Catalina Cherries
by Joe Butterman


Chapter 1: The Very First Time

My best friend and I discovered sex and love the summer we were fourteen.  It seemed like the entire world had changed.  Of course, the world hadn’t changed at all; but we certainly had, and we set out to explore this wonderful new dimension that had suddenly opened before us one July day in Anaheim.

My Grandparents lived in Anaheim; they doted on me and it had been the practice for the last few years for me to spend the summers with them.  They had one of those wonderful old California bungalows that seemed to stretch from room to room forever.  There were high ceilings and lots of polished woodwork, built-in cabinets and bookshelves; there was a beautiful brick fireplace with an elegant mantle.  Nothing had burned in this fireplace in living memory; someone had once built a fire in it, for there was a little scorching at the back, but the scorching didn’t even go all the way to the flue.  I always noted this because I spent the winters at our ranch in Nevada where our fireplaces got a lot of use.

What I liked best about the place was the backyard.  Down the steps from the back porch was this wonderful grape arbor: deeply shaded it was a mass of thick leaves and clusters of delicious purple grapes; it always seemed cool even in the sometimes breathless heat of Southern California.  For some reason, the trees in the backyard were of such character, that I never thought of them as just a tree.  It wasn’t the apricot tree, or the avocado tree: rather, it was The Apricot tree, or The Avocado tree, or whichever of the many trees around the house.  I have no idea why this was, but it was.  I was permitted to climb any of the trees except the Avocado.  This was okay because the Avocado had no good branches down low.  I’d have had to get a ladder to climb it and then it would be more like work than adventure.  All around the border in the backyard there grew a profusion of small trees that were called Catalina Cherries.  They bore no fruit, possessed no personality in my thoughts, but did provide an impenetrable screen of vegetation.  Nothing grew beneath the trees along the fence. It was a wonderful jungle to disappear in.  I had several secret places in it and thought of it as my own jungle.

This magical summer started as the previous ones had.  My Grandparents and Johnny met me at the train station.  Johnny was my best friend.  He lived two houses down from my Grandparents and we were all but inseparable every summer.

I was required to undertake a transition every summer.  Throughout the rest of the year I lived in the relaxed Episcopalian atmosphere of my parent’s world; but in the summer, I moved in the more formidable atmosphere of the Dutch Reformed Church – church attendance, for example, was not voluntary and there would be no companionable games of cribbage, because of course, cards are one of the devils many workshops.

So for the first few weeks, Johnny and I ran around, discussed school and things, and resumed our close companionship almost as if we’d not been apart at all.  Some Sundays, I would even be permitted to go to church with Johnny.  Johnny was a Presbyterian, which was almost okay.

Then one day, Johnny and I were walking back from the miniature golf course that had recently opened where orange trees once had grown.  We had not been permitted to play though we had plenty of money.  We were wearing cut-off jeans and sneakers without socks.  It was a hot day in early July so we hadn’t thought to bring the t-shirts that we would sometimes carry.  Like I said, we were both fourteen and this was virtually our summer uniform.  But there was an old man running the miniature golf course.  He was wearing a yellowish long-sleeved shirt that had once been white, collar and cuffs primly buttoned.  He was not wearing a tie, which I thought odd, as I am something of a snob.  When we sought to buy our tickets, he declaimed: “No naked torsos.”  Now I really thought he was odd.  I mean he could have had a sign that would say something like “No Shoes No Shirt No Service” if the lack of a shirt was such a big deal; or he could have said a lot of other things to the same effect.  But, I mean, come on?  “No naked torsos” what a stupid way to say it.  It was almost like he was trying some kind of incantation or something.  As if he was trying to invest his stupid rule with some kind of virtue by talking like in the Bible.  Behind him, a frowzy woman shook her head grimly, saying without words – what’s-this-world-coming-to?  We were turned away.  Vaguely mystified, our bad humor lasted about a block.  Who needed miniature golf anyway?

“I wish you had a swimming pool,” I commented to Johnny.  He nodded.  I had recently read Tom Sawyer and had very much enjoyed all the parts where they go skinny-dipping in the river.  I had told Johnny all about the skinny-dipping and he thought it would be pretty neat too.  But he didn’t think it was likely that he’d have a swimming pool anytime soon.  He lived with his Mother who had just divorced his Father.  His Father seldom came around.  His Mother worked at a local real estate office and was gone most of the time.  If he had a swimming pool, we could have run around naked all day long.  It never occurred to us that my Grandparents might have a swimming pool.  They were Pennsylvania Dutch and not the swimming pool sort.

What I hadn’t told Johnny about skinny-dipping, was that when first I read it in Tom Sawyer, I got all warm and tingly and hard.  I subsequently learned in the schoolyard that being hard down there is called a “boner” or a “hard-on.”  But I made no immediate connection to boys running around naked and the pleasurable sensation of a “hard-on.”  Funny how dense we, or at least I, can frequently be.

So as we’re walking down the street, I start getting a boner for no reason, I guess, except the thoughts about skinny-dipping with Johnny.  Johnny said, “What’ll we do now?”

“Dunno,” I replied helpfully and threw the ball back, “whadda you think we should do?”

This discussion went nowhere, amiably enough, and then we decided we should get a Popsicle.  So we about faced, and went down to the corner Mom & Pop store where naked torsos were no big deal in the Popsicle business.  I got an orange one and Johnny got a grape one and we started back toward our homes sucking on our popsicles.

Then, out of the clear blue of the Anaheim sky, Johnny wants to know, “Does yours ever get hard?”

“My what?”  I respond densely, boner straining against the denim of my cut-offs.

“You know…your wiener.”

“You mean a boner?”  I ask, hopeful but feeling the need to be specific.


“Yeah.”  I’m hopeful, so uncharacteristically, I volunteer some information.  “I’ve got a boner now.”

“Me too.”

This mutual condition established, we continue down the street.  My mind is all awhirl.  I had, of course, studied my boner, but had never seen another, and I very much wanted to see Johnny’s.  But I’m also kinda scared.  There’s the whole business of hair: I had somewhere in the vicinity of thirteen to thirty pubic hairs with no hair whatever on my chest or under my arms.  What if Johnny had a lot more hair?  Would he tease me?  But then, he had no hair under his arms or on his chest either.  I was only vaguely aware of these issues of masculinity and maturity, but somewhere I had come to equate an abundance of pubic hair with some sort of undefined virtue.

Johnny offered, “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”  What a great idea.  How had he known that’s what I was thinking about?

“Okay,” I agreed, all concerns about the mystery of pubic hair banished by the prospect of seeing his boner.  Johnny continued, “Let’s go to my house.  My Mom won’t be home for hours.  Great, another problem solved.

“Okay.”  We move up the street with new purpose, though we hardly know what that purpose might be.

Not only were Johnny and I of an age, but we were also pretty much of a type: we each had hazel eyes; we had the golden tan that comes quickly with years in the sunshine of Southern California.  Johnny had sandy blond hair that fell over his forehead while I had light brown hair that was in the regulation flat top that so many of the sons of veterans of World War II were expected to wear.  I really like Johnny’s hair and often thought I should adopt his style.  Right now, though, I was more concerned about seeing his boner.

When we got to Johnny’s we went around to the backyard and entered through the kitchen.  I followed Johnny as he made a beeline for his upstairs bedroom.  Basically, since the divorce, Johnny had the entire upstairs to himself while his Mother had the downstairs to herself.  Johnny never mentioned, and I never heard of, or saw, any visitors that his Mom might have entertained.

In Johnny’s room, Johnny turned around smiling as he unzipped his cut-offs and kicked off his shoes.  He looked me right in the eyes as he dropped his cut-offs to the floor and stood there completely naked.  His boner stood stiffly upright, his balls swaying slightly from his motions.  The tip of his boner came just to his upper tan line, while his lower tan line was several inches below his beautiful balls.

I was transfixed: transfixed by his beauty and his twinkly eyes; stunned by the speed with which this had all happened.  Somehow I had imagined that he would carefully unzip his fly, and then I would carefully unbutton my fly; then we would slowly take out our respective boners for inspection.  All the while, with our cut-offs up, on, and closed.  Johnny’s plan was much better.  It was kinda like Tom Sawyer only with boners.

I attempted to get naked as quick as I could.  But my eyes were riveted on his beautiful sex and my hands seemed to fumble as they opened the buttons on my cut-offs, a chore that was usually almost instant because it was so routine.  It seemed like it took forever, but it was probably only seconds, and we were both naked and looking over every inch of one another.  I looked into his eyes as he stepped up to me and reached down to cup my balls with his fingers.  His touch caused me to shudder at the pleasure of it and I put my hands on his shoulders and gently massaged him.  I trailed one hand down his back and began to stroke his silken butt.  The sensations were too awesome to be anything but good and right.  We stepped together as one and began to slowly rub our boners against each other.

“This is great.”  One of us said.

Johnny was now stroking me, sometimes with his hand, sometimes just with a finger or two.  Then he’d release my rampant boner and fondle my balls.  I did the same to him only I also liked to massage his butt with both hands and push against his stomach with my boner, but I could seldom get the last part done because Johnny never let go of me for very long.  Johnny mostly had his eyes closed, and he was kinda cooing with pleasure as all of this was going on; I’d close my eyes sometimes too, but then I’d jerk them open again as I loved to watch him – the way his face worked as our passion rose.  I was probably cooing with this great pleasure too, but I don’t remember it.

He opened his eyes and looked into mine.  “Let’s kiss,” he suggested.  For once I had nothing to say and no clarification was necessary.  I put my lips to his and kissed him.  He tasted of grape Popsicle: he tasted of many other things, some of which I did not understand, or was only vaguely aware of; he tasted of the great mystery of sex and this was my first kiss of passion; he tasted of manhood; he tasted of youth; he tasted of unknown pleasures.  He stuck his tongue between my lips and ran it along my teeth.  I opened my mouth and touched his tongue with mine.  I began to understand what ‘sexy’ really meant.  It was bliss beyond words as we sucked on each other’s tongues as our hands explored everything within reach on our naked bodies.

A couple of years ago, I had my first orgasm.  I didn’t really know what it was, and I certainly didn’t call it an orgasm at the time.  It happened when, daringly, I was sleeping in only my pajama tops.  I was asleep when it started and only woke up when I started spurting.  The dream that I’d had was vivid, and Johnny was in it, but I didn’t remember any of the actual details of the dream.  I never wore pajama bottoms to bed again.

We were still kissing wildly and running our hands all over each other, though we were spending more and more time stroking our boners.  I knew the sensations were building but I really didn’t know where they would lead us.  We were young.  We were certainly inexperienced.  Time was running out.

Johnny pulled me to him as he moved backward and fell onto his bed.  He had released my boner and was now pumping against my stomach.  I followed his example and we were soon pumping against each other in rhythm while we hugged madly and kissed fervently.  In just a few seconds this divine feeling came erupting from down there and I was pulsing waves of sticky goo between our stomachs.  We were now deliciously lubricated and it was easy to continue the motion until he began shuddering mightily and I felt him spurting between us just as I had.  We slowed together and soon were resting quietly in one another’s arms in a glow of satisfaction and a sheen of sweat and goo.

Johnny started to expand my vocabulary, this in itself, was something of an unusual occurrence.  It was not called “goo,” it was called “cum.”  There were some other things too.

Neither of us seemed in the least interested in getting dressed or up.  I rolled off Johnny onto my side and ran my fingers up and down his chest through the spots of cum.  Our boners were gone, but I looked his sex over very carefully because it was beautiful the way it relaxed across his leg, and I also determined that he had almost exactly the same number of pubic hairs that I had and that his were even harder to see because his hair was lighter.

Johnny said that we should clean up because his Mother would be home in about an hour.  I wanted to stay naked with him, and was not at all anxious to end this moment.  Johnny said, “We’ll take a shower together.  You can wash me then I’ll wash you.”  What a super idea.  We walked down the hall naked (I thought this was pretty daring too) and I loved the way Johnny’s ass swayed as he sexied down the hall.  His bathroom was tiled in a light green color and the shower had a glass door.  Designed for one adult, it was precisely the right size for two fourteen year olds who wanted to do a lot of touching.  Johnny stood with the door open while he fiddled with the faucets so the shower would be just right.  I admired his lithe form, his tanned body with the white stripe around his middle where the cut-offs usually were, the sweet curve of his butt.  He beckoned me to follow and we got into the shower.  Johnny stood beneath the showerhead and got completely wet, then he pulled me gently to him and got me thoroughly wet also.  Then he turned off the shower and handed me a bar of soap saying, “Okay, wash me all over.” So I took the soap and turned him around so that his ass was even with my semi-boner.  I rubbed the soap into a lather on his back and then worked it down into his ass.  I spread his cheeks and thoroughly soaped every inch of his crack and his butt.  Then I knelt down on the shower floor and started soaping his legs one at a time. When this was done, he turned around and I was looking right at his semi-boner, which needed to be thoroughly washed and soaped until it was no longer ‘semi’.  I considered kissing it, but it was all soapy.  I decided in the future to kiss first and soap second.  I stood up and lathered his chest and his arms and caressed his face and then handed him the soap.

Johnny pushed me back against the shower wall and immediately went down in front of me; wiser, he kissed me first and only later started lathering me up.  He spent a great deal of time washing my butt, and he even stuck one of his fingers a little way up my hole.  This felt just a little odd, but just about anything he had wanted to do would have been okay with me.

We then rinsed off under the shower and ran our hands over each other to ensure that all of the soap was well and truly off.  We dried each other and then, leaving the towels on the bathroom floor, swaggered naked back to his room where, reluctantly, we got dressed.

“What’re we gonna do tomorrow?”  I wondered.  Johnny smiled.  I had never noticed before just how long and elegant his eyelashes were.  He kissed me lightly.  “Come over in the morning and we’ll figure something out.”


Feedback is the only payment our authors get!
Please take a moment to email the author if you enjoyed the story.

Rating: 4.5/5. From 1 vote.
Please wait...

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *