The Discovery

I have never been uncomfortable with naked bodies. Growing up with six older brothers who rarely took the time to put on clothes when they were home will do that to a guy. Just sucks for me that I'm the only one out of the seven of us that it turned gay.

Now, I don't know for sure that that's what did it, but really who's to say? Maybe in a normal family I would've ended up married to Sally Simons across the street like my mother wanted me to and had a big, normal family and never once have had dirty dreams about other guys. But, I am gay and I do have dirty wet dreams that feature hunky men and I would rather die by toothpick inhalation than marry Sally Simons . . . much less have kids with her . . . yuck.

I'm not your typical gay guy though. I don't care about my clothes and I don't wear eyeliner and I think cross-dressing is actually pretty darn creepy. I don't say "girlfriend" and, as a matter of fact I've never had a close girl friend. I look like a straight guy pretty much – not a popular, jock-ish straight guy, but definitely a straight guy.

That's probably why no one has guessed I have dirty dreams about boys . . . I just don't look like the type. But I do, oh Baby Sainted John, I do.

I blame Garrett the most. I walked in on that retard jerking himself off – in the family room, no less! – when I was only seven. It's one of my earliest memories and, to be honest, every time I see Garrett I think about it. So, I walked in and saw him sprawled all over the couch with pay-per-view porn on the screen and my first question was how did he get his pee-pee so big? I mean, I'd seen my brother's member before, he didn't really cover it up much or anything, but I had never seen it looking like . . . that. That pervert taught me to masturbate that day. At seven. I definitely blame Garrett the most.

So when I went to public school I found out that most people wore clothes most of the time. I found out that it was weird to have seen more penises than just your own. Billy, one of my first friends, confided in me that he didn't even look at his own. All that I found out in the classroom, under the supervision of teachers. I found though, that the stuff I learned on the playground when the teachers weren't looking was a lot more interesting. Like I learned that some little boys paid Rachel Michaels a quarter to show them her panties, which I thought was stupid – that money could've been used on gumballs or arcade games, who wanted to see panties anyway? I found out that kissing (meaning a peck on the cheek usually, a peck next to the lips if you were daring) was how babies were made.

Me and my bestest buddy Nathan tried that a lot. We could not for the life of us understand why we didn't get any babies out of the deal (we wanted them as spies against the girls and slave labor).

In seventh grade, though, Nathan and I came up with a brilliant beyond brilliant idea. We were bestest buddies and we talked about everything, so we knew that both of us "touched ourselves". We had a couple other friends who also confessed to that most taboo of all activities and we figured since we're all doing it, why wouldn't we do it together?

And such was the start of the Jerking Circle. It consisted of six boys: me, Nathan, Billy, Taylor, Cameron and Christian. At first, we met outside in a clump of trees behind the school. Everyone was all excited – in more ways than one – and we all kinda talked about girls (which was baffling to me, why would anyone want to think about girls at a time like that?) and kept our pants securely zipped and left after approximately three minutes.

Nathan and I discussed this and decided that there should be rules for the Jerking Circle seeing as neither of us had gotten much out of it. Nathan, who wants to be a writer and for as long as I can remember has always had paper and pen on his person, pulled out a crumpled piece of notebook paper and we composed the "Rules of the Jerking Circle". They went like this:

Everybody should do like they do at home

Everybody should give ideas

Every week – no matter who's gone

It should be fun

Nobody outside the Circle gets to know – especially no girls!

We met in the clump of trees the very next week and made everyone sign the

"Rules of the Jerking Circle". After that meeting of the Circle, we began meeting inside. We had discovered one of the great mysteries of male life – sex is just not as fun when it's cold. We met in a cleaning supplies storage room in the school basement until we switched schools. Then we started meeting at each other's houses.

I still have that piece of paper with the "Rules of the Jerking Circle" and our shaky little signatures. I keep it in a box along with a condom I stole from my brother, a tube of lube and a few gay porn pictures that I printed off the internet. In tenth grade, we lost Christian – he moved to Tennessee – and gained a new member named Jesse. We still hold the Jerking Circle every week, even though we're about it graduate.

In ninth grade, though, Nathan and I discovered that once a week just didn't cut it and we started a tradition of our own. Both of us had older brothers who were careless with their porn stashes so whenever we went to each other's house we would hole up in a bedroom and talk and jerk off. It's weird that none of the Circle members have noticed that I glance at their dicks and that I don't talk about girls, but it's weirder that Nathan has never noticed that I have a . . . slight obsession with his penis.

Nathan is a master of his craft, he knows exactly what he likes and he knows exactly how to deliver it. And his member is . . . beautiful – it's so incredible that every time I see I think there must be a God . . . and that he must be gay. When we stick in that porno and plop down on the floor, my eyes just gravitate to Nathan's hands. He always gently caresses himself through his jeans first, even though I'm sure he can barely feel it. He rubs up and down his thighs and over the bulge growing in his jeans. Then he unzips them, slowly and traces a line with his finger down the gap. He unbuttons them and shimmies them down, just enough that his groin is easily reachable and he runs his right middle finger up and down himself. When he's really and truly hard, he shucks off his jeans and boxers at the same time and starts tracing the folds of his balls. He traces up his shaft and around the glistening head of his dick over and over before he clasps his hand loosely around himself and starts pumping. It always takes fifteen times and then he cums – a frothy stream of white – but he doesn't stop pumping. Five more times, milking himself dry and then he lets go. I watch his hands rest on his thighs, his fingers shaking slightly. Then I look up quickly to meet his eyes as he glances at me and grins – half in embarrassment and half in teasing because I never fail to cum right as I meet his eyes.

As you've probably guessed, Nathan is regular feature of my wet dreams.

How cliché, I'm in love with my best friend.