I was passing Sainsbury’s so I popped in to get a top-up card for my phone. One nice thing – about the only nice thing – about the pandemic was that I could keep the crash helmet on in shops: it was acceptable as the required face mask. And talking of masks, the fact that I could also keep the dark visor down meant that they couldn’t see the pervy black leather hood with the evil slanted eye holes I wore under it.
When I returned to the bike I saw that a small person was leaning against it. A boy - cute, but far too young. Small and urchin-like, jet black curly hair with a perfect fringe across twinkling blue eyes, a white tee shirt with some football team logo on it, a beat-up leather jacket that was too small for him, white trainers, and white sport socks over faded stretch jeans that were so tight I was surprised that when he spoke, his voice wasn’t an octave higher.
He smiled as I approached, and pushed himself off the machine. “Nice bike,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“Nice leathers as well. And that helmet is amazing.”
I smiled to myself. I loved that black Roof lid. I’d got it because it was hot.
“I saw you go in.” His eyes roamed over my leathers and came to rest on my jacket – specifically, on the little chrome pair of handcuffs that are pinned to it. “Like those cuffs,” he said.
I looked down at them and chuckled. “Yeah? So do I.”
“What do they mean? Anything?”
“Oh yes, they do.”
“What?” His eyes seemed to be challenging me.
I smiled under the black visor. “I think you’re a bit too young for us to be talking about that.”
“I’m seventeen.”
“Really?” He looked a hell of a lot less than that, and he must have heard the disbelief in my voice because he reached into his back pocket and brought out his birth certificate, and his ID – a thing called a ‘Citizen card’. I’d never heard of those. The fact that he carried them around with him told me that people routinely took him for younger. I wasn’t surprised. I turned the certificate round and read it, then looked at the picture on the ID card; he’d been smiling impishly into the camera. I raised my eyebrows in surprise: he was indeed seventeen - and two days. I nodded, passing them back to him. He put them back into his jeans and then leaned against the bike again with his hands together over his crotch.
“’Arin’ – that’s an unusual name.” I hadn’t heard that before.
He smiled again and nodded at the cuffs. “Stop changing the subject.”
I laughed. “Well, Ok then. What do you think they mean?”
“Something to do with being a cop?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I like tying boys up.”
If I’d thought that would shock him, I was mistaken.
He beamed at me. “Yeah? What kind of boys?”
“Bigger boys than you, usually.”
His eyes were sparkling. “What do you do to them when you’ve tied them up?”
I did a great many things to them, but what was going through my mind at that moment was something surprisingly different to what I usually did. My type of guys are in their thirties or forties, preferably with muscles. I torture their tits, their balls and their cocks, I beat their arses, I fuck them – all the usual things - but there was something about this boy that made me want to do certain things to him very much indeed - and they were not those things that I did to guys most of the time. More than anything, I wanted to give this boy pleasure. Gentle, but very intense pleasure. And fun.
I realised that there were two things I wanted to do to him. The first was that I really wanted to find out what it was like to edge a horny young teenage boy. It’s been said that lads that age are never more than 10 seconds away from orgasm, and I wanted to see how he would react to being edged unbearably for a long hour or two. And the other thing: there was an air of devilment about him that really, really made me want to make him cum in those prickteasing, skintight jeans while he was struggling like fuck to stop me.
I’d never had these kinds of thoughts about anybody before – sessions were usually about doing whatever turned the other guy on most of all, and with the ones I usually went with this meant the usual SM stuff – but this boy was bringing out urges in me I didn’t know I had.
I looked at him. He was waiting for my answer. I thought I’d keep the edging to myself for now. “I like to rape their cocks.” There. I bet that would shut him up.
But it didn’t. He blinked. “What do you mean, ‘rape their cocks’?” I knew he was wondering how it was possible to fuck a cock.
“Making a boy cum while he’s struggling and doing everything he can to stop me.”
He thought about that – it was clearly not something he’d ever considered before. “Why when they’re trying to stop you?”
“Because I like to watch a boy fighting to get away from my hands, and trying to stop himself from cumming and not being able to.” I realised that I was getting the beginnings of a hard-on and I was thankful that nobody could see.
He seemed to be considering what I’d said, and then he parted his hands for a moment – just long enough for me to see the erection stretching his jeans out into a small but still obscene bulge between his legs. He put his hands back over it, grinning.
Now that had surprised the hell out of me. I grinned too. “Seems you like the idea.”
He looked off into the distance for a moment. “It wouldn’t work with me.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Wouldn’t it? Why not?”
“Because I’m good at stopping myself from cumming.” He looked back at me.
“Are you indeed?” I chuckled again. “You’re a seventeen-year old boy – anybody could make you cum. I could do it in seconds flat. Believe me.”
His blue eyes were sparkling under his fringe. “I don’t think so. Wanna try?”
I couldn’t believe this. A terminally cute teenager in sexy, skintight jeans asking me to cock-rape him. I thought of the cup of coffee I’d had in the cafe half an hour ago (I’d taken my mask off in the loos). Could it be that it had poisoned me and sent me to heaven? It was perfectly possible – it had certainly been bad enough.
We chatted for a while. His parents were separated and he lived with his uncle who was usually away, so he looked after himself most of the time, and he liked motorbikes. He loved my leathers and asked me if I had any more bike gear. I told him that I had lots. His eyes lit up at that.
“You got any other leather jeans?”
I nodded, and mentally counted them. “Eight.”
He stared at me. “Wow!”
“Come on then.” I handed him the spare helmet and took him back to my playroom.
“Fucking hell” He said. His wide eyes were taking in the room and all the equipment in it – right now he was staring at the restraint chair. It’s an impressive thing, and it’s good for total immobilisation, but I wouldn’t be using it this time – I very much wanted to see this boy struggling.
“I’ll leave you to look around. I’m going to get changed.” I left him there and went into the bedroom.
I wondered which would be the best way around to do it: to edge him insane, let him cool off for a while then put him back into his jeans and rape his cock; or to make him cum quickly and humiliatingly first and then get him horny again and edge him. I decided on the latter.
When I came back I was in my tightest black leather jeans, bike boots, a studded leather jacket, and I’d taken the helmet off. I was carrying another three pairs of shiny black jeans.
He put the leather cuffs he’d been examining back on the hook and looked at me. I swear I saw his already-hard cock grow another couple of inches. His crotch was stretched to bursting, his hard cock pressing tight against the thin denim as if it was demanding attention.
“Oh wow,” he said, looking me up and down. “You look amazing. Oh fuck. Those studs are hot – and that mask is evil.” He ran his fingertips over my jacket, and spent a long time feeling my leather thighs. He leaned forward to sniff the jacket. This boy is into leather, I thought. Then he felt the mask. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
“Like it?”
“Oh fuck yeah. It’s like something out of a horror film.” His eyes returned to mine. That devilish look was back in spades. He shook his head. “But even looking like that, you still won’t be able to make me cum.”
“No? I wouldn’t put money on it.” I nodded to the padded restraint table. “Lie down.”
He glanced at it and chuckled. “Not a chance.”
“No?We’ll see about that.” I took the loose leather bag-hood off the hook on the wall and held it out so that he could get a good view of it. “I’m going to get this over your head so that you can’t see to fight, then I’m going to get you tied up, and then I’m going to make you cum in your jeans.” I looked at the shape of his hard cock; it was very clearly-defined under the tight denim. “You’re not wearing anything under those.”
He looked sheepish and shook his head.
“Slut,” I said.
He laughed. “I love the way they feel like this. It feels horny.”
I knew I was a lot stronger than he was and that I could easily have just grabbed him and wrestled him onto the table but I wanted something a bit more complicated, something that would encourage him to resist. I raised the hood and he jumped away, laughing again. I went after him, finally cornering him by the St Andrews Cross. He struggled to stop me, but I forced the hood over his head and quickly pulled the ratchet closed around the neck. That hood doesn’t get used much: the only thing it’s really any good for is to get a victim helpless quickly – it’s just thin leather with air holes all around, and a cord around the neck, so it’s easy to breath in it, but it’s a bugger to get off by yourself. Two small dots have to be lined up on the ratchet for it to release. Once it was on I let him feel it and try to get it off. He couldn’t.
Now that he couldn’t see where my hands were, it was a simple matter to keep his arms out of the way and lift him onto the table. I was amazed at how light he was. He was giggling and struggling, and I had to dodge a few kicks, but I soon had him on and was sitting astride his waist. Even for his age he was small, so he was very easy to deal with.
I grabbed one wrist, raised it to the top corner, and buckled it into the leather cuff, then I did the other one. With both his arms restrained, I got off and removed his hood - it had done its job and I wanted to be able to see his cute face for a while. His blue eyes were grinning up at me below his fringe.
“Unfair,” he said.
“I know. I like unfair.”
He tried to pout, but it turned into another grin.
I looked at him lying there on the table: a sexy teenage boy with the front of his tight jeans pushed out into a mouthwatering little bulge by the hard, horny cock under the stretchy, faded denim. This room had seen a lot of sexy guys, I thought, but Arin was something else.
Those jeans were perfect for what I wanted to do to him: well-worn, faded blue with even lighter patches where they were especially worn; very thin, and so tight that there wasn’t a single crease on them anywhere that I could see. And fuck-all between them and his horny cock. The seams up the insides and outsides of the legs were slightly darker. White sports socks were pulled over the bottoms of the legs, and his white trainers looked good against the black leather padding of the table top. I touched his bulge. Immediately he giggled, shook his head and flipped himself over facing away from me to get my hand off him. His bum was as round as an apple.
The denim was particularly faded and thin over his crotch, and I suspected that this boy liked to rub himself through his jeans. The head of his cock was making its own separate bulge, the denim stretched tightly over it. I reached over him and stroked it lightly with my fingertips. It felt warm, and it jerked as soon as I touched it.
He gasped and tried to flip himself over again but I put my weight on his legs and stopped him. I tickled his cock while he tried like mad to get away from my hand, but it was easy to keep it there, teasing it gently. After a while I straightened up.
I’d intentionally not restrained his legs, and now I walked to the bottom of the table. I picked up his right foot and put it on my shoulder, and then, using both hands, I began to stroke his leg. I started at the calf, just above his white sock, teasing and tickling my way slowly up to his knee. I just wanted to enjoy those impossibly sexy jeans for a while: to feel the texture of the tight denim under my fingertips; to run my fingers along the darker blue inside seams; to follow them up with my eyes to where they met at the crossroads of his perineum; to gaze at his hard, horny cock-bulge. Beyond it his cute face was priceless – he looked like he’d been given all his birthday and Christmas presents at once.
What started off as a smile widened into a grin as my fingers reached his knee, and then became a giggle as I continued slowly up his thigh. About halfway up the giggle suddenly got much louder. He’d clearly been trying not to react to what I was doing, but it must have been a very horny tickling because he lost it - and his left leg suddenly jerked. I dodged his foot as his knees came together, one sliding over the other as he tried to keep my teasing fingers from going any higher. We were both laughing as we played a cat-and-mouse game, he trapping my hands between his thighs, then me pulling them out quickly and teasing an unprotected spot even higher up.
He pulled his right foot off my shoulder and curled up to cover his sensitive thighs as much as he could, rolling onto his side.
“Hmm. It would be even more unfair if you couldn’t see,” I said, “and I have a suspicion that you like leather.” I reached for another hood.
“Fuck off!” He watched the hood coming towards him and struggled to stop it going over his head, but it was an easy matter to get it on and buckled up. This one was heavier than the thin one, and had shiny leather on the inside as well. It was a bit big for him, but it did the job.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be able to breathe Ok. But it will make you feel nice and helpless...”
It seemed that he wasn’t worried - I heard him moaning happily and licking the leather on the inside. I shook my head – this boy was impossible.
Now he was indeed helpless: as he couldn’t see, there was very little he could do about anything at all – and I noticed that his cock was even harder than before the hood had gone on.
Now that he didn’t know where my hands were, or from what direction they were coming, it was like shooting ducks in a barrel. I let him struggle and move to get away from me, but I could tease his cock bulge whenever I wanted to. I could have held his legs still, or fastened them into the ankle cuffs at the bottom of the table, but apart from the fact his struggling was turning me on like fuck, it was also very obvious that it was also turning him on too. A lot. Seeing his legs in those jeans moving about, bending and straightening, his knees opening and closing as he struggled helplessly to get away from me as I tickled him lightly and quickly all over, was making me need to cum very badly indeed. But more than anything, I wanted to give this boy pleasure. I wanted it to be fun for him.
The table is wide – it’s intended to accommodate a full spread-eagle – but even so, a couple of times I had to pull him back into the centre when his lower half was in danger of falling off.
His smooth thighs were indescribably sexy and I couldn’t stop staring at the way his bulge moved under those jeans as he fought to get away from my hands. It seemed to be begging to be touched, teased, rubbed, milked.
It was easy to follow his movements and I kept getting to his cock, working very lightly on it. He kept moving away. I could tell he was sort of grinning and frowning at the same time under the hood, and muttering things like, “get off me you bastard! You’re not going to make me cum!”
“Oh, I’m not trying to make you cum. You’ll know when I do.” I was still teasing his cock through his jeans, but only for a second at a time. I didn’t want him to cum yet and I knew it would take very little indeed.
Again I ran my fingertips lightly all over the sexy, skintight denim stretched over his legs; over the calves, the knees, his round bum; and I spent a long time on his thighs, getting at them from every direction. As he struggled and turned, fresh and untouched places came under my hands. Judging by the noises he was making, the backs of his thighs seemed especially erotic, and of course so were the insides. I’m very familiar with stretch jeans: one guy who visits me regularly wears them a lot and likes having his arse beaten in them, though he’s mainly into shorts, so I knew exactly how to work on this boy through them. Feathery teasing is the way to go: the thin, stretchy denim transmits the lightest touch, and according to the shorts guy, it can sometimes feel even more horny than working on his naked cock directly.
“I’m going to make you cum in your jeans now, boy. I’m going to rape your cock.”
He immediately flipped over onto his side away from me and curled up into a tight ball. “Fuck off! Not yet! I’ve only been here a few minutes! Not yet! And not in my jeans!”
“Well, that’s up to you. Don’t let me make you cum then. You said you’re good at stopping yourself, after all...”
He’d been here for about twenty minutes so far. There were many other things I would love to do to him, but right now I wanted to make him lose control and cum – and to humiliate him as much as possible, the sooner I did that the better. And that was exactly what I intended to do. If he came back – and I really, really hoped he would – I’d get the chance to do all the other things to him in the future.
Before he had time to react, I suddenly forced my left hand straight in between his thighs. My fingers and thumb probed deep into the warm recesses of his groin and held the root of his cock firmly between them. With my other hand I gripped the head firmly through the stretchy jeans, pulling it out, away from his body so I could get my fingers all around it, and immediately began to milk it fast. He yelled, and started to fight it violently, thrashing about in his restraints, His legs were everywhere – I had to keep dodging them - but he was helpless to stop me. My fingers slid the thin, stretchy denim of his jeans up and down over his cock quickly. The feel of this horny teenage boy’s stiff cock sliding between my fingers was heaven.
I milked him quickly and mercilessly. He was bucking and writhing on the table and swearing into the hood as I raped his cock – I could tell from his voice that his face was screwed up in desperate concentration under the black leather as he fought to stop himself from losing control.
Not many guys of any age can stop themselves from cumming when they’re horny, tied up, hooded, and their cock is being milked - and this boy was seventeen; he lost it straight away. He yelled into the hood and thrust his hips hard into my hand. I’d hardly started on him when warm boy-spunk began to squirt into his tight jeans under my fingers, which continued to milk him, now sliding over the slippery denim.
I carried on working on his cock, slowing down gradually as his orgasm faded, then I gave it a final squeeze and slowly pulled my hand out from the warmth between his thighs.
“Good self-control, eh?” I said, smiling. “I think I just made you cum.”
I heard him panting under the hood. “Oh fuck. Oh Jeez… That – that was amazing!”
I took the hood off, then sat down in the chair and just gazed at him as I let him rest for a while. He was looking at the ceiling and beaming.
After a minute I said, “How long does it take you to get horny again?” As I asked the question I noticed that the bulge was still there in his jeans.
He turned his head towards me. “Already there.”
Oh fuck. To be seventeen again, I thought. I stood up, and felt his bulge. He was right: his cock was hard again. Perhaps it hadn’t softened at all. I let him off the table. “Ok, strip. Completely.”
For a moment I thought he was going to put up a fight again but he didn’t. He removed his leather jacket, tee shirt, trainers and socks, then peeled his jeans off. Spunk was coating the inside of the crotch. He dropped them onto the floor. He had a lovely body.
“Right. Now stand against this post with your hands behind it.”
He did as I asked. I put the fingerless mitts over his hands, then cuffed them behind the post. A strap round his chest and two more around his legs kept him pressed tightly to the wooden post.
I started on his thighs, my fingertips stroking lightly over the almost hairless, smooth skin. Because of the position he was in I couldn’t get to the insides as his legs were close together but I worked on the fronts and the outsides, and as far between them as I could get without forcing my hand in. He began to move a little, and make noises that were halfway between giggling and moans of pleasure.
Then I got to his balls. With gentle strokes I teased all around them. This brought more urgent giggles and moans from him, and the occasional thrust of his hips. His cock wasn’t very big – at seventeen it should be getting on for as large as it’s going to get, but this boy was not going to have a big one. Even so, it was a lovely cock. He was uncut, and the edge of the foreskin formed a pink ring through which the tip of the bare glans showed. The cock was smooth and silky.
I took it between my fingers and just held it, keeping perfectly still. Immediately his pelvis thrust, pushing it into my hand, but I moved with him, denying him any more friction. I added another strap around his hips, to make thrusting more difficult for him. Now when I held his cock again he couldn’t move it at all. He growled in frustration.
With the lightest grip imaginable I began to stroke it from the root to the end, allowing my fingertips to trail over the head slowly. When they left it, a string of precum followed them. His cock began to jerk: sharp upward movements followed by a slower return. It looked like a very slow-motion orgasm. Again and again it did this as I teased my fingers over it, up and down, with the lightest touch possible.
He was moaning continuously now, shaking his head slowly and trying unsuccessfully to thrust his cock into my hands. His blue eyes kept watching me, darting from my masked face to my leather jacket, jeans and boots.
I decided to try feathers on him. I teased the soft pointed end of one over his balls, and another just on the head of his cock. The feathers proved very effective indeed. He didn’t know whether to giggle or to yell in frustration. His muscles were straining against the straps and he was desperately trying to thrust his hips to get more friction. And the longer I did it the worse it got. His reaction was completely out of proportion to what I was doing: I was hardly moving my hands, just making the tips of the feathers tease over his cock and balls, but he was struggling like fuck – he was beside himself with the need to cum. I’d bet that he’d never had his cock tickled with feathers before – certainly while he was tied up and couldn’t stop it, and by someone who was doing it intentionally to make him need to cum - and it was clearly an epiphany for him.
I continued with the feathers for a long time, changing them when they got soaked with his precum.
Later, I went back to using my hands. I was working on his cock with one of them now, and stroking his balls with the other. I tickled and teased them, removing both hands completely every time I thought he was close. When I did this he screwed his face up and gave a loud grunt of frustration through gritted teeth.
The thing about edging is that it gets worse the longer it goes on. First you want to cum, then, after a bit that want becomes a real need. Eventually you get to the point where you would do anything - anything at all - to cum. I was pretty sure that Arin had never been edged before – probably had never even heard of edging. Unless a boy is exposed to more adventurous sex than most lads ever get around to, even the idea that you might not be able to cum when you need to never occurs to them, never crosses their minds. Arin was, right now, learning that orgasm, when it’s intentionally, irresistibly encouraged - but ultimately withheld - is one of the most horny and beautiful, but also one of the most insanely frustrating, things it’s possible for a boy to feel.
I continued to do to him the things I knew would make him need to cum as urgently as possible. I stroked and teased his cock and balls all over; I wanked it for just a second; I held the shaft by the root, pulling it down slightly while I tickled my fingertips over his cock head (the foreskin had moved back now, providing me with the whole of the shiny glans to work on). I teased over the ridge of his cock, found the frenulum and stroked it just for a moment. I gripped the foreskin gently and slid it up and down over the head. I only had a few short seconds to work on him at any one time though, as I had to stop and take my hands away whenever he was on the edge of cumming. And that was almost all the time now.
Arin’s face was a picture. He was actually sweating, and his curly black hair was sticking to his forehead. “Please. Please let me cum.” He’d been moaning this over and over for ages now. He couldn’t keep still: his small, firm body was moving in the straps, his mitted hands going up and down behind the post, his bare feet lifting off the floor one at a time and turning, his toes curling with his desperate need for orgasm.
Edging is a strange thing: although it’s just about the most intensely pleasurable thing it’s possible to experience – you don’t want it to stop, ever – you also need that orgasm so acutely that you need it to happen NOW! If you haven’t experienced it, it’s impossible to express how compelling both of those needs are. I knew this very well, having been edged myself many times over the years. It’s difficult enough for a mature lad to deal with – one who’s used to having it done to him – but for a horny young teenage boy who’s never been edged before, I knew it was a revelation.
I checked the clock: I’d been working on Arin for over an hour now. I decided to carry on for another thirty minutes before I let him cum. But at the moment he was too close all the time. I’d let him recover and rest for a moment or two.
He was panting and still moving against the wooden post, staring at me. “You bastard. I need to cum.” He was trying to look angry, but his grin ruined the effect.
I smiled back at him. “Oh, I know you do.”
“Unfair.”
He looked around the playroom. “Have you got any other leather jeans?”
“I told you, I have lots.”
“Could you…” He seemed uncertain whether he should ask.
“Very probably. Could I what?”
“Could you… get some leather jeans and put them against my legs?”
I smiled. “No problem.” On of the pairs I’d brought in earlier was my horsehide jeans. Of all my leathers, those feel the smoothest and sexiest – at least I think so. I knelt down in front of him and held them out for him to look at.
He breathed in lust. “Oh fuck. Those are gorgeous. Please... ”
I took one of the legs and pushed it between his thighs, up against the bottom of his balls. He closed his eyes and tried to thrust his hips, squeezing the cold black leather tightly between his thighs. It stayed there, so I picked up the other leg and with the end of it I stroked his cock gently and slowly.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck!” His head was forward and he was staring at the jeans and panting. “Please. Please make me cum. Now! ”
I almost did, but then I thought: this boy clearly has a huge fetish for leather, so a few more minutes of edging would be fun – and even more intense. I used the leather jeans on him mercilessly: I dragged them slowly over his cock, stroked them over his thighs and feet, at one point I stood up and pressed the leather over his face. When I did that he pushed his head forward into it, licked it, bit it.
I thought it was finally time to make him cum. I knelt down again, pushed one leg back between his thighs, and enclosed his cock completely with the other one. Then I gripped the head through the leather and milked him with them. I hadn’t finished the third stroke before he screwed his eyes shut, every muscle in his body tensed, he yelled, and he started to cum. His body convulsed. I suspect it was the best orgasm he’d ever had in his young life – it certainly went on for a long time. I continued to milk him until it was completely over, using the black leather to extract the very last drop of boy-spunk from his jerking cock. He was breathing fast, his eyes still shut tight.
When I took the jeans off him the leather was shiny with the spunk that was running down them. I badly needed to cum myself, but this session was about him, not me.
When he was capable of speech again he opened his eyes and looked at me. “Would you undo me please?”
I unfastened the straps and took his mitts off. The moment he was free he threw his arms around me and hugged me. He was beaming again. “Oh fuck!” He said into my leather jacket. “That was the most incredible thing ever!” He hugged me tighter. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
I hugged him back and ran my hand through his curly hair, smiling under my mask. “You’re very welcome,” I said.
Arin’s been back many times since then. The boy can’t stay away. I was right: he’s very into leather. I’ve done lots of different things to him, and he’s loved most of them – he especially likes being completely smothered in black leather and then edged, and he’s said that he wants to try being fucked, though he’s a bit afraid that it will hurt, although at his suggestion we’ve tried a small rubber dildo and he loved that. I’m in no hurry – I couldn’t do anything to him that he doesn’t want. But he says his absolute favourite is still being tied up, hooded, and cock-raped in his jeans. He gets off on the struggling, the unfairness, the control, and the humiliation.
A beautiful, cute, sexy, seventeen year-old boy – commando in skintight, stretch jeans - who keeps coming back for me to get him helpless, to edge him, and to rape his horny cock? I’m only too happy to oblige him.
The boy is insatiable – he’d be here every day if I let him. As it is, I pick him up at Sainsbury’s and bring him back here every Wednesday evening. He loves it. I love it. He’s never seen my face. I always wear my mask when he’s here.
I would dearly love to kiss him, but I don’t.
Even through a leather mask, I wouldn’t ask a seventeen-year old boy to kiss a seventy-three year old biker.