I never knew, when I joined the choir, what joy it would bring me.
When I arrived in August, I was instantly taken with the charm of Oxford, the history, the patina of age and romance, the sense of intellectual adventure. I had arrived to pursue a doctorate in church history: what better place than at Christ Church College, founded by Henry the eighth? I reveled in the great hall where we took our meal, the model for the great hall of Hogwarts, under a 16th century full length portrait of our donor. I drank in the pubs, I made new friends among my fellow scholars, I launched into the final and most challenging part of my academic career.
The first week of September, I was meeting with my “tutor,” when she suggested I join the Christ Church Cathedral choir. “They had a choir scholar from London University who had to beg off: he had a family emergency back in Australia. I suggested you, since your application included choir both in your public school and at University. You did sing baritone, did you not?” she asked, cocking one eyebrow in a quintessential English manner. So it was I met the choir master, and after a session of sight singing and a number of scales, I was welcomed as the newest choir scholar, a position that would also increase the stipend I received from the university.
I was surprised by the pleasure I would take in the singing. First, of course, was the setting, in the 15th century gothic cathedral, sitting the choir, scholars and choristers, in choir stalls facing each other, worn smooth by the bums of generations and generations of musicians and choir boys. Second, after years of singing in all men’s or mixed choruses with the shrill or vibrato soprano’s of girls, I was singing with male trebles whose voices created the purest, clearest, most stunning high notes of any human instrument. We sang Sunday Eucharist, Monday Evensong and Thursday’s Sung Eucharist. The scholars (including me) wore red robes over white shirt and tie. The choristers wore ruffed collars under their red robes, ruffs that framed their faces. Like angels. Except for the oldest choristers, who had wisps of facial hair and the worried look of those who knew their careers as trebles would soon be over. Among the boys there were some, older boys, who wore medals around their necks. They were senior choristers and leaders of the sections.
We rehearsed twice a week at the Cathedral school, although the boys rehearsed daily. We gathered before worship in a robing room off the nave, a place of jostling and high spirits, and for the Eucharist and festivals, we would march in two rows as we sang.
At first I knew no one. I held back, taking the measure of all things. I took special delight in the way that the boys burst into rehearsals, infusing life into the sedate and time bound institution. Despite the uniforms, the ties and gray slacks or shorts, they were often askew and left no doubt that they were, indeed boys. So different from the boys of my childhood in Indiana—but boys, none the less. Eventually, I began to make friends with the other scholars. My American accent became an item of some interest, no doubt. I would see the choristers glance back with interest as I joked with my colleagues at the back. Among them, in the front row, was one fine boy—a lead chorister with a medallion—younger than the other lead choristers, but with a fine voice. More than once the choir master would nod his direction with a “Collier-Jones, take this solo.” His voice rose with a purity and clarity like none other. He was perhaps twelve or thirteen, thin in an athletic way, with dark hair cut conservatively, with a tendency to fall over his eyes. He would sweep it back, with a shake of his head, or rearrange it with fine, tapered fingers. I would often catch him looking back at me in those first months, with a look of both curiosity and . . . anticipation?
We began in earnest to prepare for Christmas in October. There were extra rehearsals. At one break Collier-Jones approached me as I sat and ate an apple, accompanied by a couple friends, one about 10 with red, or “ginger” hair, as the English say and another of about 11, with that particular English combination of blond hair like champagne and clear white skin with a rosy cast. Strawberries and cream.
“Hullo. Is it true, you’re American?” he asked.
“Yes, quite true. And what’s your name?” I asked.
“Oh, Collier-Jones. And this is Willcox (nodding at the ginger haired boy) and this is Miller (nodding at the other.) What’s your name?” He replied
“Michael. Michael Detwiler. Do you guys have first names? We American find all this last name stuff rather strange.”
“Um, force of habit, I suppose. My name is Roderick, but my family call me Roddy. Willcox is a Robert, but we call him Rosy because of his hair—and this is Simon. Do you break dance?”
I threw back my head and laughed. So that was it , , , I was American, and I probably knew Michael Jackson, as well.
“No, I’m afraid folks from my part of Indiana don’t dance like that. And I don’t know Michael Jackson.
Roddy flushed red, as Rosy laughed into his sleeve, and Simon grinned a shy but telling smile.
“I never . . .” he stammered.
“Don’t worry. We’re not all that different.”
And we found we were not. He like video games, and was delighted to hear I had brought a Play Station with me to England. His older brother had one, but he did not, and was not allowed any electronics at school. “Can’t even watch any telly. It’s dead dull when the studies are over . . . and they’re not much fun, either.”
And so, as we began to work on Christmas, he would stop at break and sit and talk, with Simon or Rosy or another boy in tow. We talked about sports and girls, about school and grades. I learned that his parents were from old monied families, his father with a bank job in the city and a large house an hours drive from his offices. I learned his older brother bullied him terribly, and he had been at the Cathedral school since he was 8—and yes, my first guess was right: he was 13. I perhaps shared more than I should, about the difficulty of leaving my family, of the dear John letter I got from my college girl friend, who suddenly discovered she had to decide between air fare to England at Christmas and a buddy relationship with a co-worker. Sharon chose the new relationship and Christmas in Chicago.
It was a Friday evening, around 7, when the knock came at the door. I went to check, and there stood Roddy. Decked out, it seemed, in what he must have believed was typical American garb: a jean jacket, jeans slung low to show his boxers, a hat askew over his forelock, and boarder shoes. There was a twinkle in his amber eyes, eyes whose beauty I was just then taking in.
“I brought you something,” he said, pushing past me into my rooms. He handed me a folio of some Rutter.
“But I have that . . .” I began.
“I know. But I needed an excuse to get your room number from the porter. Just told him I had to get you some music for choir. It’s a long weekend, and I’m signed out to go to the movie in town with Rutledge. Won’t miss me until 11:00. Thought you could use some company, you know, after Sharon” he said, tossing his jean jacket over the desk chair, hanging a back pack on the back, and turned to me with a smile. “Thought I’d take you on with that play station.”
“But I . . . “ I began, as I considered the notes in my hand. But I figured an hour or two of indulging Roddy wouldn’t hurt my progress too much, and I had already outlined the paper due on Monday. “It’s over there,” I said, pointing to a tumble of wires. He began to set it up, placing my tv on the spare chair and beginning to untangle the wires and console. I found the games in a dufflebag in the closet, and handed them to him. He peeled out of his shoes and took up a spot on my bed, only half made. Little would it matter.
“I brought supplies. How about some crisps?” he asked, digging in his back pack. He pulled out a back of corn chips and popped it open, stuffing one into his mouth as he offered me the bag.
“Let’s play Starwars II,” he said, popping the disk into the console. I took up my place next to him on the bed, taking in the smell of his hair and the slightly sour smell of boy body odor. He looked at me with what I could only call a radiant smile, and turned his attention to the screen. “I’ll flog your blood arse, I will!” he gloated. And we were quickly off.
He obviously new the game as well as I, for we were well matched. He sat on one knee, with the other up, and his controller between, leaning ever so slightly into me. I could feel the delicious warmth of his body and the vivacity of his young body like a spring next to me. “Bloody Hell!”he would squeal when he died, or “That’s it!” when he destroyed an enemy. We played for the better part of a half hour, and when our game was over, he rolled me over and beat me playfully on the chest, lying with his right leg between mine. “You’re a bloody cheat, you are! Or you wouldn’t have bested me.”
His face was close to mine, and his thin but muscular chest rose and fell on mine. I cold smell the sweet smell of minty gum from his mouth. Up close I could see his braces, all the brackets in place over his pure white porcelain teeth.
Then I felt his hand slide up under my Notre Dame t shirt, as he raised himself up on his elbow. It swept expertly up to my left nipple, where it slowly and gently circled the aureole. It sent a tingle down my spine, a tingle that settled in my rectum.
“That’s not really why I came.” He said, breathing his heavenly warm boy breath in my face. “I know about Sharon. But have you ever fancied a boy? I do fancy you.” And he planted his lovely red lips on mine, gently slipping his pink tongue into my mouth, probing my tongue and teeth. In a flash my mouth was opened, as if to swallow his tongue, as his minty small tongue found the inside of my teeth. But I pulled back.
“I don’t know,” I caution. “I’m sorry, Roddy. I’m not really sure if this is a good idea. I guess I had my share of jack off sessions with buddies, but this is different,”
“Yes,” he replied. “It is different. It’s not unusual here in England for boys to have crushes on boys. It’s not unusual for boys to play at sex, either. I could show you things. And I’d never tell.”
“Well, if I ever fancied a boy, it would be you, you can be sure,” I said, sliding my hands up under his jersey, pulling it over his head and tossing it on the floor. I could see his chest then, and him above me on his arms, looking at me with a look of both whimsy and joy. His skin was clear and honeyed, not freckled or pink. I rolled him over, and began to devour his eager mouth, as he worked his hands under my shirt and then pulled it up and over my head. He had made my nipples erect with his earlier dusting sweep of his fingers. Now he entwined the same strong fine fingers in my hair, as our mouths explores the others’, as we gave way to the lust that swept over us. Me, for the first time with a boy just emerging on adolescence, he with the practiced passion of a lover of boys. He pulled away and looked at me, and then began to kiss and lick my face, moving to my ear. He nibbled my ear, all the while running his hands down the other side of my chest, stopping to tickle my responsive nipple.
“I’m good at this. You’ll see,” he said as he began to kiss my neck and worked his way down to my chest. He scooted back and undid his jeans: belt, snap and zipper. And he rolled back on his back and swept pants and boxers to his ankles, kicking them to the floor.
“Do you like my boxers?” he asked. “Most English lads wear briefs. White unless they are still into superheroes. But Americans mostly wear boxers, so I had my mum buy me some.”
“Tighty whities, we call them” I said, as I removed my own Jeans and boxers. He laughed as he rolled back on my chest and slipped his tongue deftly between my lips, his hand exploring my belly button and finding it’s way slowly, through my pubic hair, to the base of my shaft.
“What the hell!” he exclaimed. There’s something wrong with your willy!”
“No there’s nothing wrong with my willy, as you call it. I’m just circumcised. Here . .” I scooted up, with my shoulders propped on my bed pillows, and pulled him along side me under his arms, so our penises were side by side. I put my forefinger and thumb under his luscious little tool, all three semi-erect inches. “See, your head, or glans is still mostly covered by the foreskin (although a bit of glossy red glans was peaking out in anticipation of our romp.) Mine was cut off when I was small: Here, you can see the scar.” I said, as I traced the scare just below my now semi-erect penis.
“Ooh. Did it hurt?” He looked at me with big eyes, those lovely big hazel eyes rimmed with dark lashes.
“No, I was just a baby.”
“But he’s lovely now. A veritable one eyed monster, And such a lovely crop of curly hair,” he said, stroking his lovely tapered fingers through my ruddy thatch, just a shade lighter than the reddish brown of my head. “I think I’ll call him Harry.”
“Harry it is!” I exclaimed, and pulled him back on top of me, shoving my eager tongue into his mouth, tasting the mint gum and feeling the fine wires of his braces. As I stroked his satiny back, feeling the lovely smooth skin stretched so smoothly over his delicate scalpula, he moved his left knee over my right, and began to delicately play with my ball sac, rolling each of my eggs between his delicate fingers. Then he found my penis, now nearly erect, and gently began to stroke it, after gently kneading the burgeoning shaft, he ran his index gently around the underside of the mushroom edge. I could feel my shaft grow to full, rock hard erection, a feeling that tugged at my rectum. I moaned in pleasure.
“Oooo, I think Harry is beginning to like this!” Roddy said, pulling away from my mouth, beaming at me. “Let me show you what a happy fellow he can be!” he offered, as he began to move down my chest. He took first my right and then my left nipple in his mouth, rolling his little pink tongue in a circle around each until he felt them pucker in ecstacy, while I ran one hand through his glossy brown hair and the other across his silken back. As he moved to my belly button the hand that had been playing with my ball sac began to knead the ridge that ran from my scrotum to my ass hole. Then he slipped his middle finger into my virgin ass, at first quickly and then slowly sliding it in until it was up to the hilt, and his thumb was kneaded my scrotum, gently rolling my balls. I was in ecstacy, and his mouth was still above my pubes.
Then I could feel his breath on my man tool, as he began at the base and licked slowly up to the top, humming all along. It was some Schubert we were preparing for evensong. It was heaven—the humming, the warm, wet pink tongue enticing my manhood. Finally he began to lick the glans, now swollen red and tight, circling his agile tongue from the frenulum to the piss hole. He flicked his tongue across the throbbing urethra, driving me nearly mad. Finally, he took the head in his mouth, and flicking his tongue up and down under my now bursting manhood. I was near the edge, nearing the edge, when I said it: “I’m Cumming, I’m cumming!” and then I began to ejaculate with such incredible power, that as Roddy pulled away, it spurted all over his lovely chest.
“Ooo, lovely! You can really come!” he said, as he began to smear it all over his thin chest, kneeling between my legs. I reached for my boxers on the floor, to clean it up, but he pushed my hand away. “No, no. It’s my turn. You can use your tongue to clean it up. It’s quite delicious, actually,” he said, sticking his slick finger in his mouth. “I’ve never had anyone come so much.”
“Oh, I haven’t always been a senior chorister.” He said with a smile, as I began to lick my musty sperm off his smooth chest and pert nipples. They were inverted, but puckered so sweetly as I licked them, and he twined his hands through my longish hair. I swept my tongue across his luscious chest, circling each of his muscular breasts, pausing to lick each of his salty, somewhat pungeant arm pits. I slid him put on the pillows and knelt between his lithe legs, willowy but muscled like a dancers or a swimmers. I ran my hands up the insides of his thighs, and as I lifted my head from my work, I saw that his lovely 3 inch cock was more like 3 and a half, and fully come to life. I paused to pull back the snug foreskin, so see a pearl of precum on his lovely red glans, now swelling above his innocent flat boy belly. Before I finished my clean up job I stopped to lick the little gem from his pee hole, and he gave a little gasp. As I went on to finish his cat bath and sucked my semen from his dimpled belly button, I began to gently play with his little ball sack. Truly, it was a silk purse, and I gently massaged the lovely robins eggs inside, As I did, my middle finger found his sweet puckered anus, which I began to massage.
“Ooo, lovely, Michael, lovely.”
“Call me Mickey, Roddy. It’s what my friends do. And you’ve certainly proven to be one of my best.:
He bent his head over form the pillows above me and kissed my on the head, “You’re the best ever. Yes you are, Mickey. God I love you.”
Rather than reply, I began to kiss the velvety insides of his lovely thighs, raised above me. He wrapped his feet around my back as I licked and kissed from the insides of his knees to either side of his scrotum. By now his penis was rock hard, a fact I confirmed by gently pulling back the snug silken cover, and stroked the rosey corona, rubbing my right thumb on the hyper sensitive underside of his penis, the frenulum.
“Jesus, Mickey! You’re good. Not like those oafs at school. God it’s good.”
Then I took it in my mouth, the holy grail. His lovely uncircumcised boy penis, rigid with anticipation. I buried it as deep in my mouth as it would go, snuffling eagerly with my nose in the little dusting of light brown pubic hair just above his rigid lance. I pulled my head back, catching the glans in my lips and twirling my tongue around the little piss hole. I did this for about five minutes, alternating between the corona of his delicious boyhood, and kissing and licking the silken purse of his balls an his straining shaft, as he bucked and sighed, raising his hips off the bed to greet my vigorous sucking, grinding his fair flat pubes in my face, as he fucked my face.
“Micky, I’m cumming! I’m cumming.”
Not wanting to miss the show, I realeased his throbbing boy rod from my rapacious mouth and received five vigorous squirts of clear jizm on my face. Oh, it was sweet, as I licked it from my upper lip. “My, coming already. Quite the little man.”
Roddy scooted under me so he could kiss me and lick his semen from from my face. He found a little trail in my hair with his index finger, which he took too his own mouth.
“Yup. The whole show. I only started in August. In Spain with my cousin Will.”
I wrapped my arms around him and pulled the blanket up over us. He nestled his face under my chin, as he threw his leg over my stomach. We must have nodded off.
“Ohmygod, Roddy. It’s 10.. Will you make it on time?”
Roddy hopped out of bed and stretched. He strode to the ensuite bathroom, one of the perks of a being a grauduate fellow, little pecker bouncing, and turned on the shower. I heard him humming, this time a Bach aria from the magnificat. “A towel, Mickey?” he called.
I met him with a towel, but not before he gave me a wet embrace, and a quick squeeze to my stiffening rod.
“We’ll have to come back and visit again, we will.” Roddy said, as he stepped into his boxers and pants. “And see if we don’t have any other tricks for Harry.”
“I suppose your little friend needs a name too,” I said, sliding my hand into his waistband and giving his little member a squeeze, as he pulled his t over his head. “How about little Nicky, since he is such an eager little devil” I suggested.
“Little Nicky it is. And Little Nicky looks forward to a return engagement. I might just pop some other things out of my rucksack,” He said, as he slung it over his back, and sat on my still naked lap, as I awaited his departure. He thrust his eager tongue into my mouth in a farewell kiss, and was soon gone, leaving nothing but the sweet taste of boy sperm in my mouth, and a semi-hard that awaited release once more before bed. I couldn’t wait until Sunday.