Grandpa was a funny kinda' guy.

I often think that I've sorta' inherited the gay thing from him.

Maybe the way he used to sit me on his knee and then start slowly but firmly rubbing my upper and inner thighs with his wrinkly old hands, writhing and groaning all the time as he did so, was a bit of a give-away.

After all, I was 16 at the time.

Funnily enough, it was shortly after that that my folks had him sent away to the Sunnyside Rest Home for Elderly Gentlemen.

I've often wondered whether grandpa ever tried out his odd little habit on any of the other residents - 'cos, let me tell ya', that when dad and I went to collect his body for burial for burial six months later, I swear I've never seen so many little old guys crying their hearts out in public.

OK, the nurses and even Sunnyside's Doberman guard dog looked as if they were on the verge of tears too.

But then grandpa had catholic tastes.

And, as he loved to tell me as I sat on his knee, he'd always been able to turn his hand to anything.

Anyway, you're asking, what's grandpa got to do with the Crew?

Well, not much really - except for the fact that he had a favourite saying.

Don't count your chickens until they're hatched.

(Maybe, in view of what I've told you, grandpa had teenage boy chickens in mind? But let's give him the benefit of the doubt.)

And that old saying of his popped right into my mind the night I'd arranged to meet Paul O'Bannion and Sol Greenberg.

Because just before I was due to set out for the team's locker room I picked up a call on my folks' answering machine.

It was Paul.

He wasn't coming - or, for that matter, cumming.

There was some pathetic excuse about having to baby-sit his sister. But, given the fact that she's 17 and she's already got two kids, that didn't sound too convincing.

Of course, he'd chickened out.

But, after a little thought, I decided to carry on regardless.

Who was to say that I'd actually picked up Paul's message?

And, in any case, I'd always had a soft spot - and, it goes without saying, a hard dick - for young Jewish boys with olive skin and dark sexy looks.

When I arrived at the school gym Sol Greenberg was already waiting.

I produced the key that Coach "Back" Passage had given me and let us in, carefully leaving the doors unlocked behind us.

"That's the plan, Sol", I explained.

"Our other reporter Biff Bradley's gonna arrive to interview you and Paul and take a few pictures - and he's gotta think that he catches you both in the middle of some foolin' around."

Sol brightened up noticeably.

"Foolin' around? Like just goofin' around, you mean?"

I brought him down to earth.

"No, Sol. Remember we've gotta have a scandal - at least 'til later when we show it was all some sorta misunderstanding.

"No, when I say foolin' around I mean foolin' around down there."

I gave a more than significant glance at the front of Sol's pants.

He went quiet.

And he stayed quiet for the next twenty minutes while we waited for Paul to arrive - although, of course, I already knew that just wasn't gonna happen.

Then I spoke.

"Look, Sol. Something's obviously wrong. Paul's not showing - but Biff's gonna be here in just a few minutes.

"Gee, this is gonna be real hard for us both. I know neither of us really want to do it. But it's up to just you and me now - and we gotta go through with it for the sake of the team."

I guess that it was just relief that at last something was going to happen and that his personal nightmare would soon be over, but, from that point on, Sol became like putty in my hands.

He let me position him stretched out on one of the benches along the wall, while I sat down on the floor with his basket just inches in front of my face.

"You OK, Sol?" I asked.

In reply came an indistinct murmur. I looked up and saw that he'd screwed his eyes up real tight - just like when the dentist gets into your mouth.

But it wasn't Sol's mouth that I was planning to get into.

Quickly, before he could have any doubts about what was happening, I reached up and started loosening his pants, talking all the time as I did so to reassure him.

"OK, Sol. What's gonna happen is that, when we hear Biff coming, we're gonna look just like I'm stickin' your dick in my mouth and blowing you.

"So to make it believable we'd better get in position and ready."

By now I was able to pull Sol's pants right off and I'd also pushed his shirt right up his chest.

In front of me - and completely at my mercy - was 5'9" of hot, smooth and, as far as I knew, virgin jock, with only a sparkling white pair of very tight Calvins to cover his all too evident embarrassment.

And that, of course, is the area where I immediately directed my attention.

Explaining all the while how it was necessary for the set-up to look as genuine as possible, I placed my hand centre front on Sol's Calvins and began gently squeezing and massaging the tight bulge underneath.

The effect was almost instantaneous.

Sol's dick acted like this was what it had been waiting for all its life - rather than for just twenty minutes. If the underwear had been tight before we started, it was now about to positively burst.

After a minute or so, it wasn't even necessary for me to pull out Sol's dick 'cos it just popped its fat purple head out of the Calvin Klein waistband right on its own!

At that point a car door slammed nearby.

"It must be Biff", I whispered, while, of course, being perfectly aware that it wasn't him at all.

It goes without saying that, as far as I knew, Biff was probably at home in front of the TV with a coupla' beers and, if he was lucky, coupla' girls.

Whatever the case, I certainly hadn't told him to be at the locker room tonight.

But the slamming car door was all the excuse I needed to clamp my mouth over the head of Sol's dick and run my tongue all over it, savouring, as I did so, the salty taste of a few drops of pre-cum brought forth by the work of my hands.

(That bit sounds like somethin' right outa the Bible, doncha think? But then Sol is a good Jewish boy.)

I kept my head locked right there on his dick for a minute or two - and I swear that's all I'd ever planned to do.

After all, just that on its own was more than enough to win me the Inter-Crew Cock Contest.

(By the way, the rest of my plan was that, after both Biff and Paul failed to show up, I'd suggest calling it a day and never mentioning it again - unless, of course, Sol liked it so much that he'd want another try!)

But my partner had other ideas.

At first I thought I was imagining it.

But then I clearly felt that Sol had begun, entirely of his own accord, slowly moving his dick backwards and forwards in and outa my mouth.

A minute later I felt his hands on the back of my head as, more and more deliberately, he began shoving his oversized tool right to the back of my throat.

And, within just a few seconds, the oversexed and quite obviously undermilked kid had pumped a gallon of his best kosher goo all over my tonsils.

Sol's creamy cum was still dribbling out of the corner of my mouth as I got up and headed for the shower where I made a great play of spitting it out into the drain - though, of course, I'd really swallowed and savoured as much as I could.

When I got back there was no sign of Sol.

We never mentioned the night in the locker room again and he was too embarrassed to ask Paul or Biff why they hadn't shown up - which suited me very well.

Of course, I wasn't embarrassed.

And I certainly wasn't discreet - indeed, I was quite probably far too graphic - when it came to presenting my contest entry, in due course, to the other members of the Crew.

© Rob Maynard / HMBoys.com 2002

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