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  • Bruce P. Grether

James Dean: A Great Masturbator!


He rolls over wearing nothing but shorts, tangled in not-so-clean-sheets that smell like someone else; he's got a big bone-on, but then doesn't any healthy guy in his early twenties first thing in the morning? Jimmy wakes up--the heaving cabin of the cruiser anchored somewhere near, what? Martha's Vineyard? Provincetown? Somewhere out there where the Atlantic Ocean spanks the side of the ship now and then. Only it's, maybe, not so early: light stabs down through the port angled awfully high. Yeah, he was up awfully late.

Still curled on his side, only he can't ignore that throbbing boner that tents out his shorts, so he thumbs them down, lets his meat flip out into the close air. SHEESH! Like he has ever since his early teens, he's enthralled at the size of this tube-steak, this major meat with its big ole mushroom head, the hefty shaft sticks up out of curly hairs between his legs. Loves that electric sparkle of light caught in his golden-brown pubic hairs that mean he's not just a boy; he's a man. His baby blues get bigger and rounder as he admires his hefty erection, something he never tires of looking at. Normally, he just thinks about it and it pops out huge like this, also a lot of times when he's not thinking at all. Like now.

Even more incredible is how great it feels when he touches the thing, like now. Yeah, ever since the farm back home Indiana, this has been his secret joy, and not quite so secret with some of those guys in L.A. and New York City where he's been stomping and tramping and dancing and drumming his way--somewhere. This thing, how this feels when he grabs it, squeezes slow and hard, pulls like he's trying to wrestle a horn off the head of a cow, oh man, oh man, feels so phenomenal! Jimmy's gonna be a phenomenon, he's sure, only for now, like always, he's stunned by the waves of pleasure that start to ripple in waves through his torso, up back of his head, tingles down along his legs, where the tiny hairs grow lighter.

Oh YEAAAHH, and he cups those meaty farmer balls down below, with his other hand, while his fingers slide up the shaft, just below the rosy head of this violin neck of turgid flesh, his fingers find that oh sweet so sweet, oh my, that chord of YEEE-OWWW, yeee-HAHHH!!! Christamighty man-musical screaming sensations! He shivers, he shudders with ecstasy. Dips his chin down to that broad chest lower, catches sight of those farm boy nipples--no, none of that hick stuff. One hand up, pinches a nip hard, harder, tugs until it hurts good. Man of the world, whatever the world is now. Man of the stage? Hopefully! Maybe screen, maybe dance, maybe a published poet, maybe a sculptor? Or a naked sculpture of him! Sure: an actor. Who knows? Even more sure a great masturbator!

There had already been plenty of guys whose eyes got big, whose grins got sloppy when they saw the Dean family jewels, or felt the blunt kiss of this nudging them in the dark, pushing blindly at their lips, their cheeks. Or shameless in the daytime, dangerous display of this fuck pole. Only none of them can do it for him like this, no matter how exciting, how scary, how beyond the edge of reason, senses disordered and crazy, none of them can do it like he does himself. Sweeter than any words can say. Until, like now in the cabin, nothing else in the world but this throbbing, swollen one-eyed monster making hims shiver and shudder, cross his eyes--making him a godlike, godlike, bliss/bliss/bliss/yesss, this like this, like this like this/this/this.

Never gets enough, only when he's finished for now, what a mess. At least he can rub his eyes, scratch the back of his neck, struggles into some sweats and stumbles into the passage, up onto the deck. Bleary-eyed, fumbling for some shades in the glint and glare. "Life can be beautiful," he mutters, and it's all sunny, brisk salty blasts. Eternal oceanic splendor. Shifty shapes, guys slouchy.

"Hey, c'mon, get in the raft," someone says. "Let's go. There's this guy with a big house over there past the rocks. We're having lunch with him. He's got, who knows what? Lotta dough."

Jimmy scowls, but he follows the guys down into the big rubber raft with its own little outboard. Keeps quiet at first, while the motor growls, freezing spray flies,then he gets excited again, bubbles over. "Oh boy," he says. "Everything's an adventure!"

Not only does the guy have a big house, sure, money, he's got all kinds of things. Huge gardens, an orchard, expensive drinks. Andy has a good camera. "Let me take some nude photos of you," Andy says, and pats his butt friendly.

"Well, what about when I make it big? Is this such a good idea?"

"Hey, it's for art. You say you're an artist, Jimmy boy. C'mon. Pretty please?"

The sea-breeze ruffles Jimmy's fair hair and he IS awfully pretty! "Yeah," he says, rubbing his stubbly cheek. "I think this IS a good idea. Nobody gets anywhere playin' it safe!" So he strips off the sweats, cock swinging wild and free, climbs up like a monkey into one of the orchard trees, shivering some. Andy urges him, "Make it big." Andy down there focusing his gleaming lens--eye to eye--gets Jimmy excited all over again, he giggles, "Can't help it with you lookin' at me. You know, I got what takes." Perches, spreads his legs, one knee up high and starts to play with himself, cool air on his balls. Ohhh, Ooooooo: Does life get any better than this? His cock feels so intense: unbelievably good. "This ain't just nude," Jimmy giggles again, boyish, "it's lewd!" That audience: about to send him over the top, hard as he's ever been. It's huge/it's HUGE! Oh shoot, oh shoot, about to/

"Beautiful, beautiful!" Andy mutters, *CLICK/CLICK*. "Don't stop. That's great! Beautiful."

Jimmy's gasping. A little scream of release and juice spurts and spurts, even though it's been just a few hours. "Hey," Andy yells, but he's laughing too, "you almost ruined my camera!"


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