exacerbated.
"We're going to save the lives of those 10 gay men. Your not born yet great, great, great, great grandchildren. We're going to a sperm bank."
As we sped up the turn off, my mood changed. Strange, but I thought this could be the most romantic thing I'd ever done. We were two boys about to jack off and give sperm together in order to save gayness in the world. The cogs inside my brain began to creak as the little men began to panic.
29. The romanticism didn't last long. We got to the sperm bank. Just an innocuous, sterile looking building. Having never been to one before neither of us was aware that we couldn't just make a deposit. It wasn't like a blood bank. There was an initial sample to be given, a questionnaire to be answered and a three month delay as the bank waited on tests to confirm we were suitable donors.
We both made our deposits. When I was done Jake was waiting for me with a grin of real pride. His sprits weren't dimmed in the slightest. "I have a treat for you now. We won't make it to the prison until tomorrow morning anyway at this stage. So we may as well make the most of this detour. We're in Lancaster. Wheatland is here."
I showed no look of recognition.
"The home of James Buchanan. It would be rude of a family member not to drop in and say hi."
30. The tour guide was dressed as a woman from 19th century Pennsylvania, but was speaking with the unmistakable accent of a 21st century South African. There was something peculiar, jolting, about a white South African giving a tour which required her to say things like "Here are the old slave quarters" or, "The president was popular amongst the slaves, he treated them well."
As we walked through the magnificent, high-ceilinged mansion, Jake ignored what was being said and busied himself trying to find somewhere discrete for us to have sex. I wasn't sure if I was keen. Anyway, the tour guide had her eye on him. On entering he had declared with an impressed whistle, "My God, the old queen certainly lived like one." The piercing stare he received left no doubt but there was no sense of humour amongst the staff when it came to Buchanan's sexual preferences.
She kept following him with her eyes as he discreetly, or so he thought, peered around corners in search of somewhere suitable. Jake seemed determined that we would treat the ghost of Buchanan to a special presentation. "It’s nothing these walls haven't seen before," he said, taking my hand and rushing around a corner. The time was well chosen, the tour guide being distracted by an elderly woman who couldn't figure out what she was trying to ask. We found a stairway, an old servants stairway, went up and found ourselves in a long drawing room.
The act had to be done quickly. Having no energy for much myself, I happily agreed to get on my knees as Jake stood there, with that proud grin still stuck on his face. As I was sucking him off I had a good view of the grin and the vacant stare that always crept over his eyes during sex. But I was soon distracted by the picture over his shoulder. With the tall hat and the long beard it was obviously the profile of Abraham Lincoln. I shouldn't have been surprised. I was in a Presidential residence. They were from the same period in history. Still, I thought it unusual that a President would hang a picture of his successor in his home. Especially one who had completely eclipsed him in history long before Buchanan's death.
The thought lingered and may have come to some sort of fruition had Jake not started to shove me away and give me a shake. The motion surprised me, as he wasn't done. I thought maybe he too was drained after our
"We're going to save the lives of those 10 gay men. Your not born yet great, great, great, great grandchildren. We're going to a sperm bank."
As we sped up the turn off, my mood changed. Strange, but I thought this could be the most romantic thing I'd ever done. We were two boys about to jack off and give sperm together in order to save gayness in the world. The cogs inside my brain began to creak as the little men began to panic.
29. The romanticism didn't last long. We got to the sperm bank. Just an innocuous, sterile looking building. Having never been to one before neither of us was aware that we couldn't just make a deposit. It wasn't like a blood bank. There was an initial sample to be given, a questionnaire to be answered and a three month delay as the bank waited on tests to confirm we were suitable donors.
We both made our deposits. When I was done Jake was waiting for me with a grin of real pride. His sprits weren't dimmed in the slightest. "I have a treat for you now. We won't make it to the prison until tomorrow morning anyway at this stage. So we may as well make the most of this detour. We're in Lancaster. Wheatland is here."
I showed no look of recognition.
"The home of James Buchanan. It would be rude of a family member not to drop in and say hi."
30. The tour guide was dressed as a woman from 19th century Pennsylvania, but was speaking with the unmistakable accent of a 21st century South African. There was something peculiar, jolting, about a white South African giving a tour which required her to say things like "Here are the old slave quarters" or, "The president was popular amongst the slaves, he treated them well."
As we walked through the magnificent, high-ceilinged mansion, Jake ignored what was being said and busied himself trying to find somewhere discrete for us to have sex. I wasn't sure if I was keen. Anyway, the tour guide had her eye on him. On entering he had declared with an impressed whistle, "My God, the old queen certainly lived like one." The piercing stare he received left no doubt but there was no sense of humour amongst the staff when it came to Buchanan's sexual preferences.
She kept following him with her eyes as he discreetly, or so he thought, peered around corners in search of somewhere suitable. Jake seemed determined that we would treat the ghost of Buchanan to a special presentation. "It’s nothing these walls haven't seen before," he said, taking my hand and rushing around a corner. The time was well chosen, the tour guide being distracted by an elderly woman who couldn't figure out what she was trying to ask. We found a stairway, an old servants stairway, went up and found ourselves in a long drawing room.
The act had to be done quickly. Having no energy for much myself, I happily agreed to get on my knees as Jake stood there, with that proud grin still stuck on his face. As I was sucking him off I had a good view of the grin and the vacant stare that always crept over his eyes during sex. But I was soon distracted by the picture over his shoulder. With the tall hat and the long beard it was obviously the profile of Abraham Lincoln. I shouldn't have been surprised. I was in a Presidential residence. They were from the same period in history. Still, I thought it unusual that a President would hang a picture of his successor in his home. Especially one who had completely eclipsed him in history long before Buchanan's death.
The thought lingered and may have come to some sort of fruition had Jake not started to shove me away and give me a shake. The motion surprised me, as he wasn't done. I thought maybe he too was drained after our
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