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An Epiphany

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by Rood Seldom can we experience a manifestation of divinity in our lives, and it is even more rare to have that revelation appear twice. But to have those epiphanies separated by decades of time and space, yet connected by an open expression of ecstatic male sexuality, seems rather the stuff of fiction. Nevertheless, the incidents portrayed in this narration are all true. They can be verified by others. They culminated, and found their meaning, finally, here on the webpages of Clubstroke not ten days ago. The bulk of this narration covers a period of time pre-Stonewall, when overt male bonding was unknown, when the fundamental need for men to express their love for other men was hidden, furtive, and shameful, when sexual expression was limited by church, state, and convention. And a warning to readers: This story occurred Before the Fall, a time of innocence, a time when men could love and not be aware that they were loving. Finally, this story is a tragedy. It ends in death. There is little here of throbbing cocks, of panting sex, of spashes of cum on rippling chests. If that is what you need you must go elsewhere. And yet, the fundamental purpose of Clubstroke--that deep hunger of men to love their own kind, to stroke together, to share their sexuality openly and honestly--first found expression for me on the front lawn of a small, split-level rooming house in an upper midwest college town. If Clubstroke has meaning that meaning found first expression years ago on that diminutive lawn. It was a small house on a narrow lot. There were four rooms below which were rented to college students, while the landlord lived above. The house faced west towards the campus and there were two small patches of lawn in front, divided by the sidewalk to the front door. On the south side, a narrow driveway filled the space next to the neighboring house, where a chemistry professor lived with his family. Our entrance was to the rear, and during my freshman and sophomore years my room faced east and south. It was directly below the kitchen and dining area. That first year there were eight young men downstairs. We were a disparate bunch. One kid was from New York, and except for Bob S., who was a farmer's son (this was a school of agriculture, after all)the rest were from various midwest towns. With his superficial sophistication, the kid from New York gave our group its essential character. There was drinking, whoring, and poker, all things that were completely alien to me. Three days after I left the house for the summer break a tornado ripped through the campus and all but destroyed the house. The elderly landlord and his wife survived, cowering in the corner of my room below. When I returned to campus in September the house had essentially been rebuilt, and we had acquired a new landord. Luckily for me we had also lost the worst of the crew from the year before and their were now only six of us. I had my room to myself (mixed blessing). and a Junior student had a room to himself. But the essential character of the students had not changed much. There were still wild parties on weekends, noise and loud music. Life was difficult. To make matters worse, I had fallen in love with Bob S but did not dare express my feelings in any way. Although in agriculture he was a brilliant student. Never studied for tests yet got perfect scores. And he was gorgeous. The other cross that I had to bear were the landlord and his wife. He was a milquetoast of a man, and she regularly slapped him around while berating him about what a worthless SOB he was. All this in front of their six year old daughter and directly over my room. I was getting a pretty sordid picture of married life. So it was a blessing when we returned to school after Christmas break to discover that they had sold the house....this time to a retired farmer, his wife and their three teenage children. The farmer was forced by a heart condition to give up work. They lived off what rental money we and their farm land brought them. The wife was a revelation. She was a Ma Kettle type. (For you young one's, a character from the Betty McDonald novel The Egg and I, concerning the hilarious adventures of a city couple who move to a chicken ranch. The novel was made into a film, which gave rise to the Ma and Pa Kettle films, wildly popular in the 40's and 50's). She was loud and boisterous, but softer and more loving than Ma Kettle.Bob S became her favorite and she would fix him goodies and invite him to meals. >From her I learned how simple love could be. You just gave of yourself. When I returned for my junior year, all of the old crew had left except for the fellow at the far end of the hall, Joe A, who was now a senior. But he was deeply involved in campus radio in the evening and on weekends so he was seldom seen. My old room was now empty, having moved myself into the SW room. I craved the winter sun. With me in that room was Loren S. an Ag student from up-state. Loren was short and stocky, but not overweight. He was quietly handsome in his own way. In the room to the NW was David M, from a farm family living near Loren. They had gone to school together. David was tall and slender, a dead ringer for Chas Lindberg, except that his facial features were more oval. His eyes were almond shaped--gazelle eyes, with long, thick lashes. His roommate, Lawrence S. was lanky and a bit slow, but loveable. All three were freshmen and just off the farm. They had none of the sophistication of my former roommates and all of their assets. Some time after the first of the year and early on a Friday evening, we were all in David's room. Lawrence was lying on David's bed just inside the door with Loren. David was sitting at his desk and I was standing by the door. We were discussing nothing in particular when Loren began tickling Lawrence. Suddenly he said, "Let's take his pants off". In a flash, with no hesitation, and with no preplanning we three dove on top of Lawrence. There ensued a 40 minute struggle, the four of us giggling and laughing. We never succeeded in stripping poor Lawrence, but we finally collapsed in a heap, sweat dripping from our faces, which glowed with excitement. Weeks passed and we had all forgotton about the incident. All that is, except for Lawrence, who meant to get his revenge.. So when circumstances found the two of them lying on my bed and the four of us talking one evening, Lawrence jumped Loren and called for us to help. Again, the mad, wonderful, hot, sweaty, young, laughing four of us tore at Loren's clothes, and he, struggling with all his might, fought us off, kicking, pulling, and wrestling. Again we four collapsed in a heap on my bed, exhilarated from our combat. My turn came months later, again on David's bed. Now I saw the struggle from the other side, discovering what a thrill it was to have three boisterous young men trying to strip off your clothing. It was a revelation to find that for all our struggle, we wanted to be stripped, we wanted to be naked before each other. But convention would not allow it. To have given in, to have allowed the strip, would have robbed the struggle of its excitement. Have you ever had three young men struggle to remove your clothes? It takes extraordinary strength and will power to prevent it. And therein lay its charm. Finally, in early May, the long, cold winter was over. The heaps of snow were melted, the trees had only weeks before acquired their fresh leaves of summer and their long branches swayed languidly in the warm spring air. Below them, the brown grass had turned a deep, velvety green. Finally, it was David's turn. The struggle started again, on his bed. But before we could catch him, he slipped from our hands and bolted out the door, down the hall, up the stairs and out the door, the three of us close behind. We finally tackled him there on the front lawn, directly below the astonished eyes of our landlord and his wife in the picture window above. Not twenty feet away, the neighbor children were playing basketball in their driveway. Twenty feet to the west was the busy city street. It was there, on that fresh spring lawn, thick and dark, in the varied light of sunset, with the sweet smell of black soil below, thrusting its seeds upward to the sun, that we sensed at last something fundamental, something ancient and masculine. We were no longer adolescents roughhousing. No, we had become aware from the stares of the people around that the world was watching. It was not just the landlord and his wife, not just the neighborhood children, not just the people in the passing cars who observed our struggle. We had taken on the entire moral code of a nation. We were openly transgressing societies proper view of the world. And we did not care. The urge was too great, too intense, too pure. In that joyful, ecstatic struggle was a blinding vision of male beauty, sex and love. Had events permitted, I am confident that the next search for meaning and identity would have been more personal, perhaps a pairing off. Perhaps it would have turned overtly sexual, despite our fears. Who knows. Alas, it was not to be. About two weeks following this epiphany on the lawn...our Splendor in the Grass--I was sitting late one afternoon at my desk, studying for a final test. The house was quiet. Suddenly I heard the back door open and the sound of excited voices with the clumbing of heavy feet.The door to my room burst open and my three roommates, breathless and eager, poured in, calling for me to go out with them for a coke and pizza. Now I usually do well on tests, but it has always been a struggle. I must concentrate and get deep within a subject before I feel confident. And so I declined, asking only that they return with a coke and a couple slices of pizza. After they left I turned again to my studies. Hours later I was finally wrapping things up for the evening when I again heard the back door open and their voices, but this time soft and muffled and with quiet steps. I turned as Loren opened the door, Lawrence behind him. David, I assumed was parking his car. "What took you so long, " I asked. They told me that they had driven out by the airport following their meal. But there had been an accident. David was thrown from his car and killed. I staggered to my feet, grabbing the chair for support, shaking in shock and disbelief. A searing light blinded my consciousness. Weary from studying, this was too much to comprehend. Explanations rolled off me as water, and I sank to the floor, holding my head and groaning in agony. Later in the week the three of us climbed into Loren's car and drove the 150 miles to the country church for David's funeral. We stayed overnight with Loren's family on their farm. The most difficult moment came at the funeral, meeting David's family. Death was incomprehensible to me, how could I console them? The whole week of tests and sorrow was like a dream. I was left trembling and speechless.I did not return to that school the next fall. Once only did I see Loren again. I was working on highway construction and my survey crew and I entered a restaurant in a small town. After I sat down I looked across the room to find Loren sitting in a booth with two other men. We looked at each other, but where my gaze met his was only our pain, still fresh, and David. And once, while visiting a friend at the Campus Lutheran Center at the "U', I saw Lawrence walk by the window, heading for class. It was the same old Lawrence, but I could not go out to say hello. I would have collapsed in tears. The memories were still too vivid. The years have now rolled by and I had all but forgotten my old friends, except once last summer while speaking to my mother about some incident, I reminded her of David's death. Then, several weeks ago, an internet acquaintance introduced me to Clubstroke, where I found a community of men so warm, wonderful and open that I asked for help with something about which I did not understand: specifically, why from the very beginning of one's sexual awakening should the urge to eat one's own cum be so intense up to the point of ejaculation but not after. Seven wonderful men worked me through the challenge and that night I experienced an incredibly beautiful breakthrough.After an hour of stroking and edging, I allowed myself to ejaculate, letting the first two spurts pour into my left hand, which I immediately lapped up, before I could finish ejaculating. My hand was covered with semen and it took long strokes of my tongue to lap it up, then sucking each finger clean,one by one. After a minute or two a stray glob of cum began to roll down my left cheek towards my lips. I stuck out my tongue and lapped it down. So special was this occasion and so grateful was I towards the men who had helped me that I left the residue on my body for the morning, reveling in its special odor. I was filled with an intense feeling of being in the hands of those men. It was as though they had stroked my cock, they had played with my nipples, they had brought me to the edge and over, they who put their cum soaked fingers in my mouth to savor that precious masculine juice. Suddenly that intense feeling of closeness to a group of men brought back memories of that hour on the lawn, so many years ago, of Loren, and Lawrence, and of David. And at last I was free to mourn. For the first time since David's death my eyes were filled with tears. They poured down my face, mingling with the still wet cum as I called out openly and for the first time: "David, I loved you, I love you now, I'll always love you. David, you were beautiful, you with your gazelle eyes." And with that the decades of repression, the years of moral condemnation were erased by cum and tears and I was washed in love.

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