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In the gentle gloaming of April I often deliberately chose the longer way home after school in order to pass the football field of the university and catch sight of the robust, youthful bodies of the football lads. The silhouettes of their running bodies in the dusk often evoked a sense of heroicism in me, that sense of golden masculinity, strong, powerful, ready to conquer the world, which I myself lack. At the age of fifteen, I was thin and had a rather pale, melancholic complexion. My natural air of melancholy was often mistaken for unhappiness caused by some trouble, hence my fellow students always tried to cheer me up in vain. I knew exactly the cause of this melancholy: I was in love, not with a particular person, but with the notion of love and masculinity. My burgeoning body longed to be touched, kissed, dominated. Its thirst demands to be quenched by a virile body. Every night, in the dark silence of the night, my hand would caress my entire body and experience the unknown. But Jeff still hated the meddling, self-righteous bastard. Hated how the sanctimonious, child molesting, son-of-a-bitch could reach out of the grave like some deviant ghost and screw up the lives of his family.He leaned back in the captain's chair. His mood improved as he watched the blonde head bobbing between his bare legs. It belonged to Connie Stewart. Thanks to her elfin figure, the former high school cheerleader and gymnast had no trouble fitting into the van's front passenger knee-well. She'd already spent well over an hour there keeping his cock hard while keeping him on the edge of an orgasm. It was her goal, she'd said this morning, to give him a hundred mile blowjob.Those miles were being negotiated by, Molly Wright. She was enthroned behind the steering wheel, wearing aviator sunglasses, old sneakers, and a pair of impossibly skimpy shorts that revealed every inch of her long, tanned legs. A safe driver, she was also wearing her shoulder harness. It served double-duty.
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