Recollection

Recollection

This story is entirely fictional. It is my offering for July 4. Have a great holiday--but try to remember what it stands for. Arnold Wood does not exist except in my imagination. However, in the late 30s until 1941, thousands of Jews emigrated to the US to avoid Nazi extermination. Many were legal; some were not. There were strict quotas, and it is reported that Anti-Semitism reigned in the US State Department. The Holocaust Museum has a collection stories from American Jews. This MIGHT be one of them. All characters who engage in sexual activity are over 18. © Copyright, Brunosden, 2025.

(Author's note to my Followers: my current series--Savannah Affair--is not finished. This is an interruption because of the holiday. BD)

Good morning. My name is Arnold Wood. Okay, let's get this straight from the beginning since this is an official government document: my real name is Aaron Groenwald. I'm German, born in Dresden, although certain Germans never thought we were German. I'm a Jew. An Ashkenazi Jew who traces his ancestry right back to Moses, the Prophet, may he rest in the bosom of Yahweh. I've lived a wonderful life in these United States for most of my life. I'm no longer a German if I ever was. I'm an American, and proud of it. I studied and became a citizen about ten years after I arrived. I've been here for over 80 years. I pay taxes. And I vote because my vote counts. I read and listen and make sure that what happened to me and my family in Germany so many years ago will not be repeated here.

I'm a quiet guy, mind my own business. But the events of the last few years have begun to worry again. At my age, it probably won't mean much to me. But.... So, when those wonderful museum people coaxed me to tell my story into this machine, I finally agreed. I've never trusted any Government. They've never done anything for me. And they've often tried to exterminate me--as vermin. But, after visiting the Museum, I couldn't wait to tell my story.

I warned them that it would be quite different from what they have in the archives. It's a bit racy. But, at my age, all I have left are the juicy memories. They can mark it "XX, Adults Only" if they have too. I don't care.

I've lived a great life in the United States, in Brooklyn, New York. I've never taken a dollar of dole--at least not a dollar that I haven't paid back many times in taxes. I'm 100 years old today, I think. We celebrate my birthday on July 4, but the records aren't great. I really don't know my birthday. The Nazis destroyed everything they could find concerning the Jews, including our birth records. But, I've been in the United States of America since I was a teenager--and I reinvented myself within days of arrival.

Pardon my language and my grammar. I've tried to become a literate American. But, it's hard when you have to work two jobs just to survive. And I don't have children and grandchildren to teach me. Most of my English has been learned from the radio, the newspapers and TV sitcoms.

As I said, I'm about 100 years old, but, if you want to understand my story, you need to imagine me as a young boy, a handsome young boy, full of life and as innocent as we all were at the time. In my mind's eye, I still am that desirable young guy, attracting stares from the girls (and I think some boys) as I walked confidently down Kaiserstrasse in Dresden or Fulton in Brooklyn, with a swagger in my step, my head held high, my eyes flashing at potential hook ups. Picture that handsome lad as you listen to this story.

So let me begin...

I arrived in the States in 1943, at the age of 18 or 19. I don't know what happened to my family. Perhaps they too are here in the States, but I've never found them--although if the truth be known, I never sought them, and they never sought me. The Museum has no record of their extermination if in fact that is what happened. No doubt, if they got here, they changed their names. During the war, America was not sympathetic to Jews, and those of us who landed here were quick to change our names and the way we lived. We were Americans, not American Jews--if we wanted to survive.

In Dresden, two years before, when I was about 16, the family had pretty much disowned me. I told Mama and Papa that I was a homosexual, that I liked boys, and would not marry the girl they had chosen for me. At first they didn't believe, and they mocked me. "Of course, you are not a homo. No Groenwald has ever been a homo. It's an abomination. A sin against nature and against Yahweh. You'll marry Miriam and give us the grandchildren that Yahweh has commanded. Forget about this foolishness. Wherever did you get these strange ideas? You're a good Jewish boy. Act like it."

Months went by and I continued to insist that I would not marry Miriam. And that it didn't matter anyway because the Nazis were going to kill us all. "Haven't you heard the voices in the streets, Papa? They are out for us. Many of my friends and their families have already disappeared." Then, he turned away from me when he saw that the cloth star on my sleeve was pink, not yellow. I never saw him smile again.

Slowly, they began excluding me from the family--although I still had a bed. I didn't marry Miriam. But, on my eighteenth birthday as I gift to myself, I did lay with Adam, a boy of my age, beautiful and intelligent. I had been watching him at shul for months. Because of his last name, he sat just in front of me or beside me. He was a god to me. He was as dark as I was light; as mysterious and sophisticated as I was innocent and open. His chest was broad and his arms bulged--so unlike many of the other schoolboys. His tight wool britches hid a muscled ass and promised a prize. At first we were just friends, fellow teammates. Later, after a few pregnant moments in the showers, we talked, and even held each other's cocks. He convinced me of who I was. A man for men. We met after shul in his room, in the attic. The house was quiet. Everyone was working or shopping.

We carefully undressed each other. I stared at his naked body and knew that was what I wanted--a boy with muscles, a long, thick dick and a muscular ass. We moved our warm bodies together as one, and even kissed. I discovered the incredible joy of holding another boy's cock, massaging and loving it to hardness, feeling the power of holding something so hard, yet soft over which I had power, and being the one to make it spurt. Then he did the same for me. Later, we took each other in our mouths. I caressed his ass, pulling him in even closer and deeper. Ah, the ass! Not that base object of jokes, but a wonder to hold, to massage, and to penetrate with long sensitive fingers. And I learned to love and savor the seed bearing emission of men. I was already in love--with Adam, and with dick and cum. Once you've been there, there is no going back.

Papa was a watchmaker, a job that I was being trained to do--at least until my revelation. We weren't rich, but we did have a warm apartment and food to eat. I went to shul, and we were in our pews at the synagogue every Friday night. The Nazis did come for us. We had only a few hours warning before the Gestapo troopers invaded our neighborhood, once so hospitable, green and prosperous. Within a day, our houses were deserted. The shops were shuttered. I sneaked into my Dad's and found it empty--and wondered whether they or he had taken the gold and the tools. I was away from home when the family fled--with Adam, in his room again, Adonai forgive me. They didn't wait for me. And I never saw them or Adam again, except in my dreams--or were they nightmares?

I managed to get to France, Calais, mostly walking, and occasionally sucking a cock for a ride in a cart or a meal. It was easy after the first. The French were casual about sex. Men, women, boys, girls. It was all about pleasure. No rules. No recriminations. And no attachments. Who knew what tomorrow would bring?

During those six weeks of journey, I learned how important it is to have a body desired by others. Life is always easier on people who look good. You can always sell yourself. And as to that, Yahweh willing, I was gifted. I was tall, lean, light skinned and with mousy blonde straight hair, like straw. I could easily pass as a non-Semite. Not quite the perfect German (Aryan), but not swarthy, or short like my father. I took after my mother, a tall woman of Prussian ancestry. I had a decent sized cock, cut obviously. Light muscles so unlike my schoolmates. No fat. And, God willing, I will continue to exercise until I die. I'm still proud of the way I look--and at how other guys still look at me.

From France, I managed to stow-away on a ferry that took me to Dover, in England. It was chaos. So many from the Continent were fleeing from the Nazis--and crossing the Channel was the first step in escape. From there, I crossed the country over several weeks, doing odd jobs and learning more and more English. (I found the English were not so "friendly" when it came to sex. So I walked mostly.) Finally, at Manchester, I signed on to work as crew on one of the ships plying the US-Great Britain trade, landing in the Ship Channel from the Irish Sea, secretly bringing arms to England. My name by then had changed. No one was asking for papers. The trips were dangerous, difficult and secret as we were targets of the infamous U-boats. The jobs were plentiful and the takers were few. They took me on easily--I was strong, spoke passable English, I would work for a pittance, and I was willing to risk my life on the voyages. They winked when I told them I was an Englishman. I was fighting the Nazis--and that's all that mattered to me at the time.

There were a few opportunities to be with men on the long sea trips. Always in secret. Always furtive and quick. Never anal--I'm not sure I even knew what that was at the time. But, I learned a few things about myself and what I wanted. I was by no means a whore. I chose carefully. Young, good looking, hung, not too rough. I also learned to speak passable colloquial lower class English. And realized that I definitely preferred "manly" men with above average cocks.

After the third trip, I slipped away from the ship and the dock. I was going to fade into the big sprawling city, New York. I was 20, and I had managed to save some cash. But, a friend told me, if I were caught, they would deport me. (I'm not sure to where--the world was in flames at the time.) He told me that I should go to Ellis Island and apply for a visa. The fact that I was employed in the war effort would be a plus and that I had money to support myself. I knew without asking never to mention my Jewish heritage or my sexual tastes or my German ancestry. I took the ferry to Ellis Island, one of few going TO the island. There, I applied for entry--as a Brit, born in Dover. Unlike many of those in line, I was clean, wore clean clothes, and stood tall and proud. I knew I looked good, very good. I was counting on it. They took my word, although I had no papers. The immigration agent, who patted me down (for what I'm not sure--but he did require me to spread my legs and he did linger over my upper thigh where my dick was hanging), winked at me and handed me a hand-written address. "I'll be here after six; come by if you need a bed tonight." He noted that I had a few hundred dollars, and that I was employed as a crew member on the Lend-Lease ships. He quickly stamped me in. I didn't go to the address. And, a few years later, I became a citizen.

I never did become a watchmaker. My body was not made to stoop over a bench manipulating the tiny tools required. I had large hands with long thick fingers and big feet. The stevedoring had bulked me up. Wide shoulders, a sculpted belly, thick thighs and big strong arms filled out my six foot frame. My dirty blonde hair lightened a bit and even curled a bit. I was tan from the outdoor work and the sea. And I had a decent thick unblemished cock. I didn't realize at the time, but I was exactly the type of young boy that men of a certain persuasion seek out. Curiously, I looked more Aryan than many of the Nazis who were trying to prevent us from polluting their new Reich. But, I was definitely a man, not in the slightest fey or feminine. I drew stares wherever I went.

I stopped doing the voyages, but I did begin a lifelong job as a stevedore--the guys who loaded and unloaded ships on the many docks of New York City, Hoboken and Brooklyn. I joined the union--it cost me half my meager life savings. I found a small flat in Brooklyn and took most meals at an Irish pub in my neighborhood. Momma would die to see me eating non-Kosher, but I wasn't a Jew anymore. Yahweh had abandoned us. So I abandoned him as well. And, I could pass for Irish.

I struck up friendships, carefully at first, and always casually at the pub. There were many of us working the docks, unmarried, looking for companionship and for a little relief from the grinding work. It was a jolly place, with occasional music, pool and darts, and a wide range of types. I danced with some of the girls, but was mostly attracted to the guys. I noted that some of them paired off and left together at the end of the evening's entertainment. I opened up a little and started talking--although I was careful to conceal most of my past. It was easy--most of the patrons had pasts to hide, or at least pasts of which they were ashamed.

One guy, Sioban O'Brien, nicknamed SOB by his buds, had eaten beside me at the bar for a few nights. The fact that he sat next to me often intrigued me; and the fact that he did it more than once was interesting. I wondered about the name. It sounded like a girl's (he pronounced it She-awn), but he was not the slightest feminine. He was good looking, freckled, red-haired and always smiling. His voice was peppered with Irish humor. A ray of jovial sunlight after a long day hauling on the docks. And, unlike my family members, he was very touchy-feely and in your face. Obviously not afraid to invade personal space--always grabbing my upper arm or shoulder, pressing his thigh against mine at the crowded bar. He invited me to join him at the public bath, and since my flat didn't have a tub or even a shower, I readily accepted.

The next night after the pub dinner (shepherd's pie, mash and ale), we headed off to the Prospect Baths. It was a large old place, set on a commercial street, with male and female entrances, nothing really fancy--brick and stone, completely tiled in black and white inside. It was crowded and there was a line. It seemed that many didn't have bathing facilities.

We were one of the last to enter. It was very late. We paid, got a key to a locker and a towel, and moved to the basement. Our lockers were near each other, sharing an old wooden bench. We stripped and moved to the baths. I noted that both of us were careful to keep our eyes down--although I stole glances of him as we undressed and walked. (I presume he did the same to me.) The baths were segregated and nude. He had broad shoulders, the most beautiful ass that I had ever seen, popping up and out from his thick thighs in contrast to his incredibly narrow waist, with the lightest dusting of rosy blonde hair. I immediately wanted to stroke it. And his cock was nestled in a fiery bush--reminding me of Abraham's apparition in the desert where Yahweh appeared to him in a fiery bush that did not burn--an image from one of my shul books. It was almost a religious experience. Or maybe a sacrilegious one. But weren't we taught that we were made in the image of our Creator? Surely he had created some beauties like himself--and Sioban was one of them. Somehow I knew that I too had found the gateway to heaven.

Sioban was a little shorter than I, but stockier with no fat at all. Neither of us had any appreciable body hair, save patches underarm and surrounding our dicks. Flaccid, we seemed to be about the same size, not small, but not obscene--but of course I was cut and he wasn't. (Fortunately in the US most guys were cut, not just Jews.) These weren't Roman baths--just hot showers where we soaped and rinsed, and hot pools of water to soak and get clean. On the men's side at least, there was a steam room. No evidence of sexual activity at all. No side rooms with curtains. No massage tables. This was basic stuff. We wrapped towels and headed for the steam. The night had quieted, and most had already left. It was deserted, but smelled that unique aroma of fertile musk and maleness.

Sioban surprised me as we entered the empty room. He unwrapped and sat across from me on his towel in the narrow room, totally exposing himself. He even fluffed a bit so that his stuff sat on top his thighs as he reclined. His head bent back and his eyes closed as his legs extended and his calves slid between mine. The touch was electric. I wondered, but was pretty sure he was sending a message. So, I followed his lead. I unfastened the towel, stiffened my legs and vee-d toward him. I must have dozed and closed the vee, scissoring his legs. He jolted awake, and the movement did the same for me. His leg was pressed into my thigh, holding me open and my legs were clamped around his knees. I looked over at him, and he was chubbed, nearly erect. It must have been a pleasant dream. His eyes met mine and trailed down my muscular chest down until he stared into my lap. I too was hard. He stared for a long time before turning away.

He smiled. "It's been a long time since I've had a girl. Sorry. You've got a very nice one."

"No need to be sorry. It's been a long time for me as well." And then I took the jump that would change my life. I was pretty sure he was coming on to me. "I can help you with that if you want. My flat is only a few blocks away." He was either going to hit me and walk, or I was going to find my first new friend in Brooklyn.

He paused for a long time. Then he stroked his dick a few times, sending an unmistakable message. He stood, flapping his semi-rigid cock inches from my face. "I'd like that, Arnie." So we dressed in silence; this time not cautious about our eyes. He was a beaut. I had hit the jackpot. So we walked in the pouring rain to my place. We were soaked to the skin. As we entered, I remarked, "I'll find you something dry to wear to get your warm."

"I'd rather cuddle with you in your bed if that's okay with you, Arnie." He was already out of his wet button-down workshirt, and was unbuttoning his trousers. I pointed to the small bedroom--the only other room in the apartment, and followed him in. Fortunately, I had always "made the bed" when I woke--and ingrained habit that Momma had fostered. He pulled the coverlet and the rough woolen blanket and, as he dropped his boxers, he climbed between the sheets. I gasped at his butt. It was like a woman's--wide and just the slightest fuzzed. But there the comparison ended. He was muscled and hard with deep hip dimples. He took his time, knowing that I was mesmerized by the image. I tore my clothes off and jumped in behind him.

We embraced, a tight hug that shared warmth and took breath away as our rigid cocks played tag. Then, our lips touched and our tongues met. He tasted delicious. We kissed, hot and heavy. We rolled and wrestled, taking turns as aggressor, as big spoon, massaging asses and stroking steel-hard cocks. Within minutes we were breathless with arousal. That feeling of holding another man's soft, yet hard babymaker in a fist sent shivers through my body. Then, as I caressed his hot, moist balls, he grabbed mine and began to roll them with his agile fingers. We both went rigid and started to leak.

After maybe ten minutes of this intensity, he stopped. "How are we gonna do this? Are you going to do me first? Since you're the host here, I'll let you choose."

"I really don't know, Sioban. I don't have a lot of experience. A few men, mutual stroking, a few blow jobs, taken and given. But, never more. So I really don't know."

Looking back at that time now, I realize I was so innocent--a twenty year old virgin. (Well, that was not counting Adam, the seamen or the guys in the French countryside--I did say I had re-invented myself upon arrival in New York.) I was so wound up in the moment that I was prepared to do whatever he wanted. I was hungry for him, for a man. This man. I had won the Irish Sweepstakes.

"Arnie, I haven't had much more experience. I played around a little with my older brother, and he raped me before I left Ireland. So I'm not a virgin like you. It's not as though they teach you these things in school. And I'm not experienced. So let's take this slow. You go first." With that, he leaned back and spread his legs, giving me full access to his genitals. He was still pink and soft from the baths, but his cock lofted above. He was a good-looking guy, not model material, but pale, muscled and masculine. The long ginger treasure trail curled down and around his penis, presenting it on a rosy platter. His tits were hard with large deep pink aureoles and eraser hard nipples.

He was giving himself to me. Trusting me to take him to pleasure-town.

I leaned in and tentatively licked the glistening head which had been revealed when his hood rolled back. I reached over, fisted, slipped the loose hood back and forth with a few fingers. (What a marvel a hood is. Why did Yahweh decree that we should all lose ours? It was a cruel joke. Over the next years, that hood would become one of my favorite parts of his body.) Then I reached out with a tongue and licked it as my lips tightened. The tip reached under the hood and tasted. It was all man. I began to suck. He groaned and jolted. "That feels so good, Arnie. Are you sure you're not experienced?" We continued in this position for several minutes. I licked, drew the head into my mouth and tasted, and used my tongue again to push under the hood and lap up the precum as I started to suck. By then, he was almost violent, rising from the bed, pounding it with his fists, trying to push deeper and deeper. Calling my name and praising me with words that would embarrass a rabbi. Then, as one sailor had taught me, I released, formed a ring with my thumb and forefinger and squeezed the base of his shaft as I gobbled his balls one by one, before licking his taint and returning and taking him deep. I thought he would hit the ceiling.

"Where the fuck did you ever learn that trick! I'm cummin', Arnie!" So I took him back inside as he spasmed and filled my mouth with his spunk. It wasn't bad, salty, clover honey, then a little acrid and bleachy. All in all, not bad, and a taste that I would soon learn to cherish. Then, I fell on top of him and squirmed us together. I tried to kiss, but he turned away. "Next time, I promise. I need to continue in this moment. I've never tasted myself."

We stretched out together, but this time, he was cradling me. I had given him pleasure--and, like a girlfriend, he was cuddling me in gratitude, caressing my nipples and my dick which was slick with my own cum. I had blown too. Taking him had stimulated me to enjoy. And I had popped.

I remember that night so vividly. It was like yesterday. A few minutes later, we were both rigid again. It was his turn.

I won't go into the details, and they tell me this is not a porn site. (Fuck, they know I'm gay--and at 100 that is not about to change. If they want my story, it's going to be my story.) It was just too much. But, within an hour, we had both given and received the essence of our manhood and we slept, huddled together in my warm soft bed in my chilling room. It was the best night I had enjoyed in years. Sleeping with a man, cuddled into his hardness, holding him tight, rubbing my erection on his sweaty body, squeezing his between my thighs, inhaling his maleness.

In the morning, when I awakened, he was gone. Probably as ashamed as I at what we had opened up to. It was Tuesday, and I had volunteered for a long shift. No Paddy's for me tonight. I wouldn't get off until it was closed. At least I wouldn't have to face Sioban. Until tomorrow.

But, it was not an issue at all. For the next month, we had a regular routine. Wednesdays and Saturdays (my "light" eight hour days) we met at the pub, ate, and then returned to my flat where we took turns. Sunday was our only day off--so we went to the baths on Saturday night first and returned to my place for a late night of play. We often spent the morning in bed, continuing our explorations. Typically starting with hand strokes and finishing oral, always with lots of ass play. Once Sioban accused me of being an "ass man"--and I think he was spot-on.

Gay culture was not developed. There were no "how to" books, videos or skin magazines. Fucking an ass seemed really extreme, maybe impossible, and certainly dirty and painful. But, we did learn to use our fingers, penetrating deeper and deeper, stroking, moving from one finger to two to three. We learned to clean ourselves out and to lube--I bought large cans of the glistening white Crisco even though I had no oven for baking and didn't cook except soup on the two burner.

And we discovered the prostate, Yahweh's gift to about half the human population. Too bad he didn't tell us! But, as a Jew, I knew it was our job as human beings to discover all the wonders that he had hidden from us. It was his creation, but it was a game too. The creation was ours to discover and enjoy.

We were falling into an easy pattern, enjoying the companionship, and developing affection. Spending more and more time together. Often huddled under a blanket stroking as we listened to the radio, or later watched the small flickering TV screen.

Finally, one Sunday--I remember it was Passover, 1945, about a year after we had been together, Sioban asked me to fuck him. Hitler had been defeated, and we were very joyful and ready to celebrate. It was morning and we had already taken care of our morning wood, lying silently in bed, side by side, staring at the ceiling, enjoying the quiet company. Both of us thought that upping our sexual games would be an excellent way to celebrate--Fuck Hitler. We had been to the baths the previous night, and both of us were sparklingly clean and smelled of soap. "I want to feel you inside, Arnie. I've heard there's nothing like it." Without waiting for my answer, he flipped on his belly and pushed his pillow under his gut. His cute naked butt was lofted above the bed below his arched back at the crux of his widely spread legs. This emphasized his very narrow waist and the swell of his well-developed glutes. It was a sunny day and a streak of sunlight washed over the globes, casting shadows on the bed, highlighting the deep hip dimples and the soft short reddish peach fuzz. How could I refuse my best friend? He was offering me all of himself.

I pulled off my sleep shorts, and moved between his legs. I gripped his ass-cheeks and began the massage that always turned both of us on. He spread wide, and using his hands, pulled the cheeks apart, exposing a wrinkled bud of beigey-pink, quivering in the morning sun. It opened a bit and closed as he breathed, almost winking at me. I stared for a minute or two, mesmerized with the possibilities. I lubed fingers and began to open him, occasionally going deep to touch the prostate, but mostly widening the entrance.

My fingers went to the bud and one, then two penetrated. That was nothing new for us. Then, I bent in, and licked the rim before sticking my tongue inside.

"What are you doing, Arnie? That feels so good! Your tongue and St. Bridget's lips can really do a decent jig on my ass!" He laughed, which caused his ass to jiggle tantalizingly inches from my face. So I did it again and again. He laughed and pushed up into my face.

Then Sioban continued with his banter. I was way too serious about this. "Faith and Begorrah! By the sacred bones of St Bernard and St Columbus. Put him in. Looking at me isn't going to do it, Arnie. You gotta put it in. Today please!"

"I want you inside when I cum, Arnie. You're getting me really hot. Please!"

So I aimed and applied pressure. My dick was just too big. It would never fit. I didn't penetrate at all. "Try again, big boy. Try again." I did, holding it rigid with a hand, as he pushed back into me and relaxed, releasing the muscle. And the cockhead disappeared inside. Fuck, I was inside a man and he was squeezing the shit out of me--well probably not shit from that end. My first ass--and as it turns out, my last. He was always enough.

He cursed and froze. But seconds later, he turned his head and looked deeply into my eyes as he whispered, "Now, Arnie, give it a little more." I greased again. Then, I did, and I slipped in a few inches, finding the nut. He swore again, a string of Gaelic words I had heard before when he was ready to cum. He moaned in pleasure and pushed back hard into me, swallowing another two or three inches. Then we began the rocking, going deeper with each thrust. He was vocal, really vocal, moaning, urging me deeper, praising my technique. Finally, I pulled him hard into my gut and I bottomed. My balls bounced off his, and my chest fell to his back, holding him tightly under. I had found paradise. Paradise on Earth. The New Jerusalem. The Promised Land. Whatever you want to call it. I froze again, enjoying the squeeze, feeling his muscles contracting around my swollen shaft.

A minute or so later, he began to move, and I followed, pushing in and pulling out, using my strong hips to thrust up and in, experiencing the intense pleasure of a dick being stroked by the muscles of his chute as it slid over the silken pocket, rubbing against the hard nut. I reached under and grabbed his dick. He was rigid. The hood was totally drawn back, tight against the shaft. He was wet with precum, spilling more than he had ever done before. It expanded in my fist and throbbed impatiently. That moment you're your fist is surrounding another guy's dick as it expands in response to your filling his hole with yours is one of those uniquely pleasurable moments. You never forget it. You've got total control over your pleasure and the pleasure of another human being. Holding on, I plunged hard, held it, and then began the automatic spasms that would carry my seed deep into his bowels. I felt the hardening of his dick and finally, he spurted hard and hot into my hand.

"Fuck, Arnie, that was incredible. Keep it in there as long as you can. He feels wonderful, filling me up. Your beautiful cock was meant for this, for me. It feels so wonderful. I'm glad that I'm a young man with plenty of time to enjoy this in the future. By the sacred bones of St. Patrick, I swear this will not be the last time we're doing this. Woody is welcome anytime."

I did wonder about his comments. I think I might have giggled. What were all these sacred bones doing in our bed? Wasn't mine enough to get the job done? Had he practiced with some aptly named sex toys? And "Woody"--my dick--certainly had a personality and will of its own. Now he had a name.

I rested on his back, enveloping him with arms and legs, holding him tight, straining to keep my dick hard and deep, plugging my seed inside. He was still active, pushing his ass up into me and squeezing my cock with his muscled cheeks, trying I think to keep it hard--or at least inside. There were a few aftershocks--massage spasms deep inside his chute that squeezed my incredibly sensitive dick head. It was the most glorious feeling of my life. I think I was in love from that minute. Two young handsome guys were in love.

Later that day we repeated, and I took him inside me--the first time any man had been there. A finger or two on a prostate is good stuff; a thick hard dick squashing it with continuous pressure and pounding it with strength is something else entirely. His cock was thick and hard, and rolled back hood scraped my love nut with each pass. The feeling of fullness--and the glory of actually feeling his hot spunk coating my insides--are the wonders of being with a man. I really feel complete and whole when his rigid cock is planted deeply inside me, widening my chute, taking up residence. And when he bottomed, and I knew I had taken all of him inside, I felt a deep warm feeling throughout my body. I felt the orgasm building from deep inside, and soon I was squirting our sheets again. Just as his hot spunk filled me to the brim. I was in love. And I think he was too.

Needless to say, after the first pairing, we did it again. We learned to let loose and accept the pleasure that only a cock can provide. Deep full body orgasms became routine as we learned each other's erogenous points and tried other positions. My favorite was missionary as I pressed forward holding his legs high, staring into the bluest eyes in the world. His was riding. He loved when I rode him and fell into him, our chests hot and heaving, as he climaxed into me. We were addicted to each other--I think that is love. I began to look at Sioban in a different way. He was obviously a handsome, hung guy and a buddy. But, now we were lovers, and that transformed him into a god. More than once, he used that word about me, too. Two gods, a Jew and a goy, seeding each other on a daily basis. After that weekend we never fucked again--it was always making love.

If you saw me today, I'm pretty sure that "god" is the last word you'd use about me--except maybe, "God, how did you live so fuckin' long?" And my answer would be, "Find yourself a lover who lights your fire with every caress, every kiss and every time he makes love to you. Sleep with him. Make love to him. Touch him. Caress him. Kiss him. Let him do the same to you. And you'll live a long and prosperous and very happy life."

"And do it in America which allows us the freedom to be with other men--at least for now."

A year later, he moved in with me--or rather we moved in together--a larger place for the two of us--with a bathtub and a shower. We bought a big bed, but it seemed a waste since we always slept curled together.

We both worked as stevedores until we retired, often taking the train together to the docks. The union guys never said anything, although they probably guessed. After all, we were both muscled strong young stevedores--capable to taking on anyone in a back alley. Not a feminine bone in our bodies. We continued to eat a few times a week at Paddy's, flirting with the girls and teasing the guys. And even though we had a bath, we continued to go to Prospect to relive our first time naked together--and, if the truth be known, to ogle the other young guys who began to arrive. And years later, when the gyms began to open, we joined and worked out regularly. Gotta keep a nice bod for a lover, believe me.

Before long, the regulars at Paddy's realized we were a couple. And they accepted us for what we were--the ultimate glory of America. Or at least that's the way it was. Maybe again someday.

Sioban and I lived together happily until he died, now almost twenty years ago. Heart attack. He went quick--and only minutes after we had cum simultaneously--again. He used to joke that he wanted to die in bed. Little did he know. We were together for nearly sixty years. Our love was private and silent outside our apartment for most of those years. Society demanded it.

Ultimately, we moved to the Village where gays were more welcome. We volunteered at a shelter--for young boys who had been disowned by their families because they were gay or who were victims of a father's abuse. It was our "church" and "temple." He tried the local Catholic Church, but they were still all about homosexuality being sinful. So he only went a few times. And I refused to enter a synagogue. Why would God produce such a sick joke?

Sioban still appears in my dreams, telling me over and over that we'll be together again soon. I can't wait. I never replaced him in my bed.

New York legalized gay marriage, and, if he were still alive, we would have married. As time went on, we were not afraid to go public with our relationship--at least in New York. We marched in Gay Pride parades. Held hands as we walked in the Village. Even went to gay strip clubs for our birthdays. But, in our hearts, we were always married. I adored his body, and he did mine, I'm pretty sure. I never needed anyone else. And I never wanted to live anywhere else. This is my country. A country which takes in all kinds. Even Jews. Even gays. The tired, the poor, the hungry, the oppressed--and even gays. It says so on the plaque under the Lady in the Harbor. God bless America.

(... where even an X-rated Recollection like this one can rest in the archives of a great museum, and where someday soon, God willing, the invitation of the Lady in the Harbor will be open again.)

Arnold Wood

July 4, 2025

BD

Happy Fourth! May we have many more with the same level of freedom that we thought we had won--until just a few months ago! Hopefully, this too will pass. But, it won't, unless me make it pass.