I can’t tell you how pleased I am to be hosting this gritty true tale from Gypsy Tangerina.
Introducing Gypsy Tangerina
I guess I’m a lot of things. A father of two. Though, not sure what gender I am now. I’m on a continual journey of exploring my sexuality which has been very fuzzy for the past 5 years after a fairly long period of being a straight guy, (or at least pretending I was even to myself.)
These days Gypsy covers most things in my life.
Always between places.
Always on a journey to find out more about who I am.
Facing fears and demons.
Spreading love and positivity.
And tangerina because I’m mad about all things orange.
My story is about losing control. About a thought that ran away into arousal, at a time when I was very confused about everything.
Losing Control ~ Gypsy’s True Tale
I was sixteen. Working on the back of a potato harvester, a huge red painted machine towed by a tractor. It rattled and clanked its way along the rows and I worked.
Head down under the canvas.
Avoiding the rain that hammered down outside and dripped on to me.
I removed the clods of earth, from in among the potatoes, that came up into the machine.
There were seven of us in the gang.
Malc, (who hated most people), walked behind, picking up what the machine missed.
“GI Jim” and Karl who tied and stacked the sacks.
The two plump Cole brothers stood one side sifting out huge handfuls of wet sticky earth.
On the other side were Wesley and I. Both young lads and the only ones skinny enough to work that job.
Wesley kept me sane most days. He had a sense of humour and wasn’t scared of anyone. Slim and pale, but about 5 inches shorter than I was. He stood on a wooden block to reach the belt and was always smoking Superkings. Long white fags sticking out of his puckered mouth. Unruly black hair over his eyes. Blue ripped jeans and a scruffy white shirt that looked like his dad’s.
As the machine moved along Wesley and I darted our hands in and out of the potatoes, elegantly picking out rotten ones and bits of earth the guys on the other side missed with their clumsy lunges. It was like a ballet.
Like a game.
Beat the machine,
seven hours a day,
five days a week,
all summer long.
And that summer was wet. I would’ve walked away if not for Wesley and his stupid sense of humour. His hands dancing around mine. Licking in and out of the spaces to get the rubbish I’d missed. It was hard work as the ground gradually turned to fudge cake around us. Wesley just cracked jokes, smoked fags and started throwing mud at me. I threw it back. The brothers scowled at us. Then, we would put things down to catch each other out.
I watched his slim pale fingers at the end of the row as he rolled a small lump of mud into a ball. The way they moved was so elegant and graceful. I knew he was making something to put down when I wasn’t looking on the next run for me to find, but as we rocked into the next row I missed the drop, it went past me. As we started the new row I soon saw it. A huge fat cock with balls made out of mud, and tiny potatoes for testicles. I picked it up and waved it at him, putting it on the ledge at the side. Laughing as we settled into clearing the belt – and – that’s when I felt it.
I couldn’t stop thinking of him shaping that cock with his beautiful hands.
Caressing the shaft to make it smooth.
Pressing his thumb into the rim of the head to make it bigger.
Rounding the tip with those porcelain dainty nimble fingers.
Whether it was the thought of that image or the vibrating of the machinery against my groin. Anyway, I became aroused over the idea of a boy for the first time in my life and panicked. I held my crotch out of sight against the machine which made it worse. I couldn’t look at him any more because I felt like I was not in control and it was him and he was a boy and…
…and because of that, the last three weeks of the job were quite hellish. Wesley assumed I didn’t like him and fell out with me.
Looking back I often wonder what it would’ve been like to kiss him. To feel those fingers gently caressing and shaping my own cock. Feeling it change shape in his hands.
It took me another twenty years to accept those feelings from back then as real. It took me another ten to write them down.
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