Subject: The Showings The Showings We weren’t far into the new school year when the Jewish High Holy Days came round, as they did of course every year, at about the same time. With a 75+% Jewish student/teacher population, my Midwest suburban junior high would be emptied out, pretty deserted for the better part of a week, even though those particular holidays were not “official”. We non-Jewish kids were expected to show up at school, which meant being herded into the cafeteria, transformed for those few days into a huge study hall, overseen by the minority of gentile teachers. There we “studied”, worked on long-term assignments, dozed. Talking was not permitted. Little, if any, teaching or learning got done. I guess some of the slower kids might have gotten special help in their weaker subjects, but it was still too early in the school year for problem areas to be identified, in most cases. The only other “classes” held those few days were a few regular gym sessions, those taught by non-Jewish coaches and PE instructors. But the 25% overall attendance rate — 100% “non-Semitic” — just meant the proportion of uncut boy cocks in the showers went way, way up, to much higher than the norm for the school. That in itself was kind of interesting to some, I guess. That week my Wednesday afternoon timetable did not include a PE class; in fact, it had me in back-to-back study halls, a certain elderly teacher in charge of both � a teacher not known for taking attendance. I decided to skip out after the lunch period and head downtown to one of the cavernous old cinemas (early 1960s Loews, Palace, State, etc.) to see the new feature I was supposed to have watched with my best buddy the previous weekend, except that my parents had grounded me, for some now forgotten reason. (Yeah, at an unusually well-developed 15+1 month, physically more mature in many ways than any of my classmates and not a few of the 16 y-o underclass lads at the local high school, I was still getting grounded, made to feel like a baby … ) Early on a mid-week afternoon, the theater was almost completely empty. I sat alone, smack in the middle about ten rows back, enjoying a perfect viewing location. `Bout midway through the feature, feeling a need to use the men’s, I quickly slipped out and made my way down to the basement, where there was a huge, marble-appointed rest room with a long line of urinals. I knew my way around, as I’d been there several times before, brought downtown by my parents, who’d organize a “movie outing” for the three of us every once in a while. Even as a younger boy, just on the cusp of puberty, 10 or 11, I’d marveled secretly, excitedly, at the row of males standing there with their penises out, de-tanking into the urinals. This was a place, I’d quickly realized, like the showers at the community pool in summer, where adult men could kind of “expose” themselves briefly with impunity. A short corridor behind the door marked “Men” led, via a second swinging door, into the huge main restroom, a dozen or more cubicles ranged along the wall opposite the urinals. Coming through the second door, I checked the urinals out immediately, and was amazed to find just a single pisser standing there, halfway down the row of urinals, already pissing loudly into the porcelain receptacle � a black male in overalls, mid-40s (he looked to me), 6’4″-ish and massively built. His attire suggested he was at work, employed by the cinema. His overalls were the traditional kind, without a fly, so he’d had to undo the shoulder straps and take them down to well below his boxers. There he stood, legs apart, in an XXL singlet on top, XXL boxers below, overalls undone � a partially exposed black male, nowhere near naked, but revealed in a way that was totally new to me; I’d just never seen anything like that before, and found I could not take my eyes off him. I must have been gawking, cos he looked over and smiled, then winked. I was thrown off guard, by finding him there in the first place, and then by that friendly acknowledgment. “Whatchu starin’ at, boy?” … Pause, silence, gulping, continued gawking on my part; I was rooted to the spot, couldn’t move, transfixed. “Come on over and have yourself a closer look.” His voice was firm, but inviting, not bossy. When his words sunk in and I realized what he was offering, I gulped again, my head starting to spin. Of course, I was curious as all hell, wanting nothing more than a “closer look” at that gent, now standing only about 20 feet from me. We’d always lived in an all-white part of town, so no black American had ever shown up at our suburban swimming pool in the summer. Everything I thought I “knew” about black males was derived from the urban legends that circulated freely in secret sessions among white early-mid-teen boys, when they got together to whisper smut to each other about female anatomy, about older girls “known” to be “loose” with (multiple) members of the high school football team, and sometimes, about “black men” and their prowess. Then, in my case, there were the photos in the “male health” magazines I’d gotten into the habit of buying. Among the majority white “he-men” models, there’d always be a few ebony body-builders, buck-naked but for a bulging thong looking like it was ready to burst, full to overflowing, as if they’d been made to stuff their oversize genitals into posing straps two or three sizes too small. I noticed too that those same models were often shot in poses and from angles that showed off their find rear parts as well, something I found almost as enticing as the frontal exposures. (I did not share such photos with my smutty classmates, of course, but kept them to myself, exclusively, escort using them a lot as fodder for my daily multiple jo sessions.) In spite of that intense, overpowering curiosity about this black gent, somehow my feet felt glued to the spot. “Don’t you need to piss, boy? Why’d you come in here? C’mon over and get it done, next to me.” With those words, he took a step backward from the urinal, displaying some of what had been so far been hidden from my sight. The word `hose’ leapt immediately to mind — *not* your ordinary garden-variety garden hose, but the massive black tubing I’d seen the fire department use to put out fires. I guess I must have been bug-eyed at what he was now showing. “C’mon over here; I want to show you something’.” I didn’t need a third invitation. Heart thumping in my chest, I approached him. “I want you to come round over on this side of me”, he said, patting his right thigh. “That way, you’ll be kind of hidden from sight, in case someone suddenly pops in here.” He seemed already to have formulated a plan for us … I went round behind his massive frame, to position myself, legs slightly splayed to help keep my balance, in front of the urinal on his far side, away from the entrance. But then I suddenly came up short, kind of froze, unsure of what my next move, if any, should be … “Go ahead, get yourself out and piss here with me, boy!” � his hose was, incredibly, still blasting away … “I can’t”, I mumbled, “It’s too embarrassing.” “What do you mean `too embarrassing’? There’s nothing’ should embarrass two men like us, boy! Are you holding back on me?” He took another small step backwards, displaying himself 100% to me now … Releasing his hand from his mid-shaft, suddenly, the piss was no longer hitting the back of the urinal, but instead tumbled down into the drain at the base, making a different kind of splattering noise … My mouth went totally dry, as I stared, in disbelief, at what the black gent standing next to me owned as his most Prized Physical Possession. In the community pool showers, where I’d already been eyeing grown men for several years, I had, in fact, seen the occasional “larger” male � a “larger than average white male”, that is. My own Dad was “on the large side down in front”, “generously endowed”, as I myself had learned to appreciate, when, at 8 or 9, I started to compare him to other males I got to see naked, “sizing him up” with respect to his peers. Though I was comparing flaccid to flaccid, of course, he almost always weighed in “looking bigger” than other “larger guys”, in either length or girth, and sometimes both. (My Dad I got to see often enough in the big family bathroom at home, as he never made any attempt to hide his nakedness from me; I’d gotten used to that in my infancy.) But nothing I’d ever laid my eyes on compared with what I was gawking at next to me. Suddenly, another word leapt to mind, after the “fire-truck hose” that had been my first verbal reaction: “elephant trunk”, cos there it was, just dangling down, long, heavy, massively thick, with clearly visible veins pulsing through its surface, the only thing about it that was not `trunk-like’. I’ll never forget my heart-stopping reaction to the full view of himself the black gent was now sharing with me; I was utterly flabbergasted that a human male could be so generously equipped. “So what’s the problem, boy? You’re going to let me see you urinate here?” “I’m sorry, Sir, not sure I can piss now, cos I’m already hard!” The `Sir’ somehow kind of slipped out, without me even thinking about it … “So what … does that mean you can’t show me yourself, son?” “But, Sir, I’ve never done anything like this before.” (In fact, the situation was not totally novel to me, at 15. Given my rather early maturation, on camping trips and the like, I’d sometimes been asked by less developed boys to “show myself”, much to their envy, apparently. Or, an under-developed boy, often older than me, would somehow manage to show up in the school restroom at the same time as me, so he could catch a glimpse of me at the urinals. This happened especially after I got to high school at 16. It was just one of those things that gave me an extra dose of self-confidence in those post-puberty-to-mid-teen years, from about 11 on, when I started to get so far out in front of virtually every boy of the same age. But, I’d never yet had any such interaction with an adult male, let alone a black gentleman; in that sense, this was definitely my “first time”.) “No time like the present, boy … And you keep calling me `Sir’, everything’s gonna be just fine between us. I’m giving you a look-see here, right? You can’t do the same for me, boy?” I was so turned on, both by the situation and the way he was talking to me about it, there was nothing I could do but obey, do what I was being asked to do. After all, in all fairness, all he was asking for was for me to share with him something I had, something he wanted to see for the first time, just as he was so obviously sharing with me something pretty incredible from his side. With his offer, and then request for reciprocation, my “embarrassment” began to fade pretty quickly and any thought of resistance just kind of melted away. My robust 6-inch penis was already ramrod-hard in my school chinos, something I’m sure he had no trouble noticing. Stupidly, I started fiddling with my zipper, even though I knew it would be hard, painful, if not impossible to get my erect penis out through my fly to show the black gent. (The fly on slacks for boys my age was never designed with me in mind, I’d discovered. It was always too short and small, could not be opened wide enough for me to get myself out izmit escort bayan in total comfort.) He saw immediately what I was attempting and snorted, “You’re not going to have any fun trying to show me like that, boy. I want your slacks and then your briefs down, right where you’re standing’ there. Don’t take them off; just leave them at your ankles. If we hear someone coming, you pull up lickety-split and scoot into one of the cubicles there, lock the door, and get yourself properly dressed, ok?” “Yes, Sir” was all I could manage, under the circumstances. “Don’t worry; we’ll hear them coming, if they come. It’s Wednesday afternoon, so it’s going to be slow here.” “Yes, Sir” I was getting used to the sound of my reply to each of his instructions. The `Sir’ was starting to come quite naturally, I felt. As my hands went to my belt buckle, then to my waist-button and fly, he reached with both thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, slipping them down to his knees, from where they fell to his ankles. His left hand went down low to grope his ball-sac, scratching the sac a bit, then stretching it, finally fondling its contents briefly, the huge, musky testes swinging totally free between his thighs. His right hand moved to his shaft to stroke it slowly, gently, massaging that hose-trunk of his, to coax from it the last drops of his tank-load of piss, shaking them out into the drain below … While I was watching his every move, his eyes were glued to my mid-body. I let my school slacks drop to my ankles, then slid down my briefs to mid-thigh level, my mid-teen white boy-cock popping out for his assessment. I wriggled my upper legs a bit, getting the briefs to drop as well, exposing my privates and lower body totally to his view. “Nice organ pipe there, son, very nice. How old did you say you are now?” “Had my 15th birthday couple weeks ago, Sir,” “Just turned 15, huh? You’re coming along nicely there. Proud of it?” “I am, Sir; I’m the biggest boy in my year at school, by a long shot.” “Hmm, that’s nice to hear. Other boys envious?” “Yes, I guess so, Sir” “I bet they would be!” His right hand was moving gently back and forth over his massive shaft, not actually gripping it, just caressing, stroking it softly up and down as he focused on the boy-parts I was displaying to him. He was drinking them in visually as he stimulated himself in a lazy, leisurely fashion. “You ever been with a black man before, boy?” “No, Sir, I have not. You are the first.” “Good; like hearing that. Let’s make it an occasion to remember. Give me your left hand,” he said, extending his right out for me to access. He brought my left hand over to his huge penis, laying it on top, where I could get full sense of its girth. “Go ahead, boy, — touch me, feel me; feel free to explore your big black Daddy here.” All further encouragement unnecessary, I started immediately to grope him. But after about 30 seconds, all of a sudden, he laid his hand on mine, putting a stop to my fondling. “Don’t you need to piss, son?” “No, Sir, not at the moment; don’t think I could even if I needed to!” He chuckled, and turned himself towards me so we were facing each other, allowing me to access his magnificent genitals more easily. They were beginning to show signs of life, his humongous flaccid girth thickening further, to my disbelief, as he engorged and gradually stiffened up. Considerable new blood-flow was being accepted into his penis, and he told me to try grasping him at mid-shaft, to see if I could. When I wrapped my hand around his girth, I found my 15 y-o thumb and middle finger failed to touch � he was considerably thicker than my grip! “If we were somewhere else, son, I’d have you kneel in front of me, lay your sweet white kid-face on my black privates … but we’re going to have to save that for another time, huh.” “Yes, Sir” As I played gently with his duck-egg testes, he began very slowly to masturbate his shaft, finally erecting it to something that looked to me about ten rock-hard inches, easily two more than my Dad could lay claim to in his erect state, which I’d caught sight of on more than one occasion. With the steady movement of his shaft he was creating, his testicles were now jostled up and down in my hands … it was amazing how huge, solid, and actually heavy they felt! The scrotal skin was so abundant it allowed his male eggs to dangle half-way down his thighs towards his knees. I released them from my hands to watch, in amazement, how low they slung down. With my help at his scrotum, the black gent managed to grow himself an erection the like of which I’ve only very, very rarely seen since … guess I must have become pretty bug-eyed, staring at it. “You like what you see, son?” “It’s incredible, Sir, just unbelievable”, I gulped. “I see you licking your lips while you play with my balls, boy.” I nodded in silence. “Is there something you’d like to do, if I let you?” I nodded again, making sure he saw my tongue emerge and flicker over my lips yet again. “Good. For now, I want you to watch me cum, boy. Fondle my balls with both hands, while I jack myself off into the urinal. At the first sound of anybody coming along the corridor, you skedaddle into one of the cubicles, you hear me?” “Understood, Sir, of course” He turned back to face the urinal, denying me full-front access. I shifted around, as best I could, positioning myself diagonally to him, wadding my young body in at a 45-degree angle between him and the marble urinal, so I’d still have his testicles within easy reach. As I continued to play, ever so gently, tenderly, with his massive balls, he began to thwack his meat, big-time. izmit sınırsız escort In almost no time, his MegaCock was jutting skywards, with a pronounced curve back towards his abdomen, an unusual shape I would later come to appreciate in so many ways … just not this first time, our mutual “show-time”. Holding my shirt up for him, I saw his eyes become fixed on my milky mid-teen mid-body, the only visible hair a developing patch of blonde-ish pubes above my young pink penis, now jutting outwards as well, like his, but ramrod straight, without the curve … and only about one third the size of his ebony monster, if even that. The venation on his was complex, fascinating, with a couple of major blood vessels, visibly throbbing, one snaking down the upper surface, the other underneath, not far from his thick sperm-tube, the conduit through which his semen found its way outside his body. As I discovered when he let go of himself briefly to let it me admire his tool standing free, his entire penis pulsed, a massive, living organ, the unforgettable Symbol of his Black Male-hood. “Look, boy, see how I throb? You could take my pulse there for me next time, ok?” “Yes, Sir!; definitely, absolutely!” My shaft was a perfect contrast to his — smooth, silky, like a piece of polished ivory, all the blood-vessel work buried down deep somewhere inside it. My strawberry-shaped glans was already glistening with the pre-cum I’d started oozing almost as soon as I’d lowered my slacks and briefs to give this black gentleman a proper look at me, to let him assess, for himself, a white mid-teen male. With his free hand, he reached over to collect some of my pre-cum on his fingertips, transferring it to his own massive cock-head, where he smeared it over the surface he’d already moistened with pre-, mixing my clear goo in with his own. “You’re doing good there, son, looking pretty good too.” “Thank you, Sir!” But at some level, we both knew how risky the situation was for us. Things could not be prolonged there, where we found ourselves, so the black gent proceeded to take himself manually to orgasm rather quickly, staring fixedly at my young body as he cummed in long spurts, blasting eight heavy ropes of semen into the urinal, grunting powerfully each time he let fly. I was not touching myself — he had not asked me to — and so did not climax, even though I felt mighty close to it, as I watched him “take care of himself” like that right next to me. (It was only later, when I got home … .) It was all over, so quickly! Even before his black mass of a penis was fully flaccid, he was doing himself up: boxers shifted back up to the right height at his waist, singlet brought down and tucked into the boxers, overalls up, the straps over his massive shoulders, then buckled in front. “Sorry, boy, but I’ve got to get going here, back to work.” I nodded, seriously disappointed. But, as my rock-hard boy-cock began to deflate, I suddenly remembered why I’d come to the men’s room in the first place. My very full bladder was sending me messages again, so I waited just a bit for my penis to descend to about half-mast, then turned to face the urinal next to the black gent’s. He had his back to me, busy getting himself in shape to leave, but when he heard my boy-piss splattering against the porcelain, he turned himself round to look. It was a long piss, especially for a 15 y-o, and he watched me very intently, breathing deep and groping his privates slowly through his overalls, until I’d shaken out dry, was no longer dripping. “Good one, boy; too bad you had to wait so long for that relief. It sure is nice to watch you. You know, if we had time here now …” I looked at him, straight in the eye. “I’m already feeling I’m ready to go again …” A huge bulge at his crotch showed that he was not exaggerating. “But no, we’d better not now.” I was pulling my briefs and slacks back up again over my still engorged penis, zipping up, with care, finally buckling my belt — getting ready to go back into the cinema. He was on the point of leaving. “There’s just something I’d like to ask you, boy.” Again I stared, straight into his large, brown eyes. Turned out he wanted to know if there wasn’t some way he could “get in touch in future”. I hesitated before answering, not at all sure what I’d be getting into. “It’s ok; I understand your reluctance. Just thought it’d be nice if we could get together again — under different circumstances, if you know what I mean.” I did sense what he meant, and so I made a snap-decision, telling him, my voice quivering nervously a bit, “yes”, he could call me, but would he please hang up, without saying anything — not even `hello’ — if he was not be absolutely sure it was me on the other end? “How many of you are there at home?” he asked. “Just my parents and myself.” … Then I added, on impulse, “Please call in the afternoon, Sir, after school, if you can. They won’t be home yet.” He smiled, pulled pencil and paper from one of the many pockets in his overalls, and I gave him my home number, the only number I had, back in the day … “My name’s Henry”, he said, offering me his hand for a second time. “I sure hope we can meet again.” “Yes, Sir, I think I would like that too. I’m Kent.” He scribbled something on the piece of paper, gave me another wink, turned and was gone, out through the two swinging doors and down the long basement corridor, back to work somewhere in the building, no doubt. I climbed the stairs to the nearly empty cinema, sat down in an aisle seat, struggling to collect my thoughts after what had just happened to me. My mind was kind of blank, and I didn’t know where to start to recover where I’d been earlier, before going down to the men’s. To this day, I have no idea how the second half of that movie turned out, though I stayed till the end, before emerging, still in semi-bewilderment, into the mid-afternoon sunlight to look for a bus home.

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