FAN REPORTER JASON GIVES US
ANOTHER INSTALLMENT IN HIS SERIES
COVERING THE PERSONAL LIVES OF
NAKED BODYBUILDERS!
One of the IFNB Report's biggest fans over the past year has been Jason. Jason has been known for (good-naturedly) clogging our comment threads with riveting stories of muscle studs in action. With such constant submission, we figured it was better to keep the comment threads a tad cleaner and offer this amazing fan some clear space to share his tales.
This will be a series that will pop up here and there as Jason submits tales to us. Sit back and read a more in-depth tale from a major IFNB fan!
Well, I finally ended my fantasy story of Simon and Sebastian and their protégé, Chris and I wondered where I could next allow my imagination to wander. In my first story, I had introduced Sebastian as the ‘hero’ of the action and in one of the episodes I had briefly touched on his earlier life and upbringing, before he became a male escort in New York. I decided that Sebastian’s life prior to his life changing visit to the Dragoncock in Taipei, was sufficiently interesting to make a story on its own.
And that is what I have done.
I suppose that this new story, which I will call ‘Sebastian Finds Himself’ should, strictly speaking, have preceded the saga of ‘Simon and Sebastian’ as it tells of Sebastian’s life from the time he was sent to the Sheldon Academy in upstate New York to the time when, established as a top notch Male escort in New York, he decided to take a vacation and jet of to Taipei to see the Dragoncock competition live. And as those of you who have read the story of Simon and Sebastian, what a life changing decision that turned out to be. Thus this story ends where the story of Simon and Sebastian begins.
In this story, in addition to Sebastian, there are three other main characters with whom he is regularly in contact:
In this story, in addition to Sebastian, there are three other main characters with whom he is regularly in contact:
First is his friend and flatmate, Craig, whose role model is Bayle Norton (IFNB Amateur Rumble 10).
Second is Mike, his boss at the bar where he finds his first job, whose role model is Brett Damin (Pounder’s Place Gym 4).
Third is Jonathan the owner of the gym where Sebastian goes to train, whose role model is Janos Peralek (Amateur Spotlight 9).
I have spent some time in selecting the IFNB characters whom I think will best represent the three guys in the story. None of them are heavy weight bodybuilders or IFNB top grade competitors. But all of them are well set up young studs, well equipped where it matters, and are credible characters in what is once again a totally imaginary story. And I think if you take a look at Peralek, who has appeared only once in the blog, you will agree that he has exactly the physique to run a gym.
SEBASTIAN FINDS HIMSELF
My name is Sebastian Watson. Nothing special about that you might think other than the fact that the name Sebastian is not much used anymore today. Well, it may become clearer if I tell you that my full name is a ponderous Sebastian Aloysius Mortimer Watson. Yes, indeed, I am a ‘scion’ to use ‘their’ word, of what is considered in upper class American society, an ‘old family’ to use again their words. Old and good families, whatever they are, always lumber their offspring with names that no normal person would ever think of using. Sebastian is bad enough, and I am always called Sebastian and never ever Seb, but I ask you, Aloysius Mortimer, where on earth did my late parents ever dig up these prehistoric names– what on earth were they thinking about when they lumbered their only child with them? But that is precisely what ‘old families’ do. What the hell is an old family anyway – all families are old? Well I will tell you: an old family is one which has been rich enough or influential enough over the years as to keep track of its family history -, who married whom and how many children and so on and so forth. And so, they are able to tell you that their line dates back to before the war of independence or whenever. In fact Joe Crow has just as long a lineage, but it had never been recorded and so, like most folks he can barely go back much beyond his grandparents and rarely can he tell you the maiden name of either grandmother. That, my friends, is the only difference. And so, as American tradition requires everyone to have at least a middle initial – it always asks for that on those printed forms one gets through the post, I decided to call myself Sebastian David Watson, or Sebastian D. Watson. You can, you know, use any name you wish as long as you are not intent on committing a crime of some sort.
In my case, of course, coming from a true blue ‘old family’ I know that we have been around in Boston since 1720. My forbears did not come over on the Mayflower, but we count nevertheless as part of the Boston ‘aristocracy’. We Watsons may not qualify to socialise with the Cabots or the Lodges, (they are the ones, in case you had forgotten, who converse only with God) but we hold – or rather held- our own in Boston society, even though we never had the cash to really live up to it. Well, lumbered as I was with my prehistoric names, I was orphaned at the age of two, when both my parents were killed in a car crash and so I have no recollection of them.
We were a very small family: I was an only child as had been my mother and my father had but one elder sister, Agatha Amelia Dorothea Watson (Oh yes, they did not stint on names) who was fifteen years older than her brother and was a dried up, inward looking old spinster, truly the quintessential Maiden Aunt. I am pretty sure the the ‘maiden’ bit was a correct designation as she had no time for men at all and lived a solitary life, wrapped up in religion and ‘good works’, whatever they might be. However Aunt Agatha, as I subsequently called her, had that true sense of duty which goes with being from a ‘good family’ and became my legal guardian from my earliest age. She was a totally remote woman who really had no time for children and engaged a series of nurses and governesses to look after me, until at the tender age of eleven she shipped me off to a boy’s boarding school, the Sheldon Academy for Boys, which was located in a small community the same name in rural up-state New York.
The Sheldon Academy was a private school catering for about 350 boys and attracted boys from ‘good families’ for two reasons. Firstly it promised a rigorous old-fashioned education modelled on that practised in English public schools and secondly, which was possibly more important in the eyes of many of the people sending their charges there, it offered supervised board and lodgings to the pupils out of term time. In other words here was a place where, for a fee, you could enrol your offspring and not have to see them at all any more unless you wanted to until they reached the age of eighteen and left the school to pursue either a college education or find a job! I exaggerate here somewhat, as even the most callous of parents or guardians felt it morally necessary to see their charges a few times during the year, but make no mistake, those of us who spent vacations at the school usually received the odd visit from our parents or guardian, but never actually went home. I was one of these ‘lucky’ lads! Aunt Agatha religiously came to see me four times a year (it was a sort of sacred duty) and took me out to lunch, but from the time I entered the school, aged eleven until the day I left aged eighteen, I never ever went back to Agatha’s house! Incredible but true: and I was not the only one. So, of home life I had absolutely none: I lived in an expensive institution and had to make the best of it. But as you will see later, it was not all bad; for I had some congenial schoolmates and was able to leave there with a very clear idea of what my future life would be.
The Sheldon Academy was run by an expatriate Brit, who himself was a product of the old style English public school system. He had run this establishment on the same lines for over 35 years and saw himself as a sort of God, to put fear into the hearts of his pupils. He came, apparently, from a very upper, upper English background and rejoiced in the name of Ambrose Archibold Cedric Woodderowffe Pryce. – MA Cantab. (That’s a master’s degree from the University of Cambridge, England, in case you did not know. Yes you’ve got it, that was his name, which was pronounced, so he drilled into us, Woodruff Priss. With typical English disdain for any pronunciation which bore even a vague resemblance to its spelling, even the simple name of Pryce, was, according to him, pronounced as Priss. Of course, Price, spelt with an I instead of a Y is a common enough name, especially in Wales. But Woody’s version was with a Y. The upper class Brits were truly experts in the art of transmogrification! But I am sure you can image what we boys called him. There were two versions of his name; one was Woody Piss and the other Woody Prick. Once one had got to know the man better, Woody Prick was the one that stuck as this character really was a prick of the first water and most of us lads referred to him as ‘the Prick’.
Life at Sheldon was not all that bad. Some of the teachers were great and really enjoyed their jobs, which they saw as their true vocation. Others were just there to earn a living and were really indifferent about their work. One or two were downright awful in their treatment of their charges among which a man called Clarence Simmons, Slimey we called him, who was the PT and games master and was easily the worst. This character was a slimey little bastard, who loved to go around the gym classes, hitting his pupils across the arse with a short strap he always carried. We guessed he had some special arrangement with the Prick as, according to the school rules, only the Headmaster was allowed to administer corporal punishment, but somehow Slimey managed to get away with slapping all and sundry with his strap during the gym lessons. He was an utter sneak and reported any misdemeanour as he saw it straight to Woody Prick. Now, at this time, corporal punishment in schools had not been abolished in the USA, but it was rarely used in the state schools. Not so with the Prick. He was a great believer in the old school methods and was ready (too ready, many thought) to wield his cane across the miscreant’s arse. By the time I was sixteen I had had my arse whacked by him three times, but this was par for the course, for there was a regular stream of pupils entering his office for punishment. Woody Prick was a real martinet with a strong sadistic streak and he seized upon even the most minor misdemeanour to thrash the miscreant’s arse. Looking back on things now, I believe it was thrashing his pupils’ naked arses that really made his day. Not a week went by but what some poor unfortunate lads had to drop their pants and let the Prick whack their naked butts.
I now have to turn to my own development. By the time I was fourteen I had already realised that my sexual orientation was towards other boys and that I really had little interest in girls - not that any of us had much opportunity to fraternise with members of the opposite sex; there just were not any around. But I was not interested in the general chat about girls which was the preoccupation of most of the others. Anyone familiar with the British public school system where boys had no contact with girls, will know that buggery among the pupils was quite common. The lads had no means other than jerking off of relieving their growing sexual desires and so it was quite common for one lad to shaft another. Although buggery was outwardly condemned, it was nevertheless tolerated as it was considered ‘normal’ behaviour, especially by the upper classes: their offspring were not gay, they were simply buggers and when they left school and found their life’s partner, so the perceived wisdom went, they would stop buggering other men. Mmm!
Well the fact of the matter is that I and a number of other lads were sure that we were gay by the time we reached fifteen or so years of age and in my own case, by the time I had reached sixteen, I had a regular sex partner, one Charles Tennant, who was in the same class as I and whom I fucked as often as I could. I should tell you that I was a keen sportsman and exercised out in the school gym as often as I could so that by the time I was sixteen years old, I had a finely muscled body and, already had a really large cock for a guy of my age: I was already sporting 7 inches of soft uncontrollable flesh by that age, so you can imagine how I looked when I had a hard on. In fact, I was the envy of all my class mates, for nothing is hidden in a boarding school environment and we all saw each other naked in the showers on a daily basis. Like many guys who are fond of developing their own bodies, I had a strong narcissistic streak and took every opportunity I had to look at myself totally naked in a full length mirror.
Anyway, Charlie and I rapidly became an item made in heaven for I liked to fuck and he liked to suck and take my cock up his arse and so we got on famously. We were so stuck on each other that we took every opportunity to have sex together, which led to our undoing. I always shafted him but he never wanted to reciprocate the act, being content to allow my poundings to bring him to a climax and shoot his wad. Now as you all know, sex is a tremendous driving force, difficult to control, and one day after games, Charlie and I were the last in the showers. The place was suddenly empty and I very foolishly shafted Charlie, not that he objected in any way. I had just got into my rhythm and was hard at it reaming his hole when a voice from behind us suddenly roared, “What are you two boys doing?” Frankly it was a bloody silly question to ask as anyone with half an eye could see what we were doing. You can guess who it was: none other than Slimey. “Put back on your gym shorts and vests” he roared and forthwith whisked us off to the Prick’s study, where he recounted with considerable relish to the headmaster what he had seen us doing. The Prick drew himself up and looked grimly at us before saying that such unnatural behaviour could and would not be tolerated in his establishment and that he himself would see that an end was put to it immediately before it went any further. He really was an old hypocrite, for he turned a blind eye on buggery, but wanted to censure any true homosexual activity. If he had had the slightest idea of the human sex drive, he would have known that he was pissing into the wind or more politely put, doing a King Canute act. A man of his years and experience should have known that there is no way that anyone can make or persuade a homosexual to become a heterosexual. To the gay male his sexual actions with another man are just as normal as those of a heterosexual with the female of the species. Anyway, the Prick thundered on sounding more and more like an Old Testament prophet as he warmed to his subject. Our behaviour was totally inexcusable and words like moral turpitude and lewd behaviour crept into his diatribe. We would be punished, for our unseemly behaviour, indeed severely punished. If it ever happened again, then we would be expelled. What a load of twaddle. He would no more expel us than jump off a cliff, for he would never give up the juicy fees fees paid by our respective parents.
Slimey was clearly enjoying every minute of this. Woody Prick had now got the bit between his teeth and thundered on in his inimitable circumlocutive way. He would nip this whole business in the bud: stop it dead in its tracks, so to speak, before it had time to develop further and become a loathsome, unnatural, lewd habit. What the silly old twit evidently did not realise, was that Charlie and I were an item, as the modern parlance puts it. Our relationship was already in full bloom, so to speak and had been so for quite some time. No bud remained to nip, and we were certainly not going to let the old Prick pick the blooms. The Prick was facing an unstoppable force, for he could huff and puff as much as he wished, and in spite of his diatribe, he surely must have realised that sex is an incredible and unstoppable force. Noy withstanding this, he was clearly determined to go ahead and try to stop us dead in our tracks.
So what was now going to happen? Well, it soon became obvious that the old Prick was enjoying the occasion and was determined to turn the whole incident into a piece of drama, acted out with Slimey as a willing assistant. Looking back on it now, one could almost have believed that they had rehearsed their dialogue, which was couched in excessively polite and overdone phraseology.
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