a few drops on my belly, he laid down on top of me, our dicks against each other.
"I love you, Norty."
He kissed me.
It was so strange. Scary. Weird.
I let him. I even pushed our lips together harder.
It was sexy. And a scary kind of nice.
When we stopped kissing, I asked him, "If you love me, why did you hurt me?"
"I never hurt you."
"Yes you did."
"The first time. The times next. They hurt."
"I figured you was just scared of doing it."
"I was scared too. But it hurt. It made me bleed that first time."
He was about to turn fifteen, I was fourteen. We didn't know shit. But I knew when he looked surprised. And he looked surprised. And I knew when he looked sorry. He looked very sorry.
"I didn't mean to hurt you!"
I was sort of angry, sort of scared, sort of worried, sort of completely messed up.
He started kissing me and saying, "I'm sorry," and "I love you," over and over and over.
I had never ever heard him cry before. Not once. Not even a little bit.
But he was crying. And hard.
He kept kissing me and saying he was sorry and that he loved me and he never knew he was actually hurting me.
We hugged and kissed. I remember the sun slanting down through the trestle bridge, long shafts of light filled with sparkling motes.
Everything was different after that.
I loved him. Deeply.
He was so gentle that sometimes it was irritating. He acted like I was made of glass. It was nice for the first few times, as something different, but it soon sort of got in the way.
He would ease it in, as if I had razor blades around it now.
"Just stick it in!"
"Stick it in me or I won't do it anymore."
That is one of the last clear times. Afterward, they're mostly mushed up together as blurry images of making love.
We would kiss, get naked, he'd stick it in me, do it, then I'd jack it off. Then I learned to jack it while he had me. Then he'd jack me while he had me.
Never, not once, did I ever stick mine in him. I never wanted to. I don't think I even thought about it. Sucking a dick was something we'd never heard of. We never did that.
For almost exactly two years we were secretly lovers. Lovers. Still seems so strange to phrase it that way.
He'd raped me for over two years.
Then we were lovers for two more.
I still liked Ben and Ricky, but Ricky wasn't my best friend any more. Mike was. Mike was more than my best friend. He was my lover. He was my love.
The four of us did everything together, but Mike and I would get alone as often as we could.
We did it everywhere. It was a list. We checked off new places and counted the times in all the places.
I loved him.
When I was just barely sixteen, Mike was almost eighteen, Ricky was fifteen, and Ben was twelve, we were all hanging out at the creek. It was a warm summer day. We'd been swimming naked, as usual. Ricky was well developed, and I often wondered what it would be like to have him have me. Mike was the oldest, but I had the longest one. Ricky's was bigger than Mike's now. If I had to guess, I'd say I was a good seven inches, Ricky was at least six, Mike wasn't much longer than five. Ben was still a bald little boy.
Mike and I sneaked off to be together and do it. We climbed to the top of the bluff, to the start of the railroad bridge, where a concrete pylon made a great hiding spot. It had a wonderful view of the valley something like over a hundred feet below. It was an almost perfectly straight drop from the edge of that pylon. Thrilling. We loved being there. We loved making love there.
I was on my back, knees tucked to my chest, he was on his knees, in me, jacking mine as he had me. It was so good.
I knew what love was, and I knew I loved Mike. And I knew he loved me. It was so good.
"What the hell?"
It was Ricky. And Ben.
"They're doin' it!"
Mike and I scurried to get dressed as Ben and Ricky laughed at us, pointing, calling us names.
Mike had one leg in his pants, the other poised to shove into the leg of his pants, then he lost his balance. He hopped on one foot, once.
From my point of view, sitting on the warm concrete, yanking my pants up my legs, he looked right at me, looking so sad and sorry, and then he was gone.
I didn't hear a sound.
Then I heard them running away, rocks falling down the slope from their frantic scrabbling.
I almost couldn't go look. But what if he'd grabbed something and needed help? What if he'd landed on a ledge or a tree or something?
I crawled over to look.
He was all the way down there.
It was gory.
I shouldn't have looked.
He was crumpled up, arms and legs in positions not normal at all. HIs bare butt was nearly touching the back of his ruined head.
I threw up all over myself.
I curled up and cried.
It was almost dark before I even thought again.
The police hadn't come. I was surprised about that. I figured the guys hadn't told anyone. Or no one cared.
He was still down there. Too much blood.
I tried to throw up again, but there wasn't anything to throw up.
I couldn't go home. Even if Ben and Ricky hadn't told. They knew.
As far as I was concerned, they'd killed Mike.
They'd killed me.
I thought of throwing myself off that edge. Over and over.
If I had the guts, I would have.
I couldn't go home.
I got on the railroad bridge and walked. I hoped a train came along and ended me.
I realized I'd forgotten my shoes and shirt. Too late to go back. I didn't want to go back.
I wanted to go back and make sure. Maybe he'd...
I walked until I came to a small town. I didn't even know what one. Still don't. I slept somewhere. I don't remember where.
I woke up screaming, his sad, sorry expression filling my sight. I must have cried for hours.
Other than the dreams every time I fell asleep, I remember walking. That's all. The dreams and walking. And the smell of puke.
When I came to a river I got in to wash the puke off.
When I got so hungry I couldn't stand it any longer I dug in a dumpster and found several hot dogs. They made me horribly sick. I hate hot dogs to this day.
I stole shoes from a sidewalk display. They were way too big, but better than nothing. I stole a shirt from a clothesline.
I drank from public fountains and bathrooms in the towns I passed through. I got food from dumpsters, fearing I would get sick again. I sometimes did.
I stole better shoes from someone's back porch, and pants from someone else's clothesline.
I ended up in a suburban area out side of Nashville. Sleeping wherever, eating whatever, drinking from bathroom sinks and washing in them.
I didn't even know what day it was, or what date. I didn't care.
I never, ever, masturbated. I would get so angry when I'd get an erection. I put rubber bands around it to keep it from getting hard. Didn't work.
I was always tired. I always saw Mike's sorry, sad expression when I closed my eyes.
It started getting chilly. I started seeing Halloween decorations.
On Halloween I went trick-or-treating as a hobo. I got a lot of 'Oh, that's such a convincing outfit' and such comments, and a lot of candy.
I fell in with some real hobos living by a train yard. I hated trains, but the hobos had fire and food and liquor.
I got used. I just did what I used to do - I went elsewhere in my head while they did what they wanted. I got better food for it. Even sometimes my own bottle.
I learned about oral.
Mike's birthday came. He would be eighteen. I thought about killing myself. If I had the guts...
I met other boys. They were getting paid for it. Some were instant enemies, some became friends.
I learned to get paid. I had to keep clean though. Men only wanted clean boys.
I made money. I sometimes had more cash in my hiding spot than my parents ever had.
I got more than a few STDs. Thank goodness for free clinics.
I turned seventeen.
I got in with some guys who had an apartment.
Life was very different.
I sometimes did it for free with friends. Most only did it with guys for money, but some liked guys.
I never felt anything for anyone. I didn't want to.
I started looking too old for the usual men. I did it for other men who liked older guys.
I turned eighteen.
I got an actual job in a factory. It paid pretty well. I stopped doing it for money. I got my own place.
I soon learned that I wasn't attracted to men my own age. Or women. But not boys. Teens.
Boys the age Mike was when we were happy. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Even younger, if they looked like Mike had.
I paid for boys. I knew where to find them, how to talk to them. And I wanted them to have money.
I wanted them.
Maybe I just want them to know that someone can love them.
Maybe I do, in a way. I don't know. Maybe I can never love again.
During the Covid lockdown, I did some research. I found the newspaper article. Suicide it said. County burial.
I found my parents' obituaries. They'd died just a few years ago, a year apart. Dad died of cancer, Mom of a heart attack. And Ricky had been killed in a car accident at nineteen, with two friends where he lived in another state. They'd all been drunk. About the same time I'd moved into my first own apartment. Ben lives around Nashville too, not far from me. Married, six kids, big-time job. I have no intention of contacting him. I hope I never run into him. I'd probably kill him.
I went back during Halloween. His grave was barely marked. I paid to change that. And for flowers for the rest of my life and well past. It cost a pretty penny, but Mike is worth it.
I'll never go back again. Except in my memories.