Sometimes Clark wondered if he'd always been gay. He remembered the first time he and Pete had talked about jerking off. It was summertime; Clark had just turned 12. Puberty was making inroads, but Pete had been first -- had the first wet dream, had the first embarrassing erection in school.
Sitting under that oak tree and jerking off together was Pete's idea. They had a bet going as to who could jet the farthest.
Clark remembered how plump and dark the head of Pete's cock was. Clark had wanted to touch it, wondered briefly if it would taste as much like a ripe plum as it looked. Even then he knew better than to try to touch, much less taste. That was something a girl might do some day in the distant future.
Pete had been surprised by Clark's foreskin, had teased Clark about his puny size -- something he really regretted when Clark got that last growth spurt all over.
There'd been something comfortable as well as dangerous about sitting there with their shorts off. The scent of arousal in the air between them. Seeing the fluid begin to leak slowly, then copiously from Pete's slit had made Clark's dick twitch in his hand.
Pete called Clark's name as he came wanting to call attention to how far the thick white fluid shot. Clark's was a little thinner, a little clearer, but he shot twice as far. In his heart he knew it was from watching Pete's eyes close and his dark, fuzzy balls contract, from hearing his own name husky from a newly deepened throat.
Pete's brother had heard them and yelled at them. Did they want the whole town to think they were little fags? Clark knew what the answer to that had to be.
After that, he and Pete had talked about life, about sex, about girls, but never again had the warm peace of an oak tree at their backs and their dicks in their hands.