Date: Mon, 3 Mar 2003 23:04:37 -0600
From: Tom Emerson <Thomas@btl.net>
Subject: ONE FISH AT A TIME CHAPT. NINETEEN

ONE FISH AT A TIME

                    CHAPTER NINETEEN


        Dale Carmichael did a Bud Bundy in front of the mirror in his
bedroom, flexing his biceps and looking over them, but not so narcissistic
as to blow on the manly bulges beginning to bilk his upper arms.  Other
males looked at him when he swam at the pool, and, as he looked down over
the sculpted curves of his belly and thighs, he half-understood why. His
skin was baby soft and he was fuller than flat-bellied kids, with just a
quarter inch of flab sheathing the taught muscles of his athletic pre-teen
body.  He had an almost painful erection and looked in the mirror from his
stomach down to the monstrous-seeming bulge tenting his underpants inches
out in front of him.  If it wasn't ten inches it was (just) over half of
that, and number one, though he balked at thinking of himself so crudely,
in not just his own seventh grade gym class, but of all the twelve and
thirteen year olds in his school of two hundred boys.  Something totally
heavy was going on with his ten-year-old sister, and for some reason it
made him want to posture in front of the mirror; posture and get the
biggest, hardest, longest-lasting boner of his twelve-year life.  They
lived on a farm, they had cats, female cats, and female cat acted a certain
way at certain times -- weren't particularly shy about it.  He thought of
Vicky as ten, but she wouldn't be until the next day, and ten seemed kind
of young to be all feline and purry.  On the other hand, she wasn't a
little little kid, and, compared to the girls he heard about in school, she
was hardly little at all.

		Wayne was coming.  Dale liked calling him Uncle Wayne,
always, even after the long shower and the shock of hearing his voice, low
and husky in the bathroom door.  Vicky had changed, not dramatically or
anything, but still very notably on that first of his long visits.  He was
just beginning to become aware of a durability to his younger sisters
softer, gentler ways the night they left him alone with the man, I mean,
she hadn't started baking him cupcakes or leaving forget-me-nots and
buttercups on his pillow, but she'd stood closer, sat closer, laughed and
giggled more, and been more playful.  And it had lasted, Uncle Wayne
visiting more often and seeming to recharge the social batteries of the
entire household.  His father was out of it, one of those things, but his
mother had lost an easy twenty pounds, was looking better all the times,
and, not that he had some one, in his tall, athletic uncle, he'd stopped
hanging with the goofs, stopped scoffing at his sister's literary ambitions
-- Uncle Wayne made plenty off his word processor -- and begun to read,
even dipping into the literature of the gender challenged -- they were
still GIRLS -- and, in summary had gotten out of bed most morning a happier
kid, and gone to be the same way, life somehow easier, calmer, and most
importantly, more focused -- even better grades which had made Vicky
practically purr out loud.

                    Still liked his body though.  Good thing.  His face
wasn't anything special, just a kid, maybe even a little surly and quick
looking, but any time he wore a cut-off tee there's be more looks and
they'd last longer.  Mixed feeling there.  There was a sleaze factor out
there, openly salacious -- let me do ya in the john, kid -- leers, winks
and body language; fatties and dirty old codgers, all amounting to a minor
nuisance and occasional self-consciousness, he thought, but wasn't sure,
was free of self-esteem issues.  The most it had done was to cause him to
review self-esteem in the first place.  He'd begun hanging with the jocks
just before his uncle had arrived; they, in retrospect, seemed like nothing
more than disease on a stick, for all their warhead stories and bullying,
fill-of-themselves posturing.  Self-esteem, they had.  Meanwhile, the
shadowy nerds haunted the library, the labs, and the workshops, often
seeming not to posses the god-given moxie to fight off their own mothers..
The defended themselves by avoid them, and avoided them by concentrating on
alternatives.  He was glad to come into their society by choice, not as a
defense mechanism; to have been led to them, not pushed.  And to think it
included what had happened in the shower in the hour after hearing his
uncle's on word as he'd entered the bathroom of the otherwise empty house
(Edna comatose).  It included that hour.  How could it?  The reading, the
better grades and engagement of his two good teachers, the softening of his
sister, weren't they enough miracles for a boy his age?  Wayne Shirley, his
mother's favorite brother, behind it all, but starting, on the first page
of Genesis, behind him.  The rustle of the shower curtain, his heavy
breathing as he asked if he could stay or should come back for his shower,
later, his quiet talk in a trembling, husky voice that had followed, all
from behind him, his modesty protected by standing close to the tiles under
the shower head.

                    "Dale," Wayne said, assured the boy was, yes,
embarrassed, but did, defiantly, want him to stay, "if you let me stay in
the shower with you awhile, I don't want us having any secrets.  Physical
privacy, yes, covert psychology, no, okay?"
                    "Yes," the ten-year-old male whisper into the wall of
the shower tub.
                    "Vicky and I were in here," the young adult said, "and
we spent some time together, but she's still a virgin.  We did the same
kind of things I'd like to do with you if you think you're ready to start
experimenting."
                    "I think so," the boy murmured nervously.
                    "We can start very slowly," Wayne whispered to the
skittish boy, "Vicky and I did.  I just massaged her bare chest under the
water for a long time while we talked, and, I might add, talked about you,
okay?"
                    "Yes," the boy said
                    "I'd like to put my hands on your waist and get close
enough so you can feel me against your back, would you like me to touch you
that way?"
                    "Will you be really gentle?" Dale asked.
                    "Yes," the man whispered softly, "very, and you can
trust me and give yourself to me, completely, as soon as you're ready.  I'm
not going to try to try to enter you, and I'm not into any kind of kinky
stuff, okay?"
                    "Yes," the boy whispered.
                    "Are you ready to be touched in a sexual way --
molested " -- Wayne asked in a toad's whisper.
                    "I think so," Dale said.
                    "Can I ask you something very personal?" his uncle
said.
                    "Okay," the naked boy said.
                    "Do you have a boner?" came the husked question.
                    "I think it will get bigger when you touch me,
especially if you do it a little in front," the boy said.
                    "Okay," the man said.  The nineteen-year-old student
bent over the child in front of him, gently fitting his hands low to the
boy's already heaving flanks.  He fondled the silky, warm skin, pressing
gently though his naked nephew's half-inch of baby fat and hissing softly
as he sensed the hard muscles of the athletic young male.  Slowly the young
man straightened in the tub, bringing the circumcised head of his big penis
against the boy's round, smooth bottom, then slowly pulling himself into
the wet, soapy youth until they both stood in a solid embrace.  "Okay?" he
whispered.
                    "Yes," Dale choked.
                    "We've got lots of time," the older male said, "so why
don't we turn the water off.  You can stay against the wall and I'll dry
you off, how does that sound?"
                    "Good," Dale whispered.
                    "Okay, in just a few minutes," his uncle said, gently
thrusting against the young boy and beginning to molest his naked body with
both his hands.  "This is the way it usually starts, in the shower," he
whispered.
                    "I can see why," Dale said, gaining confidence from the
almost girlish tenderness of what was happening against his back and the
feelings of the adult's strong hands slowly circling his belly and then
roaming very high on his heaving chest.  Wayne was as good as his word and
after depleting the hot water supply for a few minutes as he desensitized
the soapy boy they rinsed and Dale turned off the water while the adult
retrieved a towel and gently dried him.  "You do under your belly," he
said, releasing the terrycloth to the boy and using a second towel to
quickly dry is own tall, muscular frame.  When he was finished, Dale handed
back his towel, Wayne piled them on the end of the tub, and was thrilled to
see the boy's hands reach back for him as he stared shyly at the shower
wall.  The adult took the boy's hands, again stepping close and pressing
himself against the silky heat of the immature body.
                    "Oh, that feels nice," the boy murmured in welcome as
his uncle surged fully against him "I peeked while you were drying off,"
the youth said, "but I didn't see you in front.  You look like our best
high-school swimmer."
                    "Thanks," Wayne said, "you look so sensational I
thought I wouldn't mention it because nothing I could say would add to the
shape of your body, and wouldn't be one tenth as important as the fact that
you seem to be turning into a pretty nice kid, unless, of course, you get
fat, then you can be nice as daylight, and you'll still have something
missing, and that's doing the kind of thing we're doing with an attractive
and willing partner."
                    "I'll try to be nice and I won't get fat," the boy
said.
                    "It may be easier, the first part, " Wayne observed,
"because I think you'll find your sister is nicer to you.  I should
emphasize the fact that luck plays a role, because you're older than she
is, so she can look up to you for that reason, first, as a little girl, to
an older brother, but, in a couple of years, maybe, if you stay gentle and
nice, as an older male, period."
                    "What do you mean?" the boy stammered.
                    "As a male, Dale," his uncle whispered, still molesting
the child on his sculpted soft belly and gently panting chest, resisting,
gently the boy's hands on his urging him below the child's belly, adding,
in a soft voice: "Remember how much time we have.  Hours, okay?"
                    "Yes," the boy responded, and his hands became less
urgent, though they still signaled his yearning
                    "It will be complete," he whispered in promise to the
boy, "I'm not trying to tease you, but just get you experienced with going
slowly and not forcing it to last but letting it last.  You'll find out
why, before the others get home, okay?"
                    "I'm sorry," Dale whispered, letting his hands ride
softly on those of the tall athlete standing close behind his naked young
male body.
                    "It's not always this way," the older male said,
"sometimes it is hot and fast.  That's called closet sex.  For example,
boys that get addicted hang around public rest rooms, and if they stalk an
adult male into a stall, what happens is usually pretty fast and wild.  The
other kind of relationship is bedroom sex, where you have lots of time and
privacy.  Then you try to make it last, not for its own sake, but more
because you like your partner and are happy just hanging out together and
talking, about like you might while you were playing cards, only on
alternative subjects.."
                    "I'd think it would be nice if it were just an
alternative," the boy said, "seeing as how the status quo is more guts on
credit than anything else."
                    "Well, there's some Lotto, too," the man noted.
                    "Vicky hasn't been the same since you molested her,"
Dale said, "she's turned from a cactus to nothing like a pansy, or
anything, but she's softer and nicer."

                    "The fact you noticed and responded is why I'm
molesting your beautiful young ten year old body," the senior teen said,
"and why I'm suggesting alternatives to your decently moral brain.  You
have a dynamite younger sister, she may be your willing partner when you
mature enough to be attractive to her as a male partner, and, you're about
as lucky as a kid can get."
                    "Too bad about the pervert uncle," the child mused
comically, half to himself.
                    "Waiting, with an aroused male," Wayne intoned, "does
not continue with a giggling child in one's arms."
                    "If it happens, turn me around so I can watch you do
it," Dale said.
                    "I will, " the man whispered in promise, "and I need to
know how you feel about getting my semen on your body, especially in front
of you, because mature males like to ejaculate on the thighs and belly of
their young victims."
                    "You'll have to teach me to be a `victim' first," the
boy responded, apparently willing to throw caution, in the giggling
department, to the wind.
                    "How will you feel after that?" the man played along.
                    "I'd like to lie on my back with a pillow under my head
so I could watch you get it really, you know, on me."
                    There was a pause.  "On your penis?" Wayne husked.
                    "Yes," Dale said in a soft whisper, warming with a
blush in the tall athlete's strong arms.

                    "You have two choices," Wayne said, "if you want to
watch yourself, I can use my hand on you, but if you want a more mature
experience, I can rape you with my mouth.  I haven't touched you low enough
to know if you're starting to get a little fuzz over your penis, but if you
have any, you're probably mature enough to ejaculate when you climax.  Just
thought I'd tell you."
                    "You need a microscope," Dale said, not giggling, his
voice a whisper laden with all he was thinking of and picturing in his
mind, and, what he knew was superficial, but, present time, present place,
present company, nonetheless a Very Big Question.  Would being touched by
this gentle, athletic male make him spray, he'd heard it called that at
school, though cruder expressions were more common.
                    "I'm curious," Wayne said, "how much are other boys
your age developed.  Started puberty.  You can tell by looking between
their legs.

                    "I guess I'm kind of the biggest," Dale whispered, "and
I haven't noticed any other boys growing down there, and I am, just a
little, you know, in the last few weeks.  Of course, "he added, "I don't
look very much."
                    "Is there any boy you kind of like to look at?" Wayne
quizzed.
                    "Only one, Andy Frankenheimer," Dale whispered over his
should.
                    "Do you think he looks at you?" the man asked.
                    "I think so," the boy said, "we're kinda friends, so
that may be why."
                    "How about the other boys?" the inquiring mind wanted
to know.
                    "Sometimes.  I guess quite a bit.  Maybe it's because
I'm bigger."
                    "It's the shape of your body," the inquiring mind
already knew.
                    "I just look like a kid," the ten year old responded.
                    "It's a subtle thing," the older male explained, "it
has to do with the shape of you body, especially your belly and thighs.
Kind of like sculpture, the difference between crude and classical as only
a tiny percentage of the overall mass, but, when you think of what sanding
wood does, you come to see that subtleties are important.  So it's a subtle
thing with you, enhanced by the fact that you have maybe five extra pounds.
That gives you a soft, touchable look that's like the juice in a perfect
steak -- hard to describe, but definably there."

                    "Isn't Vicky kind of like I am?" the boy asked.
                    "She is," Wayne said, "very much and very beautifully.
The trick is maintaining it, and that's why I wanted to become active with
you, to give you a reason to stay trim, no matter what smells come from the
bubbling pot, and no matter what the stresses and strains of an almost
ludicrously lopsided educational system.  Stay cool, like you are now, and
I'll molest you as much as you want, and if there's any way I can help you
be with other boys or men you want to experiment or have affairs with, I'll
do everything I can to promote the relationship, no jealousy or subversive
motives, but yes, the same counsel I'd give over friends and peer group to
anyone I cared about."

                    "If Andy did come over," Dale asked, "could we, you
know, like both sleep in with you, at least at first?"
                    "If you're very sure he'd like to, yes," Wayne said,
"that's very common in our type of relationship, even s small number of
partners.  The secret is to be satisfied with the number you have, and not
waste time and take risks by seeking more.  That's where the addiction
comes in.  Some boys get seduced by a mature male who gives them a big
physical thrill, but doesn't talk to them, and isn't around for them.  Kids
with that background sometimes go off the deep end."
                    "The way they do with booze, glue, and about twenty
other things," the fourth grader observed.
                    "In a way, yes," Wayne allowed, "but there's an
important difference.  With all the other addictions, the more you partake,
the more serious the problem gets, sex included, with this great exception:
if you do find an appropriate partner, you can make passionate love for
hours every night, and the only long-term result will be a slight increase
in your physical fitness.  The more you get, in a sense at least, the less
you want, and a full relationship with an individual, or a small group, is
more satisfying, both proactively and passively, than the thrill of the
hunt, and that just means strictly limiting the hunting time, not
eliminating it.  If you want to stalk a cute bowler into a stall at the
bowling alley, two times a year, you're cool, if `strange' becomes an
obsession, you've got a major problem that may not be temporary."

                    "All kids should at least have this option and
opportunity," Dale commented.
                    "The church survives by maintaining an extreme
position," the man said, "and inheriting the legacy splinter of the
population that believes in dated concepts and often ridiculous ideals.
Has often done so.  They've been peddling the same misinformation as a
sales tool for eons, and admitting they were very substantially wrong would
slice and dice thousands of empires.  You have to fear it as an enemy with
more eyes than brains, while, at the same time, violating its taboos is
what we're doing here in the shower, behind two locked doors, and I don't
think it would be quite the same in the pulpit on Sunday."

                    "Can I just giggle a little?" Dale asked.  Wayne pushed
away from the beautiful young body, just in time.  "Yes," he said.  The boy
recovered quickly.
                    "How long did you talk with Vicky?" he asked.
                    "Hours," the man said, "I told her about Jeffie, and
she told me about a girl she looks at in the locker room, like you and Andy
look at each other.
                    "Have they tried touching?" the boy asked, his voice
yet lower and huskier
                    "No, but she thinks they'll develop a friendship.  One
of the secret benefits of homosexual activity as a youth is sometimes it
leads to platonic friendships."
                    "Is that true with us?" Dale asked.
                    "I think so," Wayne said, "but it's not like pieces of
a puzzle.  There are perfect fits, yes, but there are imperfect fits that
are better than no fit at all, plus, the pieces are complex to begin with."
                    "I like you having a perfect fit with me," the
short-haired, athletic boy said, reaching behind him and pulling the adult
hard against him.
                    "You and your sister are my imperfect pieces," Wayne
said, "Jeffie is my perfect one, but, when it comes to being naked in the
shower with a warm, friendly ten year old, the fit is good enough to last a
lifetime, and, more importantly if I'm to support you through school and at
least while I'm starting out, the only pieces I need."

                    "Do you think you'll marry her when she's eighteen?"
Dale asked.
                    "Yes," his uncle said, "and you are invited to the
wedding, on the honeymoon, and to live with us any time you want."

                    "How about Annie, she'll grow up, too," the boy asked.
                    "That will be up to her, there usually isn't room for
one more, on a permanent basis, but without flexibility morality becomes
the toy of the despot and zealot, so, when the time comes, it will be up to
the young lady in question."
                    "And Andy?" he asked, "and the girl who looked at
Vicky?"
                    "A homosexual and incestuous alpha group has the same
friends and associations as any group," the pedagogue explained, "which
means, sure, overnight guests, weekend guests, parties,
best-friends-on-trips, same-old-same-old, with some of them being what
might be called Night Friends, and some being just boring old folk."

                    "Uncle Wayne?" Dale said, his voice pure dusk.
                    "What?" the man asked, panting from the lust radiating
from the child in his arms.
                    "I remember what you said when you first came up close
behind me, about going inside me, but I want you to, even if it hurts.
I've been, you know, I needed a laxative a couple of times last year, and I
know you feel really big against you, but, you know, I don't want to change
the subject, even here in the bathroom with the door locked, but, you know,
I think it would be possible from what happened after the laxative."

                    "Oh," Wayne whispered softly into the boy's left ear.

                    For five minutes they said nothing.  Dale experimented
with leaning against the tile wall of the shower and moving his feet a
little back and apart.  He felt his uncle swell and harden as the adult
leaned over to run his hands gently over the boy's taut muscles and down
lower to the baby softness of his lower belly.  "Is my right hand really
close to you now?" he whispered after awhile.
                    "I think about half an inch," Dale said.
                    "You're really long," the man noted.
                    "Not half as big around as your penis is, though," the
boy responded, now fully accepting the intimacy and carnality of verbal
voyeurism.
                    "That's why I don't want to mount you," Wayne said,
"whatever happened with, you know; an adult's penis affect you differently
and it can be more than painful, plus, a boy's body is extremely tight
against a full-grown male, and that tension cam be irresistible and make a
man rape a boy, in the real sense of the word, even if he doesn't intend to
hurt him at all."

                    "I still want to be that close to you,"
                    "I want it, too," Wayne said, "but I also want to
molest you in this shower for six years, except to get in pizza."
                    "As long as we wait a year before the first one gets
here, I want the same thing," the cutie said.
                    "What we could wait for is Andy," Wayne suggested, "I
haven't touched you yet, or looked at you, but if you're reasonably slim
you could probably be successful with him, and I'm almost sure he wouldn't
hurt you, especially if you had a friend with you who could guide him and
protect you by holding his penis, at least for his first entry into you."

                    "You're a little bit scary," Dale allowed, "sometimes I
think you could talk me into bad things, just by the way you present them."

                    "Writers are like that," Wayne admitted, "otherwise,
forsooth, we should not exist at all, for a wee output brings wee response,
except for Salinger, whose wee output got put in the box called
`literature' by urban liberals, who love their boxes so dearly, they never
scrub them out."
                    "He belongs in the sewer," the boy responded, "not the
garbage.  All they have to do is flush the toilet."

                    There was a long pause during which Wayne molested the
arching boy with both hands, leaning against his back, his huge adult penis
thrust far up between the silky inner thighs of the panting little boy.
"We can only do it once in awhile," he whispered very softly into the boy's
left ear, maybe two or three times.  I mount Jeffie on Christmas and his
birthday, which is in may, then on Columbus Day.  I've let two adults take
him that way, while I was with him, so, just like the rest of what we're
doing, the answer is a pretty severely rationed Yes, if you still want me
inside you."

                    "Yes," Dale whispered, "yes."
                    "And," the man said, immediately attaching a string,
"I've got to cum, first, otherwise, I don't care how much I love you, the
sensation of entering you, all wet and slippery, might make me hurt you.
So, yes, if you still want it to happen, maybe we can slip down in the
basement and find a comfortable place, and we can bring some baby oil and
candles and at least experiment a little.  Okay?"
                    "What time?" the boy asked.
                    "I'll come in a two in the morning," the man said, "if
you want to be with me when I wake you up, that will be reassuring, but, in
any event, I want you to wait, and not make the decision in the heat of the
moment."

                    "Okay," the boy whispered, "but you could tell better
about Andy and me if you touched me..."
                    "Touched my..." the man interrupted, gently.
                    "Penis," the child responded.
                    "Yes," Wayne said, slowly standing the boy and gripping
him firmly with his left arm around the slim, panting chest.  He moved his
right hand to the child's five inch, slim, circumcised erection, first
fondling the boy down low, then gripping his long, slim boner and stroking
him gently.  "I think Andy has about hit the jackpot in the lucky-boy
of-the-year contest," he said.
                    "I think he might be even bigger than I am," Dale
responded.
                    "Then make that a double," his uncle said.  "It's nice
to have a big penis in you, but it takes getting used to, and if you take
your partner's semen inside you, the added hormones, especially of a mature
boy, or an adult, can cause changes."

                    "What kind?" the boy asked.
                    "I'm not an expert on the subject," Wayne answered,
"but I've seen pornos with males whose organs reached nearly to their
knees, soft.  My guess is there wasn't enough blood in their whole bodies
to allow them to have an erection, unless, of course, they showered with a
certain silky soft and perfectly sculpted child, but then all that blood
there would have to come from somewhere, and there's nothing funny about
gangrene."

                    "If we know each other like for fifty or sixty years,"
Dale wanted to know, "am I going to have to ask permission to giggle the
whole time?"
                    "You just have to wait for me to say something funny,"
the man replied, "and I don't think you'll find that very amusing."
                    "There's always something up with a child molester,"
the boy said, off the cuff, proving to his uncle that he knew what funny
was and could bet it, at least once in awhile.
                    "Except the ones who tackle giggling, naked boys,"
Wayne noted, now masturbating the boy openly, as Dale arched and reached
back to hold his uncle's handsome head.
                    "If you hold be I can put my left leg out of the tub,"
Dale said.  Wayne adjusted his grip, and in a moment the young boy was
spread wantonly, thrusting urgently into the mature male's soapy fist.
After five minutes, the child began tensing and Wayne eased his rhythm and
slowly released the gasping child.
                    "Remember where you wanted me to cum on your body?" the
young uncle asked.
                    "Yes," the boy said, quickly recovering his breath.
                    "I want you to watch it happen before you climax,"
Wayne said, "because, especially when you're starting out, there can be a
sharp letdown after you spray, and if a mature male's ejaculating all over
your inner thighs and your belly, it can be gross and messy, not hot and
passionate.  Okay?"
                    "Yes," Dale nodded.  "What position do we use?" he
asked.
                    "The first time's usually more clinical than romantic,"
Wayne said, "experiencing the sexual part without confusing the feelings
with petting and kissing.  So all you do, when you're ready, is lie on the
carpet and spread your legs, the way you have them now.  That's a welcome
sign to your partner.  I'll kneel between your knees, then get in close.
I'll jerk off on you and get you wet with my sperm, then you raise your
hips, and I'll pull you up on my knees and masturbate your dripping white
boner with my wet hand.  If you have semen, it will splash with mine all
over your belly and chest."

                    "And that's meant to be against the law?" the boy
asked.
                    "People are funny," the adult admitted.
                    "People are left out is what people are," the youth
retorted, getting no argument from his uncle.

                    Since this ten year old is not likely to be left out of
anything, it's time for a break.  Over seventeen thousand words yesterday,
written and edited, plus a trip to town, where I found extra loot in the
bank, plus various and sundry scenes of the domestic font.  I guess this
could be an excuse for typos and glitches, but I did a little reviewing
and, at least for a work of Web fiction, didn't find too many.  In fact, as
a kid I expressed my frustration at deprivation (more accurately, relative
deprivation) by building sloppy models and doing sloppier homework, so I'm
a bit amazed at the level of craft that exists, especially in view of my
convoluted style, which, though undoubtedly fascinating to each and every
reader, is hell on wheels to proof.  Because I'm a writer, I never pat my
own back for long due to the chance of injury.  That's my way of saying,
since there are no longer any benches in essay land, it's back to the ten
year old on his back, and the tall, athletic uncle beginning to masturbate
on him.


                    "Can I do it to you?" Dale asked.
                    "Yes," Wayne said, "to Andy, too.  And if you're ever
with a stranger, doing this to him with your hand is the safest way for
something to happen."
                    "What are the other ways?" the boy wanted to know.
                    "You can use your mouth and tongue," the adult said,
beginning to pant freely, "or, in special cases, you can take your
partner's seed inside you.  But this is the way most male relationships
begin, because boys like to watch adults cum, and men love to watch young
males cum."
                    "I guess it can't be both ways at once," the boy mused.
                    "Somewhere, someone's working on it," Wayne assured
him.
                    "Yeah," the boy said, his eyes hot on his uncle's waist
as the stretched his arms far above his head, arching his back as he had
done while being molested from behind in the shower, "the Throat Cam."
                    "I think the wearer might gag on a device like that."
                    "But they should still work on it.  They have a biology
video of it happening inside a girl, in color, and you can see every tiny
detail, so the technology is off-the-shelf."

                    "What I'm especially glad of," Wayne remarked, "is that
you and Vicky and Jeffie all have your lifetime's work cut out for you, and
they're similar enough to give you something in common over the years."
                    "When Annie grows up, I'll get her pregnant, then we'll
have even more in common."
                    "Just keep that sublime young body of yours at a
distance enough that I can earn our living, that's all I ask," the man
said.
                    "You mean the same one you're going to teach about
sperm by cumming all over?" the boy asked.

                    "I'm going to cum off on you," the nineteen year old
male rasped, quickly moving his left leg wide and rolling on his left side.
Dale responded instantly by thrusting his hips to the swelling hotness of
the adult, and in seconds they had fit themselves tightly to each others,
the man's penis hot along the sculpted contours and silky flesh where the
child's thigh met his young, panting belly.  Both stared down between their
bodies.  Wayne moved his right fist one last time, skinning down slowly and
gripping hard.  He held still against the satin white skin of the boy's
belly, then began shower his nephew with his strong, fast pumping, gushing
white fluid over the boy, and not forgetting to move slightly in order to
thoroughly wet the child pressed against him.  Before he began to ebb, the
athletic teen raised to his knees, quickly pulling Dale to him.  He thrust
his showering boner up between the boy's young legs, gripping the
youngster's fiercely hot and hard penis to his own more massive cock.  He
stroked, soaking the already slick boy, and gripping firmly.  As his
pulsing spray began diminishing, the child in his hand began ejaculating,
spurting three thin jets six inches in the air, then shuddering through the
long, hard orgasm that beat into him after his physical release.  Even a
minute later when he began to come to, the ten year old could see the
watery swirl of his juvenile semen mixed with the heavy, white seed of the
adult.

                    Two years had passed.  Vicky and Betsy Molino had
become friends, but had never spent time alone together.  Andy
Frankenheimer had spent the night a week after Wayne's arrival and had
coached the boy successfully.  They had been frequent partners, since,
almost exclusive to each other, and, as Wayne had suggested, had become
ninety-nine percent friends, one-percent lovers, seeing more of each other
than ever.  With everything changing with the arrival of Wayne and Jeffie,
he might make a good partner for Jeffie, leaving him more time for his
seven-year-old sister, Annie.  Thus he completed his report to his uncle
and the others gathered in the borrowed lakeside cottage.

                    Vicky, up on her knees between her uncles legs for the
whole of her brother's story, to the slight puzzlement of the others, now
stood an punctuated the story in a way most children wouldn't think of.
She stood, slightly spreading hers legs, and turning slowly so all could
see the heavy white sheeting of cum slicking her inner thighs, and,
although somewhat clotted, wetting her half way to the kneels of her long,
school-girl legs.  In addition, the white semen of her mature uncle was
offset by a pair of long red socks she'd quietly slipped into while the
others had been diverted by the more graphic sketches in her brother's
narrative.  The effect of her nakedness, what her handsome uncle had done
with her, and the long, silky stocking was to create a murmur all around.
She sat demurely, after a minute, this time well back in her uncle's lap
where she wriggled gently against his still huge, hard boner.

                    The murmur became focused.  "How do you feel about it,
Rusty," his sister asked, "do you want to listen to another one, or tell
one, or be the first boy in the entire world to make be look like Vicky?"
I never get blocked as a writer, but I do get choked.  Now Rusty is.  Three
perfect choices will do it to a guy.

                    "I guess I could tell one," the boy said, staring into
the pretty brown eyes of his brunette younger sister, "I just want to stay
here looking at your breasts, forever, like Dale and Uncle Wayne wanted to
stay up against the wall of the shower, forever."
                    "We've got hours," Audrey whispered, "and it will
happen with us, just like it did with them, only, of course, inside me."
That's how the whole world should get along, every day, all day.


                    "I think it's a pretty typical story," the eldest
Griswold child began.  "You know, little league."
                    "Did you initiate it, or did he?" Wayne asked.
                    "He did," the boy replied.
                    "How old were you," Wayne asked the fifteen year old.
                    "Two year ago," the boy said, "I was thirteen."
                    "Did you spend a long time together," Audrey asked, "or
was it the closet kind."
                    "The first time it was," the boy said, "I didn't even
see anything."
                    "Why?" the curious sister asked.
                    "It was raining, so we'd worn raincoats to the
theater," Rusty explained, his voice getting low and froggy.
                    "Were there a lot of people around," Audrey asked,
everyone delighted at watching her gently lead her shy brother.
                    "We sat up back," Rusty said, "it was a matinee, and
there was nobody near us.
                    "So you could whisper?" the girl said.
                    "Yes," Rusty said, blushing.
                    "Did you do that a lot?" she wanted to know.
                    "Yes," the boy admitted.
                    "Did you like it?" Audrey asked.
                    "I was up-tight at first, but he'd molested boys my age
before, so he knew how to make it so I trusted him.  He asked me if he
could ask me some personal questions, and I said it was okay.  Then he
asked me if an older male had ever sat beside me in a theater, you know, by
myself, before.  I told him that hadn't happened.  He told me it might,
sometime, and that he'd like to teach me what might happened, so if it
happened sometime for real, or, for reel, since it was in a cinema, and I
said it would be okay.  The first thing he told me was what to do if it was
a creep.  First of all, to recognize where accidental touching would lead,
and then to decide if I wanted to happen, or wanted him to stop.  `Little
danger of it being a her,' he added.  By that time he was touching me
inside my knee.  I was wearing shorts, so it was exciting feeling his hand
against my skin.  He made me practice pulling away a few times, so I'd be
creep-resistant, and we even changed seats, so I wouldn't be afraid to do
that, if I wanted to.  I really liked him, and he'd been our coach for a
year, so I let him put his hand up pretty high under my shorts, then we
talked some more about what would happen if I liked the male who was doing
this to me.  He said we could go all the way under the raincoat, or, if I
wanted to be a little more daring, I could follow the male down to the
men's' room, and, if I was just wearing shorts and a tee-shirt, the adult
or boy could get me naked in the stall, and maybe get naked with me.
Cliff, that's my coach, he's athletic without any body-builder stuff
sticking out, said if it happened in a stall, and I was wearing any
clothes, to be sure, if I was with a mature partner, that they didn't leave
anything from them on me, and also to be sure I didn't have any in my hair
or anywhere where other people could see it and know what had happened to
me.  In other words, to be really careful.  I asked him a lot of questions
about what a man would do to if he had me alone, and he told me about using
my mouth, and guys who might want to jam inside me, but he said most mature
males want to be very gentle with a boy to romanticize what's otherwise a
biological sidebar.  After awhile, he stopped touching me.  I moved to his
left side, so it would be more comfortable, and put my right hand on him
under the raincoat.  He asked me if I'd started jerking off, and I told him
I didn't know how.  He said he'd like to have me spend a weekend at his
camp, sometime soon, so he could teach me more and I told him I was sure
Mom and Dad would let me go.  By this time I had my hand pretty far up his
leg and I could feel his shorts straining because he was hard.  It was a
long movie, so we relaxed for awhile.  After awhile, he reached across with
his right hand.  I knew what he wanted, so I unzipped myself for him.  We
had a date for the movie, kind of a real one, and, for some reason, when I
was dressing, I left my underpants off.  That made him really happy, and he
doubled-up on his invitation.  I doubled up on my acceptance, then he took
my hand, looked around to be sure no one was spying on us, and he showed me
how to pull his foreskin down and get him wet.  `Sometimes there's a musky
odor when you expose an uncircumcised adult,' he said, warning me the way
about getting wet on my clothes in a stall."

                    "We spent half an hour touching each other," the
fifteen year old went on, "and he asked me a lot of questions about my
sister.  He told me I was too young for that kind of experience, you know,
with a girl, but when I got older I might feel differently, and, in the
meantime, if I was at least a pretty nice big brother, I'd make it more
likely that something might happen between us when I was old enough to be
attractive to her, as a male.  He said he'd partner with me a lot, because
it was good for boys who had any experience to have a lot, and I was right
to trust him, because he was always there for me, and even introduced me to
two older teenagers whom I could hang around with more freely than I could
with my coach, so, that's why I've never dated, and, not to put too fine a
point on it, why I've never taken my eyes off my beautiful sister over the
last two years."

                    "If you'd been fifteen when I was eight, I would have
had a total crush on you," Audrey said, "but thirteen and fifteen probably
isn't the latest start in the history of Kansas."
                    The group in the house moved by consensus.  Gently they
surrounded the brother and sister, eased the female onto the carpet of the
floor, and Jeffie guided the handsome boy between Audrey's widely spread
legs.  "Annie, come here," Audrey whispered as her brother experimented
against her.  The seven year old snuggled happily at her older cousin's
left breast, staring intently as Rusty, shuddering over her with the wet,
soft heat of his first contact with a receptive female, as he began
thrusting his sic-inch circumcised penis with hissing deliberation.  Audrey
responded avidly cuddling Annie with her left arm as she showed the little
girl how to welcome a male.  They were successful in a matter of five
minutes, and the athletic teen lowered himself, first just until his sister
swollen nipples grazed his taut and sweating chest, then, after a minute,
settling against the thirteen year old as her legs and arms embraced him.
"Tell your story," he whispered, so I can stay with you longer."

                    "It's just a fantasy," the girl said, but she was
willing to oblige, especially if it would keep her suddenly beloved older
brother with her for even a minute longer.  "Like what if Betsy had come
over for a sleepover, and my brother was fifteen, like he is now."
                    No one objected, and Annie, especially mewed approval.


                    "I'm really sorry," the nine year old said, "I didn't
mean to look at you in gym."
                    "I didn't mean to look at you, either," eight year old
Vicky Carmichael said as they sat under an umbrella at recess, "and I think
I kind of started it."
                    "I thought you might be mad," the girl said, a shy
smile breaking out on her gamin, wide-eyed face.
                    "Same here," the younger girl said, returning the
smile.  "I guess we have a lot to learn, eh?"

                    The girls, tentative as befits new friends, changed the
subject, quickly discovering that, while they didn't like trendy market
fiction, they did like Willa Cither, especially, "My Antonia" with it's
horrific wolf scene, and other B-list artists one found by combing the
library, a place they'd seen each other in passing, and were happy to
realize they'd never pass again.

                    There was a pause in the conversation and both young
females were quietly thrilled that they didn't need to talk to feel
comfortable together.  Weird, because now, a month after her uncle's last
visit, it was how she felt about her twelve year old brother.  Of course
silence was golden, not the whole monetary system.

                    "Did you like looking at me?" Vicky asked, feeling
instinctively that it was the role of the younger female to show she was
interested.
                    "Yes," the black-haired beauty said, "I tried not to,
but you're developing and I couldn't help it."
                    "I couldn't either," the younger child said.  "I even
wanted to touch you."
                    "That's what I wanted, too," Betsy said.
                    "Have you done it before?" Audrey said.
                    "I wasn't even in school the day they brought on the
dolls," her new friend giggled.  "I don't know anything.  One day I hear
`stork', the next day `cabbage patch', so my mind is as blank as it can be.
                    "How about you?"
                    "I have a cute older brother, Rusty," the eight year
old said, "he's fifteen."
                    "Yeah," Betsy said, "I've seen you guys together before
I knew you.  He's cute, alright."
                    "He'd think you were, too; we play games like that in
restaurants, and we usually agree.  It's a little scary."
                    "I don't have any brothers," the girl said wistfully,
"but I'm trying to get my dad interested in me, half because he's a fox,
and half because he's super, and I'd want to be close with him even if he
looked like the fat, bald guy on "Seinfeld."
                    "That would be love," Audrey allowed, and both girls
giggled happily.  Recess was over and they agreed to meet after school,
spending the remaining hour and a half with magnets the size of trucks on
full power, and practically knocking each other down twenty seconds after
the final bell.

                    "What do you want to do? Betsy asked.
                    "Rusty's working on a model ship," Audrey said, "we
could go to my house and help him."
                    "Then my dad could pick us up around seven and take us
to dinner," the girl added, "Rusty, too."
                    "That would be enough camouflage to buffalo even one of
the world's great culinary chemists," Audrey said, "and my mom's the stone
fox of all time, so you'll like her, plus Rusty hangs out mostly with his
little-league coach, so he's never dated, and I don't think he's looked at
a girl as much as you and I looked each other after gym."

                    "You've never accidentally let him see you?" the girl
asked.
                    "I want to wait until I'm more interesting," Audrey
said, "because I don't want it too misfire and get him tired of me or
anything.  How about you, have you let your dad look?"
                    "I've tried, you know, leaving doors open, but he's
careful not to ogle his flesh and blood, which is sweet beyond honey mixed
with sugar, but not much of a diet all by its lonesome self."

                    "How about your mom?" the younger girl asked.
                    "She split two years ago with a guy into her brand of
liquor, Lots, so it's just dad and me."
                    "My mom will pinch hit," Audrey assured her new friend.
Technology may not have been developed with trysts between little girls,
but nonetheless two cellular telephones appeared, two girls talked for two
minutes, each, and, before they got on Audrey's bus, the t's had been
crossed and i `s dotted, leaving the girls relaxed, happy, and acting very
maturely to hide the giddy excitement straining their eight and
nine-year-old nervous systems.  They didn't talk about boys on the ten
minute ride, and were a bit stunned to realize they might never.  This
brought up the subject of not talking about boys, which satisfied them
both.  The brakes hissed, the door swung open, and they walked to Audrey's
spacious home.  "Hi, Dad," Audrey said, introducing Betsy Molino.  "Going
upstairs to watch the Moosiest Moose," Clark Griswold asked, and the girls
said Yes, pretending to giggle, becoming identical twins in the process,
and after a few minutes chat, headed up the stairs of the rambling
contemporary.  "Four squeaking steps," Audrey whispered as they mounted to
the second floor, "we used to have one until dad fixed it."

                    "What do they let him put in food?" Betsy asked.
                    "Things to fatten women, and it's not `let', it's
`make', or we end up under a bridge with hobo wishes and wino dreams, or
the other way `round."
                    "He's very successful," Betsy allowed as the two girls
entered Audrey's room and sat on the bed.
                    "Books, I might have know," the nine year old said.
                    "One month's supply," the girls said, nodding at a
laden shelf.

                    Audrey paused in her story.  Rusty was tensing in her
arm and everyone sensed it.  "Watch carefully, Annie," Dale said, his naked
body lying half over his little sister's as she lay against Audrey fondling
her cousin's pretty teen breasts and nipples. Jeffie, who'd been kneeling,
legs widely spread, over the girl and masturbating deliberately, also
tensed.  Wayne had been molesting Vicky during the girl's recital, but
quickly moved behind his young ward, taking the ten year old from the rear
in the classic way, and holding him still and tight as he sprayed on
Audrey's swollen breasts.  The sight of the young boy's watery sperm on his
sister's breast brought a feral growl from Rusty and he thrust rigidly
against his sister, rising on shaking arms so Annie could see everything.
"He's being a man with her like Uncle Wayne was with Vicky," the girl
reported.  Everyone could see it was true and watched avidly until the
handsome, coltish boy ebbed and sank back into his sister's very happy arms
and she held him tight, fully a woman, against her happy, heaving breasts.
Some minutes passed and everyone got comfortable again.  Audrey took them
back to her make-believe bedroom five years earlier, with Rusty still
fifteen year old in her tale.

                    "Do you want to experiment with kissing and making out,
first, or just see?" Betsy asked her slightly younger friend.
                    "Just see.  Is that okay?' Audrey asked.
                    "That's what I want, too," the black-haired, brown-eyed
Italian sylph replied.  "But I do want to kiss you, you know, later."
                    "Me, too," Betsy said, "or, I guess, `me, you.'"


                    That reminds me to add a note on punctuation.  Even
with intricate styling, I use a lot.  It's deliberate, like the minor-key
overtones in music; a contrast between a stilted syntax, and less stilted
storyline.  It's fun for me and I guess if it was too irritating, you
wouldn't be reading.  It's also dangerous, because nothing is more
amateurish than even a single superfluous comma.  I suppose this makes me
the bravest writer in the world, on top of everything else.  I wonder if it
will ever get ho-hum.

                    "How do you want to do it?" the eight year old asked
the nine year old.  "I mean we could leave the door open.  If Dad comes up
we'll hear, well, actually seven stairs, and he probably won't, he's got
that new computer to fool with, and Rusty usually goes to the kitchen and
uses the bathroom at the end of the hall, but we won't be able to hear
him."
                    "Would he freak out?" Betsy asked.
                    "No," Audrey assured her friend, "he'd just think we
were being kids."
                    "Do you think he might come in?" the older girl asked,
wide-eyed.
                    "I don't know," Audrey allowed, "but I do know the best
way in the world to find out."  This was so obvious Betsy merely nodded her
head, and kept nodding it to show her agreement was a full one-hundred
percent.
                    "Just our chests, or all the way naked?" Audrey
whispered, her voice low and strained.
                    "I want to lie back on your bed and spread my legs for
you," the older girl replied.
                    "I'd like you to look at me that way, too," the second
voice said, equally laden with soaring excitement.
                    "Do you want to do it all at once, or a little at a
time?" Betsy needed to know.
                    "Let's take off our tops for awhile," Audrey said.
                    "Should we watch each other or pretend we're good
girls?" Betsy said.
                    "Let's pretend," her cute little friend replied.  The
two girls turned their backs to each other and rustled out of their school
blouses.  "We kinda needed to change, anyway, "Audrey rationalized, "so we
might be doing this even if we were just going to play with dolls."
                    "We could even stop if we wanted to," the older female
noted.
                    "I won't say `that's the last thing I want,' because I
don't want it," her friend responded.
                    "Me, either," Betsy whispered, "this is my first time
and I'm totally glad it's with you, even if I only met you a few hours
ago."
                    "If it was love at first sight," Audrey said, "what do
you think it will be when we turn around and look at each other?"
                    "Some of the high-school jocks use steroids," the older
girl said, "so maybe it will be some kind of super love."
                    "I feel that just having you in my room and hearing
your voice," Betsy responded.
                    "Maybe there's no such thing as true love on earth,"
the young hostess observed, "because any couple that finds it floats away."
                    "I'm ready if you are," her visitor whispered.  Slowly
the turned, faced each other at arm's length, whispered Hi, looking into
each other's eyes, then let their pretty eyes drop.  Neither wore bras, but
it wouldn't be long.  Betsy was the more mature with obvious swelling, her
pubescent nipples standing tautly, the size of half a man's thumb, from her
honey chest.  Her little friend could have been a boy, but her flat chest
was graced by two pretty pink penny-size breasts, as delicate and touchable
small flowers.  They said Hi, again, nervously, you flushed with pleasure
and excitement.  "I don't know why there's more than this," Betsy mused.
                    "So the church will have more to take away, probably,"
Audrey responded.
                    "Ten percent of your money, and all of this," Betsy
added.
                    "Plus ruining Sunday," the younger girl said.
                    "But if it was acceptable, we wouldn't be panting like
this, do you think?"
                    "The lord taketh away, and the lord giveth," Audrey
replied.  It was a novel slant, but this is a novel.

                    For a long time they stood two feet apart looking each
other up and down.  Finally Betsy gently took the lead by guiding her
younger friend's hands to her chest, then leaving them to display by
raising her arms high above he head.  Audrey's touch was shy and
experimental at first.  She looked at her older friend, then into her eyes,
then again down at her own hands as they toyed closer to the sensual
centers of the universe.  "There must be a god to give you two," she said,
as her older friend began panting openly at the delicacy of her friend's
fondling and her warm, ragged breath."

                    "Close your eyes," the younger girl suggested as she
found Betsy's breasts with her fingers, "and pretend it's your dad."
                    "You're psychic, Daddy," the girl whispered in reply,
arching to the growing maturity of Audrey's gentle touch and hot breath.
Slowly the younger child moved to her nine-year-old friend, then her lips
found the girl's bare chest and in a minute her lips and tongue were
experimenting with Betsy's left nipple.  "Oh, Daddy," the girl hissed,
lowering her arms so she could run her fingers through her young lover's
hair.  For several minutes Audrey kissing, licked, and gently sucked
Betsy's breasts, the older girl sighing, running her finger's through the
younger girl's hair, and mewing welcome.

                    "You're beautiful."

                    Both girls were startled at the voice from the open
door, but instantly regained their composure, Audrey standing at her
friend's side, the two holding hands, facing the lanky, cute teen male.
"Really beautiful," Rusty whispered, his voice husky.

                    "We're pretending we're going skinny dipping," Audrey
said shyly, blushing beautifully.
                    "We want to practice floating on our backs," Betsy
improvised in support of her half-naked friend.
                    "And we need someone to support under our backs and put
his hand on our tummies while we get used to it," Audrey embellished.
                    "But we don't want him to get his clothes wet," Betsy
said.
                    "Should I keep my underpants on?" the long-legged teen
beauty asked.
                    "It would help us concentrate," his sister allowed.
                    "I'll be right back," the boy said.  Before he left,
Audrey introduced her brother to Betsy Molino.  They shook hands shyly, and
the boy disappeared for half a minute, reappearing in his sister's bedroom
in white briefs, bulging hugely.  He shut and locked the door and stood
against it while the three stared panting softly at each other.
                    "Betsy's a guest," Audrey finally whispered, "you
should teach her first."
                    "But you've got to teach me, too, the male said in his
raspy voice, "because it's just pretend and I might pretend the wrong
thing.  That seemed fantastically impossible to both girls, but the boy's
graciousness under extreme pressure impressed them, so the eight year old
agreed to help.  Betsy lay down on her friend's pink bedspread and the
brother and sister knelt at her right flank, the male to the left of the
female.

                    "You can't touch her here," the younger girl
instructed, "because females are sensitive and she won't be able to
concentrate."  So saying, she proceeded to teach her brother where not to
touch a young girl, taking her time, making sure he understood completely.
Rusty hissed at the hot swelling of the long-legged beauty, but behaved
like the gentleman he was and followed his sister's lead as she taught him
that a female's belly is also sensitive and that he shouldn't draw tender
circles around her belly button, no matter how cute, and, especially, not
to run his fingers softly along the top of her uniform skirt.  The boy,
normally an ace student, suddenly seemed very stupid, and it took a lot of
patient coaching and review before he began to learn right from wrong.
Audrey didn't mind; his hot, male body felt sensational against her left
arm, even though pressing her little-girl nipple against his sinewy triceps
did seem to distract him and intrude on the lesson, making it take longer
and longer.

                    "Audrey?" the boy husked after ten minutes.
                    "Yes?" the girl whispered in response to the sick sound
of her beautiful brother's froggy voice.
                    "I think the problem is her skirt.  At this rate she's
going to be at the bottom of the pool forever.  What I thought might be an
idea is if you let me teach you, without your skirt, and see if that's the
answer to floating."

                    "Simplicity, elegance, common-sense, and practical,"
the fairy princess agreed.  There followed a lengthy review of the arching,
panting beauty's naked chest, and slowly, helping each other very much, the
females changed positions.  Rusty unbuckled his kid sister's skirt and as
the child raised her hips, pulled it over the girls legs.

                    "See how much lighter she is?" Betsy said as she traced
the panting male's finger from the right knee of the girl slowly up her
silky inner thigh to the hem of her yellow panties as Audrey raised her
hips in welcome.  For ten minutes the boy and girl molested the supine
eight year old.  "It's hopeless with her panties on," the visiting girl
said, placing her hands on her friends hips.  Audrey bucked high, and in a
few seconds was naked.  She spread her legs wantonly, and Betsy moved to
the foot of the bed, Rusty in panting pursuit.  "Being naked makes a bit
difference," she said, and, indeed, most of Audrey' body was off the bottom
of the pool as she arched in welcoming display.  After some minutes at
ogling the panting child, Rusty moved to her chest, finding her nipples as
Betsy began masturbating the boy's little sister.  Audrey arched doubly to
the combination of her brother's touch and the smooth stroking high between
her legs of their beautiful houseguest.  By accord, the kneeling couple
changed places, and Rusty's male fingers wet and hot on his virgin sister
caused the girl to arch like a ballerina.

                    "She's safe, now," the older female noted, but then
Audrey shrieked aloud, thrust hard and fast to her mature brother, shook
violently and collapsed back to the bottom of the pool.
                    "She needs air, after all," Betsy observed, and Rusty
again changed places, this time so he could find his sister with his lips
in order to save the pretty child's life. The treatment worked instantly,
the naked girl remained pretty and pink, and in mere minutes her breathing
was restored to a healthy-sounding, heavy panting.

                    "If I ever eat peanut butter with my mouth open,
again," the cute kid said to her brother, "you and Dad can use me for
target practice with the pellet gun."
                    "But no sickening stuff," Rusty responded, "Dad and Mom
are too nice, we've got to act normal so we don't go around setting issues
on fire."
                    "Dad and I rattle around in three thousand square
feet," Betsy remarked, "so you could come and visit anytime.."
                    "That would be awesome," the fifteen year old enthused,
his sister nodding happily as they eased her from the bed, making room for
their new friend.  She was six inches taller than Audrey and the sister and
brother spent half an hour with her naked in their gentle hands, leaving
her a sweating, lank-haired, panting wreck.  Both girls anchored the teen
male to the bed with every pillow on it, dashed to the shower so they'd
have an excuse for their wet hair, then returned to their male captive.
They removed the pillows and stared down at his beautiful coltish body,
legs too longs, feet too big, hands too big, and they even worried that he
was too big.  "But girls have babies," Betsy remarked, and, for sure, there
was nothing infantile about Rusty Griswold.
                    "And cats have kittens," Audrey added, settling the
matter.


                    There's a line in "Amadeus" that goes, "I think that
went rather well."  Same tonality: "I think this is going rather well."  A
seventeen-thousand-word day followed by fifteen thousand, plus a
two-thousand word letter to my dad.  And I'm not even selling anything.

                    Kids are kids 24/7 X 18 or 20.  Rhagheeda was over with
Samantha.  She wanted to look at my new watch, so I took it off and handed
it to her, ostensibly so she could a, look and it, and, b, try to fit it
back in the case.  I turned and talked to Samantha for not even a minute,
and when I looked around, Rhagheeda was rubbing the crystal against the
table as hard as she could.  By some fluke it didn't scratch.  Grr.
Elston, who is possibly the nicest kid I've met in my life, twelve, manages
to do simply everything in the worst and most thoughtless way possible.
Nothing is to be assumed.  Lend them a bug bomb, and in two minutes they'll
take it downstairs and spray the entire contents into a single small room
to kill a few flies, then close the shutters to be sure it works.  Last
night I let Tonton light the mosquito coils on the stove, and went out half
an hour later to find the burner on full, boy long-since gone.  These are
but highlights of bumbling and fumbling that give me pause a time or two
each day.  With delightful kids it's a challenge maintaining one's cool --
the other day I opened the freezer to find zero of my beloved ice bottles,
and I have seven (some are plastic liter-size milk bottles, which work
well) -- with the American variety it must double hell in both intensity
and duration.  A real-time case in point.  I left Queenie to cook while I
went to town.  She burned the rice badly enough to ruin my favorite old
pot, and absconded with half a gallon of expensive sauce, where she was
meant to use a pint or so.  (I think my theme of the utterly beautiful and
very charming Louise living with a finicky Philbin type is cool, and half
living it might give me an edge over other writers.)  On the other hand,
the gang does mellow me out.  If I'm going to live to write another day, I
can't be inviting a stroke over every shenanigan and misadventure.  I don't
smile when they take every last spoon in the house, costing me two-hundred
words over a cup of tea, but I don't go through the roof.  What they teach
most poignantly is how useless it is to be an adult.  I've always had what
I considered to be ample reasons not to grow up, and it's a pleasure to
have them confirmed in my mid-fifties.

                    Speaking of the new watch, I had the classic Belizean
experience this morning.  The salesman asked if I wanted the watches (one
was for Samantha) set.  I said Yes and paid the cashier, then took the
merchandise.  Later in the day, I found mine was twelve minutes fast.
Because it IS Belize, yes, Samantha's was equally fast.  (If it had been
Haiti, her's would have been correct, if it had been Cuba, the clerk would
have asked: "What's a watch.")

                    The watches, two for seventy-five (U.S.), are
remarkable.  Heavy, Movado-style face, solid stainless bracelet, new style
clasp that's a little tricky to close, but simpler, stronger, and less
likely to snag or open accidentally than the traditional design.  Chinese,
sold under the brand name Manhattan.  If I can find someone to remove a few
links from the band, mine will be perfect, meantime, I haven't owned a
watch for five or six years, so I kind of like having it rattle around.

                    Casting around for a stone to throw, since I've grown
by having them thrown at me, you understand, I came across a particularly
jagged and hefty missile suitable for one of my favorite examples of
leftist reality.  I've sketched the story elsewhere, and it begs repeating.
The example of the ruthless cruelty of the left is the Big Brothers of Los
Angeles.  Two-hundred-fifty big-brothers / little-brother couples a
metropolis of eighteen million (1988).  Yet the box of the urban socialist
is filled.  Problem: fatherless kids.  Answer: Big Brothers of Los Angeles.
Tidy and neat in a sealed container like Linda Kanner's Festive Evening,
you remember, where the guests left at eight-thirty?  Socialism.  Neat
stuff.  Tidy, too.  And, since it's done so well all over the world,
possibly a back for the whip of sarcasm.  Sarcasm, mockery, and coming
across as a wise-guy.  In my mind, with its measured IQ of four hundred, I
engage in none of these unless deliberately, tongue-in-cheek, as I think it
might be seen by the reader as funny.  Very big groups doing very bad
things.  To point them and their things out in plain talk isn't any variety
of mockery, it's simply telling the truth in fewer words than a diplomat
would use if he was trying to convince the Russians that there was some
point to their existence.

                    How would I run the Big Brothers?  Socials.  Mixers.
I'm not so sure about sock hops, because the sight of males dancing is
bred-in offensive.  Yes, the adult males would be carefully registered;
photo, print, DNA sample, voice print, and signature; and that's about it.
In my Alternative Brothers the slogan would be: "Let's Try It."  Entry
requirements would be reasonable stability, and passing a super-polygraph
profile, plus a medical check up.  Men would have to spend ten hours in the
center before they could take a boy to a cubical, and another ten hours
with access to cubicals before they could date a boy from the center.
After that, there would be a short list of restriction such as not
marketing the boy in any way, not sodomizing him, or letting anyone else,
more than four times a year, plus maybe a few additions as the institution
developed.  I am a conservative.  If nationwide, five million boys became
Alternative Brothers, I would feel the system overly restrictive if less
that a dozen were killed by their male partners each year, and perhaps two
hundred seriously injured.  That's life.  That happens with fathers and
sons, uncles and nephew, everybody running around loose as well those as in
the asylums and prisons.  Liberals have reduced what should be a commonly
used social vector to a hollow husk of a token which creates false hope in
thirteen thousand boys on the waiting list for the two-hundred-fifty it
matches.  It's filthy, it's foul, it's liberal.  And hear my story: when I
went to the orientation the lady described the dating profile, two hours,
four hours, eight hours, and, after some weeks had passed, the -- she's
giggling now -- first overnight.  She said the word "sex", I think in
context of it being the first (or best) opportunity to talk about it.  If
there was a non-pedophile in the room, I'll eat my hat, and, as mentioned
elsewhere, they were a drab and portly lot, brokers and the like though
they were.  (Of course, this was SoCal, where you want drab because the
only other option is noisy.)

                    I'd orient Alternative Brothers toward truckers,
long-haul and local.  Get the misfits out of school early, nominal minimum
age, eight years, and get them with a driver.  Certainly the boys should
have a bolt hole if it doesn't work out, but they should also be thoroughly
desensitized by watching video of a graphic nature portraying typical
sleeper and motel activities.  This, plus the availability of cubicles
under the supervised umbrella of the centers would probably result in so
few significant problems that there'd only be a dozen or so crimes of any
nature between big and little brother, maybe a dozen a year out of five
million matches.  But that's not how you measure it.  You measure it by the
five million, and feel empathy for the minority so indoctrinated as
homophobic they're not exploring the fullness of life.

                    The BBLA has an application form which would do the CIA
credit.  Single males must provide a letter from a girlfriend willing to
state that the male functions normally.  (Most pedophiles do this at the
drop of a pair of panties.)  I'll bet the intelligence agency doesn't ask
that.  Successfully completing the form leads to, as I recall, two six-hour
interviews.  As a final and inclusive cruelty, the charity is part of the
United Way and advertises heavily, stimulating ever more sad dreams.
Liberals.  You can't live with `em, you can't live with `em.

                    The last time I graced an essay with fiction I ended up
exceeding the parent of my script, in fact, we're still in it, and will be
`till we bid adieu to Kansas.  I'll keep this one short.  The scene occurs
at an office water cooler.

                    "Phil, my god, look-at-you.  Dude!  You've
lost... don't tell me... seventy pounds."
                    "Seventy-four, but with some ounces," the
thirty-year-old account executive responded.
                    "But I only spent six months in Ireland," Clark, his
contemporary, said, "so it has to be impossible, plus you look how many
years younger... six...eight?"
                    "You tell me," Clark laughed.
                    "You got that wrong, dude," Phil replied, "you tell
me."
                    "His name is Kendrick," Clark said.
                    "Dude!  Yeah, you told me about the ABs just before I
left for the sod.  So it worked out?"
                    "You seem to have noticed."

                    We'll leave it at that.

                    The medium does not allow the message.  I thought that
one up earlier today, you know, word count.  (319, 041, by the way.)  I
interpret this as New York not allowing anyone to hear anything from me
because I'm anti-Semitic.  Such deviants are relegated to the box labeled
"Loathsome."  I think I drove a president out of Harvard with a long,
loathsome letter, and hope he dies of his attitude toward my repugnant
prose.  I can use the medium, too, and, as its god, if I deem New York a
parasite, guess what.

                    There's a little housekeeping and a breather, so I vote
for Kansas.


                    The girls slowed down.  If a little giddy with each
other in the begging, there was now, so to speak, meat on the table, and a
feast to be savored slowly.  The real deal, where the rubber meets the
road, no wooden nickels, stuff like that.  It took them ten minutes just to
look.  Rusty, a quiet, modest boy, fine athlete though he was, didn't hide
his light completely under a basked, and did display for the, placing his
hands behind his handsome head and arching as his sister and her pretty
friend perused his taut young body from all angles and at considerable
lengths.  The boy had never been examined by two naked nymphs before, and
knew it was something he'd remember as long as he had a pair of contiguous
brain cells still working.  Bright though the teen was, his mind was not
able to grasp even the rudiments of what it was going to be like to be in
their arms, to have dinner with them, knowing both were swimming with his
seed.

                    Though the physical was extraordinarily thorough, Rusty
passed.  The girls eased down onto him, their backs to his chest.  The boy
brought his hands from behind his neck, molesting both the children on
their bellies and chests.  "Tell us all about being with your little-league
coach," Audrey suggested.

                    "Cliff Ratinsky," Rusty replied.
                    "Definitely cute, kind of wild looking, like Nureyev,"
Audrey said to Betsy.
                    "We just experimented a little in the theater," the
teen said, summarizing a previous conversation on the subject.


                    "How do you feel about a stall, Rusty?" Cliff asked.
                    "Will you be really gentle?" the boy asked.
                    "Yes," Cliff said, "the only kinky thing I like to do
is talk, but some boys would rather be whipped than tell secrets."
                    "Okay," the shortstop said, and the two left the
auditorium of the older theater, the older male stunning his player by
executing a perfect cartwheel down the long marble staircase to the
labyrinth of the basement.  The men's room was at the end of a long, tiled
hallway and the door squeaked plainly.

                    "I've never been here before," the older male said,
"but it looks tailor-made; no one can sneak through the door, and with an
open transom above it, you could hear most anyone coming from fifty feet
away.  Entering, they found six stalls and both males instinctively
crouched to check.  They double checked by nudging each door and found they
were alone.
                    "I think we can talk a little more, first, if you
want," Cliff said.
                    "It makes me nervous but I like it, too," the boy said.

                    "I'll bet a lot of boys even younger than you are have
been molested here," Cliff said, looking around at the open space of the
per-war, pre-union room; the well-built, generous stalls with heavy wooden
doors reaching within an inch of the floor.  They chose the second to last
and entered.  "Hooks on both walls," Cliff noted, "must be for winter with
all the coats and scarves."

                    "How many boys liked it and how many didn't, do you
think?" Rusty asked.
                    "I think why they didn't like it is a more salient
question," Cliff said "Natural disinclination or the great social tut-tut,
that's the crux of the matter; don't make it happen less, well-proven
impossible even with draconian measures, make boys and girls like it more."
                    "But not everyone is you with a dancer's body, and dead
cute, too," Rusty observed.
                    "But the answer is still not No," the man said, "the
problem can't be solved, it's one of those challenges where you never look
ahead, only behind, to see what you've accomplished.  Teaspoon or steam
shovel, Mt. Everest is still going to be there, but the shovel operator
sees a nice chunk of it behind him at the end of his shift, where the
liberal with the spoon sees a boot full.  The more standards are relaxed,
the more tolerance reigns, by each and every degree, the more boys who
won't have to be sneaked into the basement of a movie house, but, instead,
can have a full and sanctioned relationship with anyone their heart desires
subject to only the dilemmas indigenous to all relationships."

                    "There's quite a bit that goes on, though," Rusty said.
                    "In deep shadows off dark streets," his coach
responded, "with all the scaring deplored by the left caused by the left.
I think it's safe to say all males, if gently introduced by an attractive
partner at age five, will grow up to enjoy being alone with other males
from time to time.  Kids that get punked under the church-based system end
up either repressed or neurotically inclined, essentially cut in half.
Kids brought up in the Tyne Daley blowtorch and pinchers school go proudly
out and accomplish great deeds, living half lives "
                    "Unwholesome, on both counts," Rusty noted.

                    "But you're right," Cliff said, "lots of boys who've
matured in this stall probably found the experience frightening,
embarrassing, and degrading.  Suddenly getting wet all over your belly and
clothes from an adult has to be almost the definition of a nightmare,
especially if the male gets you wet in your mouth.  If you desensitized
males in the early school years you'd reduce the trauma factor by nearly a
hundred percent, and by a hundred percent for boy's who'd been instructed.
At the same time, you'd increase the chances for establishing meaningful
relationships, to use that leftover from the Sixties, by a wide margin."
                    "Sort of win-win with religion playing the spoiler,"
Rusty summarized.
                    "And," the man sighed, "supplying half the thrill."
                    "Go figure," the teen remarked.

                    As they talked, the males quickly stripped, then turned
shyly to face each other, reaching down to touch their partner's rigid
penis.  They leaned together, resting their heads on each others shoulders,
gently masturbating the strange penis hot and new in their hands.
                    "We can do this a long time, if you want," Cliff
whispered.
                    "Do you think other guys will come in?" Rusty asked,
loving the semi-public place facet of no-no-no-no.
                    "Probably," the twenty-five-year-old athlete said, "but
the cracks in the door are just wide enough to keep an eye on things.
Here," the man continued, reaching into his pants' pocket, "I brought a
condom.  If anyone official comes along tell him your coach is teaching you
how to use it."

                    "Will that fly?" Rusty asked.
                    "If you say it," the man replied, "yes.  If we start
blocking the restrooms during intermission, that's another story, but, no
harm, no foul? ninety-nine out of a hundred cops wouldn't intervene, and
the hundredth would come in and join us."
                    "Do you think a man might come with a child?" Rusty
asked.
                    "Better than even," the older male said, "there were a
hundred and eight people in the theater, sixty three of them boys under
fifteen."
                    "You're kidding," the boy said.
                    "How do you think I kept from cumming all over you
under the raincoat?" the senior partner asked.
                    "I don't know," Rusty said, "you mentioned a certain
television actress who'd do it for me."
                    "She's always helped when she was needed," the adult
agreed.
                    "Have you molested lots of children?" Rusty wanted to
know.
                    "You're the seventh," Cliff said, "and two of them were
girls, both eleven."
                    "Did it happen to you when you were a kid?" Rusty
queried.
                    "I was very lucky," Cliff said, "a very beautiful young
priest moved into my town just when I turned twelve years old.  Talk about
getting religion, as you Americans say, I got it hook, line, and sinker.
Father Kranz picked me as an altar boy.  I'd heard the usual stories, and,
while the old priest was nice enough, and completely non-aggressive with
his boys, he just wasn't for me, or my friend Capsy, who was just my age.
Both of us suddenly took a whole new look, and we talked each other into
hanging around after mass and seeing if we could talk to the new father.
He was as glad to see us as we were to see him, and in half an hour in the
rectory he'd told us about the special Garden of Eden some priests indulged
in with their altar boys.  We both kept nodding like a couple of puppets.
I mean, he didn't tell us anything specific, just that the experience would
be very mature, especially as he had two friends due to arrive any moment,
classmates of his at seminary.  We sent notes to our parents telling them
we'd be staying overnight at the rectory, and he took us into the dressing
room behind the altar and showed us, in a secret drawer, the Garden of Eden
costumes, which, naturally, were fig leaves.  Canak, Doodge, and Veepear
arrived and it turned out they'd all been champ swimmer for their
university.  All four looked like Olympians, even in their collars.  We ate
lunch and talked, then he made sure that we knew we were going to, you
know, sin, upstairs, if we still wanted to stay.  We nodded again, and he
told us what to do.  Capsy and put the costumes on with our backs to each
other and then ran upstairs to the Garden.  There was a paper-mache tree,
and we were meant to stand close to it, with our heads hung in shame.  We
waited for half an hour, because anticipating sin is half of what the devil
is all about, and the moral purpose of out being in the Garden of Eden was
teaching us that sin is often a minor thing, and that there's something to
be said for not worrying about it to save resources for doing good.  You
know, religious."

                    "It sounds that way," Rusty said as the two remained
bent to each other, gently stroking away the reels of film unwinding
upstairs, "though who knew there was any sense to any church."
                    "They can be good in a civic sense," the coach
cautioned his player, "but essentially, you're right; secular institutions
could replace them on that score in the time it takes the pope to get out
of bed."
                    "So, tell me more about what happened," Rusty said.
                    "It was prosaic," his coach responded, "they came in
and took turns molesting us from behind, pulling us away from the tree when
we were ready, an adult behind each of us, then turning Capsy and me so we
faced each other.  Father Kranz held him and Canak held me.  The other two
took our fig leaves off, and the adults were naked when they came in to us,
so we stood looking at each other for a minute, then Doodge and Veepear
stood at our hips and showed us what older boys do in the shower.  Then the
men were doing it with us from behind, starting off really slowly and
gently.  They asked us questions about how experienced we were, and Father
Kranz asked if there were any males in the congregation that we'd like to
know better.  We said each other.  In all I guess it was what you guys call
a circle-jerk, but it lasted a long time and didn't seem rude or crude in
the least.  Doodge and Veepear made us wet for the hands of our partners,
then, since I was a few weeks younger than Capsy, Father Kranz made him cum
first."

                    "Were you looking down so you could see?" Cliff asked.
                    "Yes," the boy replied, "when they said it was going to
happen, we looked down, but mostly we looked into each other's eyes,
thinking, in American: "Can you believe this?"  Of course, it was the
Garden of Eden, so we didn't say anything so crude, but an hour before we'd
been two numbs in search of a skull, and now here were four cute guys who
thought we were cute, and that was, as you guys say here, your basic
change."

                    "It went all the way?" Rusty asked, "it wasn't some
kind of trap to find out you were pervs?"
                    "Not a Jesuit order," Cliff said.
                    "Too bad," Rusty said, "you could have done a little
verbal slicing and dicing to make it last longer."
                    "I don't think it would have helped if the Madonna had
arrived in labor on Christmas morning," Cliff said, "not with two tall
swimmers holding two scrawny pre-teens."
                    "Do you want to hold me the way the way Canak held
you?" the teen asked.
                    "Yes," his coach said, turning the naked boy in his
arms and assuming the classis stance with the willowy beauty.
                    "Did it feel really nice when his hand got wet?" the
boy whispered, thrusting firmly into the tight palm on his five-inch penis.
                    "Yes," his coach said, "but watching them shower on us
was the most exciting part.  They'd all been celibate waiting for their
reunion, and what they did went all over Capsy and me."
                    "Did it happen to you right after that?" the boy asked
                    "With Capsy, right away," the man explained, "but Canak
held me back for a minute, then he let me spill all over my best friend."
                    "Did Canak and Father Kranz do that, too, spill?" Rusty
asked with a blush.
                    "We used a different position with them, standing at
their hips.  We held the tips of their penises together, with some help
from Doodge and Veepear, so it was really intense when they got up on their
toes and started shaking all over.  But it ended up perfect, even though
Capsy and I couldn't tell whose sperm was spraying from where we held them
together."

                    "Do you want me to try that position with you?" Rusty
asked.
                    "Yes," the adult whispered.  In the confines of the
stall, the males shifted so the boy was at the adult's right hip, his left
arm around his coach's slim waist.  The lanky teen was tentative at first,
the adult's circumcised six-and-a-half inch erection so hot and alive in
his hand, his inexperienced muscles responded as if they'd been holding a
charged wire, but instinct quickly took over and his stroking became
deliberate as he jerked off the young adult.  "You better take me all the
way," Cliff whispered, "because it would be asking for trouble to hang out
here too much longer."
                    "Okay," Rusty whispered, and then there were footsteps
and the door squeaked.  "Cool," the boy whispered, holding the athletic
coach firmly, then gradually loosening his grip as the two naked males
positioned themselves at the crack in the stall door.  Cliff dipped into
the pocket of his shorts to retrieve the foil pack, just in case, and then
pressed gently against his shortstop, easing his boner up between the boy's
long coltish legs as they bent to spy through the crack at the edge of the
door.

                    "You don't have to keep asking me, Granddad," the
pre-teen said as they pushed through the door, "you've been great to Mom
and me, and I even think you're cute, sixty or not.."
                    The man stood something over six feet with the build of
a Marine general.  The boy, who looked twelve, shared his grandfather's
tall, hard build and an obvious family resemblance.
                    "They're going to check the stalls," Cliff whispered to
Rusty, "so, if you want to take a chance, we could open the door."
                    "Cool," Rusty said, so excited he was shivering in the
arms of his adult partner.  Cliff worked the latch and swung the door.
Rusty, inspired, stretched tall, reaching behind his coaches head and
arching, his legs slightly spread, Cliff's hugely swollen penis jutting up
nearly vertically from between his still child-soft thighs.  The adult held
the boy gently by his flanks as the twelve year old panted against the
athlete's bare chest.  The new arrivals froze and stared for a long minute,
wordlessly.  The old-fashioned rest-room stalls were big, but not that big.
Rusty's excite-o-meter went into the red.  They'd have to stay out here, in
the open, and who knew when a passing SWAT team might stop in to use the
semi-public facility?  As long as there were no women, he mused to himself,
as long as there were no women, the frantic excitement of being stared at,
of having and attractive couple watch as he was being molested by an adult,
would keep building like a fire where they bottled oxygen.
                    "There are hooks for your clothes in the stalls," Cliff
finally said, breaking what was not an embarrassing silence, and realizing
the military appearing granddad would not be one to toss clothes on the
floor.
                    "Thanks," the man said, adding: "funny how you can be
wrong, even at my age.  I thought I wanted privacy with Nills."
                    "He's a beautiful boy," the coach said, now openly
fondling the highly excited child in his arms.
                    "Your child is, too," Keef Mellinger said, introducing
himself and his grandson, then suggesting to Nills that they `change' in
separate stalls.  "Wait a minute until we're all in front of your door," he
whispered to the twelve year old, "that way it will be more embarrassing."
                    "Okay, Granddad," the child whispered back, closing the
door.  Cliff continued molesting his player in the minute it took the new
couple to get naked.  The sixty year old emerged first, saying Just a
minute to the hidden young boy.  "I hope I look as good as you when I'm
forty," Cliff commented, and, indeed, the fit male in front of them, even
without his massive, knobby erection, would have held his own with teen
swimmers.
                    "We're ready," the man said as they positioned
themselves in front of the door, "and you can come out backwards if you
want, or get your clothes back on, if you change your mind, okay?"
                    "I want you to look at me," the boy said, "I'm just
kind of nervous."
                    "Do you have a boner?" the grandfather whispered.
                    "Yes," the boy said.
                    "Well you wouldn't if you were a pervert," the older
male observed, "you'd be having kinky thoughts instead of natural ones, so
that's a good sign."
                    "It's just a lot bigger," Nills said, his stage whisper
clear through the top of the three-quarters door, every tremor and hitch
clearly audible to the three males awaiting him.
                    "Bigger than it gets when you're with Christopher?" the
man asked.
                    "It's always private with him," Nills said.
                    "I think you're just finding out you're a very
attractive young male animal," Keef said, "and you half want to share and
half want to hide."
                    "What if someone comes in?" Nills asked.
                    "It will be their luckiest day of the year," his
grandfather comforted.
                    "But we could get in trouble."
                    "If someone came in and saw or heard a man misusing a
boy," the sixty year old responded, "he'd probably go to the manager, if he
sees four reasonably attractive and even beautiful males taking advantage
of what privacy there is, he'd probably understand.  Besides," he added,
"there's no law against a man teaching a boy to use a condom, and Cliff has
one in his hand, and a boy has to be excited to have one fitted onto his
penis."

                    "That sounds like a stretch," the twelve year old
whispered through the door.
                    "Rusty's the one who's stretching," Keef said, "he's
way up on his toes and his legs are stretched wide."
                    "Is Cliff, you know, up between his legs?" the boy
asked.
                    "Yes," the grandfather said.
                    The door opened and Cliff, Keef and Rusty saw
immediately why the pre-teen was embarrassed.  Except for a tentative
growth below his belly, the child was fully an adult, very thick and nearly
six inches in length, bent sharply to his left.  Even uncircumcised, he was
dramatic, his pole-like shaft jutting up until it almost rode against his
slim belly.  Looking down at himself, he murmured, "It's because of what I
like doing when Christopher gets excited."
                    "What do you do?" Rusty asked as Keef moved behind his
grandson, the boy emulating his age-mate's stance by spreading his legs and
arching in the handsome man's arms.

                    "When he tells me it's going to happen, I sort of kiss
him there," the boy explained, "you know, with my mouth open.  He gets
excited with me quite a lot, so getting it in my stomach changed the way I
grew."
                    "Lucky," Rusty observed.
                    "I'm just getting used to it," the slim schoolboy said.
"But when school opens, it's going to be really embarrassing, because all
my friends will be the same, or you know, maybe a little bigger, and
suddenly I'm big and thick."
                    "You're surviving here with strangers looking at you,"
Keef said.
                    "I know," the boy responded, "but that's the trouble,
as soon as I knew they wanted to look I got bigger than ever, so, if I know
the kids at school want to look, something might happen."
                    "Is there fluid when Christopher makes you cum?" his
grandfather asked.
                    "Yes," the child replied.
                    "Then what you do," the older male suggested, "is tell
them that you're not a fag, but you'll let them watch what happens to you,
just once.  Gauge their reaction.  If they're enthusiastic, you can tell
them you were lying about the `once' thing.  If they're really nervous, you
can ask if they can't tell when you're joking, and if they're just sort of
half-nervous, that would be normal, and you can ask if anyone wants to
learn, or if they just want to watch you.  It's totally common for boys to
masturbate together in the shower, so you're not inventing the wheel"
                    "Would they touch each other?" Nills wanted to know.
                    "They'll make a circle around you," his grandfather
explained, "with their left arm around the boy next to them, then reach
across with their right hand and do what Cliff's doing with Rusty.  If a
boy wants to jerk you off, he'll come and stand beside you and do what the
other kids are doing, or you can do it by yourself while they stare down at
you.  When you feel it starting, you lie on your back on the shower floor,
because young boys' best part is watching what happens at the end with a
mature boy."

                    A patter of footsteps approached and the door squeaked
as it opened a few inches.  Braids and blue eyes peered around the edge.
There was a pause.  "Daddy," a child's voice said, "we'll be safe in here.
You don't have to take me in the ladies' room."

                    A handsome, rugged face appeared above that of the
blond child.  The door opened slowly, and a trim thirty-year-old-male
followed the slightly built eleven-year-old girl.  She looked like the
`floured' girl in the silly cell phone ad, her father towering above her,
lean, muscular, and a match for the two adults already in the bathroom.
"We better be quick, darling," the adult said, "because something like this
shouldn't be abused."  The girl zipped into a stall, pulling her dad.
There was a minute of rustling clothing, and urgent whispering, then the
new couple emerged, naked, the female shyly leading her handsome father to
Keef.  "Chrissie has never been held by a man with chest hair," the father
said, speaking for his child.  "Would it be okay?"

                    The ten year old's nipples were not only swollen to the
size of small strawberries, they protruded from breasts that would have
half-filled a teacup.

                    "Yes," Keef whispered, and Nills reached for the girl,
pulling her to his grandfather.  "Thanks," she grinned to the boy as her
father lifted her into the arms of the gray wolf.  "Are you grown up?" she
asked the grandson looking down at his adult phallus, "because you're with
a man a lot, like I am?"
                    "I think so," the boy said, blushing.
                    "Dad's a doctor," she said, "and he told me about
hormones.  We have to use a condom together most of the time, so I won't
develop too much."  [The author has no medical training and assumes certain
clinical facts, which may be unfounded, for their entertainment value.]

                    The girl was quiet as she slowly brought her pubescent
chest against that of the older man.  "Oh, Dad, it feels exciting," she
said, and the males present recognized in the child a girl who knew what
exciting meant.
                    "Can he spray in me?" the precocious girl asked,
"because it will be like the time I got raped, then you were with me all
night because of what had happened inside me with Officer Washington, plus,
this time you'll get to see and hear what happens."
                    "Yes, darling," the athletic father agreed, "but I
liked quizzing you about Kal Washington, too, you know."
                    "I liked it too, Daddy," the sweetie ten-pies said,
"but I'm growing up and it's time to move on."
                    "A six-six, athletic black who had my daughter in the
back of his prowler for two hours, is not easily replaced when it comes to
story-time," the doctor said to Cliff.  All the males nodded, picturing the
willowy young body hugging to a tiger, their building and easing of
tension, her belly and thighs immediately after his feral grunting over the
child, and understood how the image could perpetuate itself.

                    By accord they moved half into one of the stalls, Keef
standing close to the john as her father lifted the pretty ten year old to
the man.  The girl wrapped her legs around the powerful waist of the older
male, lolling back in her father's arms as he found and entered her.  Nills
climbed on the toilet, and mounted his handsome, boyish granddad from the
rear, thrusting gently against him until he was fully mounted.  Cliff and
Rusty helped the young father hold his pretty daughter, and they were also
kept from falling by the structure of the stall door.  It looked awkward,
they all supposed, but it was comfortable, and, with Nills setting a rhythm
against his athletic grandfather, the sixty year old began having his way
fully with the child panting in her father's corded arms.  The gray wolf
surged gently against the slim thighs of the pixie for ten minutes before
the girl tensed and gasped: "Oh, he feels just like you, Daddy," she mewed,
and there was the faint sound as his heavy spend in the child gushed from
between their sweating bodies and streamed to the tile floor, accompanied
by the feral grunts of Nills as he climaxed along with the mature male
against his naked boy's chest.  The doctor eased his wet child to the
floor, and they were guided into a stall.  Nills joined his grandfather in
another and both couples whispered as they dressed.  Cliff tore off a
length of toilet paper and quickly mopped the heavy white pool on the
immaculate floor of the well-maintained theater.  "Would you like me to
jerk you off with his cum on my hand?" he asked his young player.  Rusty
nodded, and they shared some of the thick semen, then entered their stall.
Rusty masturbated Cliff quickly, and he came within half a minute, his
thick semen splashing noisily in the bowl of the old-fashioned porcelain
stool.  Rusty arched as the tall athlete moved behind him, and in a minute
there was a long series of splashes, the sound of flushing, the whispering
as coach and player inspected each other, then dressed.  They all met in
the hall outside and shook hands warmly, then returned to see the rest of
what Hollywood had to offer.

                    Rusty had ejaculated a second and third time as he told
his story, and his sister was mewing like the world's happiest cat.  They
slowly separated, sitting back against a sofa, Audrey with her knees widely
spread so Annie could lie between them and stare at her wetness.  Slowly
Dale moved onto the back of the seven year old girl.  Since she was too
young to tell a story, he concluded his own.

                    Uncle Wayne was due midday on the morrow, sure, she
should be excited, he was, too, and tomorrow was Vicky's tenth birthday, so
that added to the tension -- but what tension?  His mind roamed over the
last few days.  Without being in the least cloying or phony, his
ten-year-old sister had merely been closer.  She didn't reach for him or
bump him, she was just ever nearer, ever less distant.  A few inches at the
dinner table, a single inch as they worked side-by-side on their homework
at the desk in his room, elbows almost but not quite touching.  She was a
few seconds quicker to respond when he called her, a few minutes earlier
down from sleep so they could hang out at breakfast.  She giggled a little
longer at his jokes, smiled more easily, pranced and danced more
effortlessly, kept her hair trimmer without going all cover girl, and
somehow, in a hundred small ways, bettered herself over she who was already
the world's best kid-sis.

                    "Dale?" came her soft voice at his door.  The twelve
year old finished his Budster posturing, slipped into a white shirt, and
opened the door.
                    "Hi," the girl said, her eyes huge.
                    "Hi," he replied, unable to summon more than a soft
whisper.
                    "Are you busy?" she asked, her voice as thick as his.
                    "No," he said.
                    "Can we sit on your bed and talk?" she asked.
                    "Sure," the boy said.  The little girl took her
brother's hands, and he guided her to his bed, She sat on his left.
"What?" he asked.
                    "Dale," Vicky began, "I've been thinking a lot about
tomorrow.  Uncle Wayne.  Having him in my bed instead of what we do in the
bathroom."
                    "He's going to be very gentle with you," Dale said.

                    "I know," the girl said, "but you know what's been
happening more and more?" she asked.
                    The boy knew a lot but it was all a bit complicated to
distill into a sensible answer so he just replied in the negative.

                    "It's you," she said, "how you've changed, not that you
were particularly gross, or anything, before our uncle's long visit, but
you... different... so many small ways, you know, without giving me
thoughtful gifts or sentimental cards, but just sort of more solid and
easier to get along with, like you want to say yes, and it's hard for you
to say no."
                    "I didn't notice," the boy responded, "I thought it was
all you."
                    "I think that's the point," Vicky noted, "that it's
`us'."
                    "I like that word," Dale murmured.
                    "I love it," his sister said.
                    "I love you," the boy responded in his softest whisper.
                    "That's what I want," the girl blushed, "her, now, with
you, before Uncle Wayne comes, I want you to make love to me, and I want to
sleep with you all night."
                    "It's really special between you and him," the boy
said.
                    "I know," the girl responded, "and I thought it would
be him, tomorrow, but, it's not that I don't want to wait, it's that I do
want to be with you, completely, for hours, no clothes, no condoms, boy and
girl, male and female, and your seed swimming in be when I wake up in the
morning, and the taste of you on my tongue if we ever get to sleep,
tonight."
                    "Do you want to try kissing?" the older sibling asked.
                    "I'm not trying to be fair, or anything," Vicky mused,
"like he did this so you can do that, it's more personal and intimate.
I've done a lot of grown-up things with him," she continues, "he was the
first one to see me naked and to molest me, and he showed me what happened
when a male gets excited, but I've never had his cum in my mouth, and he's
never sprayed any inside me.  Those are the things I want with you.  And I
don't know about kissing until after he's been with me again.  Then, for
sure.  What I want now is to just have the sex part.  No romantic stuff, no
passionate stuff, just to lie on the floor under you and have where we have
to touch for you to be successful be the only place we touch.  I've watched
Uncle Wayne cum off lots of times, so I'll know what's happening inside me,
and I just want to feel that, nothing else, you know, like there's one sun
in the sky."

                    "Vicky," her brother whispered, "if you want we could
keep most of our clothes on."
                    "It's not that extreme," the girl said with a shy
smile, "it's just sort of a whim.  I think you're beautiful, and I want it
to happen while we're both naked so I can look at you even if we don't
touch, you know, and imagine how it will be when Uncle Wayne leaves my
bedroom and I come in here with you for the rest of the night, and we can
make love instead of just having sex."

                    "If you put your hands way up over your head it will be
easier for me not to touch you," Dale said.
                    "You don't have to promise or anything," the girl said,
"and if you have to feel me up or kiss me while it's happening I won't be
upset or disappointed."
                    "No," the boy said, "I want the same thing.  Just one
sun."

                    They were very careful.  Vicky went to her room and
stripped as dale peeled off his clothes and stepped out of his underpants
with not a glance at the mirror.  He brought a chair onto the rug in the
middle of his room and dropped to his knees to experiment with bracing
himself so he could guide himself to his sister without making any
extraneous contact with her beautiful young body or requiring her to guide
him with her hand.  It was a little awkward, but bracing with his chin at
just the right angle allowed him to simulate supporting himself on his
extended left arm while he touched himself with his right.  His head might
bump the chair afterwards, but only if he did what males usually did with
females, and they both wanted something different.  She tapped shyly and
entered blushing a soft pink.  Dale nodded at the carpet and watched as the
beauty dropped gracefully to the thick rug and lay back, arms stretched
past her head, spreading her legs widely.  The male adjusted the chair,
knelt between his sister's knees, and lowered himself to his left arm.  She
wriggled gently beneath him as he supported himself on his improvised
brace, wishing his handsome uncle was kneeling to hold him, and, by
watching his sister carefully, and moving very slowly, was able to find
her.  As he felt her hot, buttery yield Dale nudged the chair away and took
his weight on both arms.  They didn't even look at each other.  The boy
stared blankly at the wall of his bedroom while the girl closed her eyes
and lost herself in fantasizing over the beautiful young buck succeeding
with his first fawn.  Dale penetrated the ten year old with a dozen firm
strokes, the athletic girl not resisting his entrance as do sedentary
virgins.  She lay still as he thrust firmly and fully again and again, his
body shaking and his breath becoming ragged and dusky.  The female felt the
tension rise in her boy and fought the inclination to pull him to her and
bury her face in his neck, coaxing him and urging him and telling him how
she loved him.  Silently, motionlessly she choked back her most feral
drive, so strange because it was also the most romantic, and did not beg
and plead with her beloved brother to leave her with a child.  She lay
panting but otherwise almost motionless, her senses straining to receive
every nuance of the thrusting penis of her brother.  She tried even not
listening to his deep, steady panting, tried to block every foreign
sensation, and, to her delight found that Dale's masculinity rapidly took
over and she had no longer to try, and indeed, even the memory of trying
not to feel this and not trying not to be distracted by that was swept away
by the dominating surge of his big penis deep in her sweating, panting
belly.

                    They mated on the carpet for half an hour, each
mandating restraint in an effort to thrill his partner.  Their uncle had
taken them both many times over the past two years, and, while never
teasing or frustrating (too much), had taught them both the beauties of
waiting at least awhile before fully satisfying their partner.  She could
not believe him, the rugged resilience as he maintained his rigid mounting,
on and on, while thrusting fast and hard in a rhythm that coursed through
her like a strong drug on steroids.  Dale could not believe his little
sister's angelic stillness, her allowing him to be all and only boy.  It
was like a good Western, no mushy stuff, and if straight-shootin' gunplay
was over the top, there was a focus and lack of confusion that made every
thrust into Vicky's wet, still body an equal to the entirety of his twelve
years and slightly exceeding the touch of his handsome uncle.

                    The twelve year old's sperm came in a sudden, hard
rush.  He thrust, now tenderly, fully between the girl's widely spread
thighs.  Carefully they brought their bodies tightly together and she
accepted him with an almost imperceptible bucking of her hips, each trigger
another hard release from his pubescent male body.  For the last half
minute of their time they lay panting but otherwise motionless as the last
of his seed flowed in gentle spasm to the child.  Carefully he eased from
her, still almost motionless, she let him go.  He shoved to his knees,
backing away, shocked at the size of the slick, white pool between her
thighs.  They cleaned up carefully, and the naked child went to her room to
dress, returning in a minute to stand with her forehead against Dale's
still gently panting chest.  "I don't want to sleep with you tonight," she
whispered, "that was so fathomlessly perfect I want to have it my whole and
my all to dream of and remember so I'll never forget the feeling of what
happened between us at the end."

                    "I feel the same," Dale said, kissing her on her hair.
They parted and resumed the world of sister and brother while the fixed
their aunt tea.  One intimacy passed between them later in the evening.
"Since I won't be with you tonight," Vicky took an opportunity to whisper,
"I want you with me when Uncle Wayne comes into my bedroom."
                    "It's your birthday," Dale observed, "so I shouldn't be
getting the presents."  That was a Yes.

                    The group at the borrowed cottage had revived during
the conclusion to Dale's story.  They went to the kitchen for a quick order
of sandwiches and milk, Annie riding on her brother's shoulders and
listening to every word of his story.  Now they were back in the living
room huddled around Dale, helping him with the seven year old.  Vicky
helped and soon the little girl was spread eagle on the floor, her brother
panting over her on his elbows, thrusting carefully with Vicky's hand both
masturbating him skillfully and protecting the delicate body of the sixty
pound child.

                    "Be with me like you were with Vicky," Annie whispered,
feeling her brother huge and fully inside her.  Dale rose on his arms and
his older sister rearranged his younger sister's arms high over her head.
The boy helped an in a minute was looking down into the angelic child's
huge eyes.
                    "Do you like it?" he whispered.
                    "It's beautiful," the little sweetie replied, "a whole
boy inside me."

                    Sensing the rapid tensing in Dale's body, his thirteen
year old sister urged him to tell the birthday story.  Annie cooperated by
lying, finally, completely still, only her birdlike chest heaving.  "Oh,
please," she almost whined, blushing at her childish ways and repeating,
"Please, Dale."

                    It was the now twenty-one year old's first visit with
the throaty bus.  Vicky was enough of a girl to love it as much as Dale was
enough of a boy to love it.  "Time can be money to a writer like anyone
else," Wayne explained, "and I do a lot of articles in the Western states.
It's heavy enough to survive hitting an antelope at ninety, and will go a
hundred and twenty five in really open country."  Dreams of Montana filled
two young heads, hold the sugarplums.  Inside was a studio trimmed in the
stark beauty of the Shaker style save for a large sofa crafted into the
bus's interior.  The floor was carpeted in light gray wool and the entire
effect was like the west, don't love it, am a guy, so what?  Indeed, some
accessories and fixtures had a maritime provenance, and the roof, paneled
in rough canvas bordered with heavy old rope (line), hinted of sails.
There was a small salt-water aquarium at one end of the work table running
back from the driver's seat.  Wayne found a plastic bag in a drawer and
pointed to the fish and shrimp.  "If you have an accident, try to save
them," he said, handing his nephew the keys and going off with Jeffie to
share a beer with Eddy.  "Happy Birthday," he repeated as the new driver
operated the door lever.

                    "Yesterday before dinner and now this," Vicky mused as
her brother eased the rumbling vehicle onto the state road, "did we die
somewhere like the couple in "Beetlejuice"?
                    "It feels alive in my hands," Dale said, "but you can
drive on the way back, so you can tell me."
                    "That's what's so strange," Vicky said, kneeling
comfortably on the carpet at her brother's right hip and shifting the six
speed when Dale hit the clutch, "feeling so alive, feeling the most natural
thing in the world has happened, and that most of taboo is death.  I'm
still thrilled about what happened in your bedroom yesterday, I hardly
slept last night.  I think you sprayed me full of champagne, which was kind
of underhanded since you were inside a little girl who was trusting you for
nice, warm sperm."

                    "I couldn't jerk off until midnight," Dale blushed as
Vicky changed the last gear and relaxed against the dash, "so you must have
some."
                    "I tried to keep count," Vicky giggled softly, "so I
could keep still, but after you'd fucked me a thousand times I lost count."
                    "I felt you push against me eleven times," Dale said,
"before you held still."
                    "I remember eleven, too," the girl said, "but numbers
seven, eight, and nine were the most potent and it was hard to count after
that, even to add two."
                    "You were so awesome not to cum," the boy said, "it
went on so long and I was being so free about it, I thought you almost had
to."
                    "I had to think of the actress," Vicky confessed, "no
offense."
                    "If it took her to keep you under control, that's a
compliment, so no offense taken," Dale said.

                    They drove on in silence, the boy's right hand reaching
out from time to time to tussle his sister's hair.  After some miles, Vicky
spoke her mind, whispering as lowly as possible over the muted purr of the
big engine.  "Dale," she said, " I know it's really romantic, and probably
silly, but I think it really would be possible, you know, to have a baby
with you guys, or maybe Jeffie, and at least it would be nice to talk about
it."
                    "That's what I was trying not to think about,
yesterday," Dale said, "you know, hearing you in the shower and as I go
into the bathroom, Uncle Wayne is coming out, and I get in the shower
behind you and quiz you a little, then rub your belly with soapy hands to
see if I can be the first one to know for sure."
                    "And with a whole house to fuss over her, and Uncle
Wayne's money, I would think even if UPS brought her she'd be a welcome
addition for like twenty years."
                    "No television, no couch potatoes," Dale added, "those
are the kind of families that need an extra mouth to feed like a hole in
the head."
                    "How old do you think I'll have to be for it to happen
from one of you guys?" the girl mused.
                    "Safely," the boy said, "probably twelve or thirteen."
                    "And the waiting is so awesome," the girl said, "like
waiting for tonight has been the last two years, minus one beautiful
afternoon."
                    "There'll be so many people in the delivery room we'll
have to rent a power fan from the fire department," Dale said.
                    "And think how drop-dead it will be when the results of
the paternity test come back," the girl added.  That gave them both pause,
and they drove in silence for miles, not deceiving themselves.  They were
the happiest kids in the world, and they knew it.

                    "That's me, sillies," Annie whispered, arms and legs
now wrapped tightly around Dale as the fifteen-year-old stallion surged
gently between the little girl's soft thighs, the muscles on his lower back
tensing and releasing twice a second.  The teen hissed and thrust rigidly
against his baby sister.  "Oh, Vicky," the girl mewed, "Oh, Vicky, Vicky,
Vicky."

                    As with his older sister, Dale kept the tyke just under
control, not thrusting as his body pumped hard and fast into her slim
belly.  After lowering himself gently against his baby sister, the two
rested until a soft voice urged him to finish his birthday story.  Still
panting, the fifteen year old continued.

                    It was ten at night.  The house was moony and quietly
creaking as it cooled in the night.  Wayne Shirley tapped on Dale's door
and a soft voice bid him enter.  "Hi," he said, as the boy patted his bed
in welcome.

                    "How do you feel??" the twenty one year old asked the
teen.
                    "Like I'll sleep any months now," the boy replied.
                    "Would you like to talk a little?" the young man asked.
                    "Yes," Dale said.
                    "I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I talked it
over with Jeffie, and he agrees," Wayne said.  "We both think you should be
Vicky's first lover.  You deserve it up one side and down the other."
                    "I don't know what to say," Dale mused.
                    "Nice thing is, you don't have to say anything," the
older male noted, "anything that happens with you, so long as it doesn't
involve spinning machinery, is going to be fine."
                    "I don't need to tangle with a mower," Dale said,
"because my head is spinning already."
                    "One word from you, and nothing happens," Wayne said,
"I have Jeffie, and he's ten times enough."
                    "No," the boy said, "you misunderstood.  I'm not
confused, just relieved.  I didn't want Vicky to have to be the one to tell
you, not that there's any `have to' about it, and I didn't know how to tell
you, myself, and, after two years, we thought, you know, you're cool and
all, that there might be some like issue or something when you found out,
and we didn't want to keep it a secret, because you've been the best
friend, time tens, like Jeffie, that this family ever had, except when
Uncle Clark takes Aunt Edna to Phoenix."

                    "I've hoped all along, and especially since my last
visit, that you would have a secret," Wayne said, "and I just hope it's an
absolutely spectacular one."
                    "I know understatement is the successful writer's stock
in trade," the fifteen-year-old boy said, "but you don't have to overdo
it."
                    "That narrows it to the one and only," the older male
whispered, "and I'm thrilled and delighted for you both."

                    :"Thanks," the boy said, "but I hope you guys don't
expect a wedding gift as nice as what you just said."
                    "There's one wedding gift we'll want from you," the man
responded, "as long as you'll allow me to contribute toward the bottles and
diapers."
                    "And dawn's early feedings," the boy added helpfully.
                    "That's why she'll have a mother," the writer laughed,
advising the boy that if the money was going to roll in, he had to roll out
in his timing and at his convenience.  "You may be able to be tired and fly
a plane," he said, "but you can't be tired and write a line."  They nodded
to their future with the man promising the boy the finest alarm clock money
could buy as a more traditional gift, one half-groom to another.

                    "Will you come in with me?" Wayne whispered softly.
                    "Yes," Dale said.  "She didn't cum with me, and I want
to share her first time, and she hasn't taken a male in her mouth, so
that's another reason, if it's what you want."
                    "I do," Wayne said, "and it sounds like you've left me
a lot, not that I care beyond it's being kind of nice, not to mention, more
exciting by the minute."
                    "Me, too," the boy said, standing.  He lit two candles
on his bureau and handed one holder to his handsome uncle.  In the golden
light, they stripped, and the boy led the man to the ten year old down the
hall.  They eased open her door and found the child naked and kneeling on a
pillow a foot from the wall.  Wayne eased his hugely erect nephew in front
of Vicky, lowering his boner from his belly to his sister's mouth.  He
knelt close behind the girl, molesting her as she experimented with taking
the mature twelve year old in her mouth.  Dale leaned against the wall,
spreading his legs wide and lacing his fingers hard behind his neck.  He
thrust his hips to his sister and she moved against him, tentatively for
two or three minutes, but soon settling into the deliberate rhythm of a
purposeful lover.  Two more minutes passed and the arching boy whispered,
"I'm going to cum off, Vicky."

                    "Darling," Wayne whispered in the girl's ear as he
thrust himself gently between the ten year old's thighs, masturbating her
from behind with the shaft of his penis, "use your hands take him on the
tip of your tongue and on your lips."
                    Vicky's hands were on her brother hips and as the man
whispered in her ear she took her brother as she'd taken the adult, using
her hands firmly and skillfully as she licked and sucked Dale's swollen
glans.  Wayne molested the girl low on her belly with his left hand,
guiding his penis high against her in the process, and, with his right hand
he gently fondled her throat.  The tableau lasted more than a minute, the
man behind the girl, gentle but firm with her, the girl with her brother's
penis just brushing her mouth as she experimented with licking and sucking
him faster and faster, and the twelve-year-old male child, hands behind his
neck, legs splayed wide, leaning against the girl's bedroom wall as she
knelt on her pillow.
                    At the sudden flood of salt in her mouth, the girl
fastened her lips firmly to her mature brother, sucking him actively and
avidly.  Wayne pulled the young, naked girl firmly against his tall,
athletic body, caressing her budding breasts with his left hand while with
the fingers of his right he felt the urgent bucking of the girl's throat as
she knelt for the boy, her knuckles white on his trembling hips.
                    Dale suddenly doubled over his sister and his uncle
braced him.  He began grunting harshly, the sound translated immediately
into the urgency of the hot mouth getting wilder on him and making him
grunt and moan the louder.  Grasping Wayne's shoulders as he began to ebb,
the boy guided the man to his position against the wall.  Dale grabbed a
second pillow as his uncle arched and spread his long, muscular legs.
Vicky had her hands on his hips and lifted herself for the pillow.  Dale
knelt close behind the pretty girl, his face on the right of her's as he
watched the pixie welcome the hugely swollen adult.  Her hot tongue found
the young man and her hands moved to him after a minute, Dale fondled the
child from behind, his penis still hard against the baby-smooth skin of her
back.  Vicky took her handsome uncle low with her left hand and high with
her right hand, her brother steadying her as she fought to match the
adult's thrusting.  Dale loved his uncle, but when he found out the writer
was holding back, he could sort of tell, to give him time to position
himself behind Vicky, find her, then enter her from the rear, love turned
to a passionate adoration, which is pretty much where it had started, in
the first place.

                    The tableau.  The tall, lean artist against the wall,
hands behind his neck, legs widely spread.  Vicky, kneeling on two pillows,
her hands in place, the right moving on the long shaft of the adult, her
head moving now rhythmically over four inches, leaving ample room for her
stroking and fondling hands.  Dale kneeling close behind his kid sister,
his twelve-year-old hands massaging the girl's juvenile nipples as he
bucked solidly against her pretty little bottom.  For ten minutes the only
thing that changed was the breathing of the man and two children.  Their
tension might not have been outwardly obvious, but each felt it in their
own body and those of their partners.  They loved being together this way.
It was gentle, didn't take up all that much time, and, in many respects was
similar to a game of cards, with exercise.  Loving each other helped,
although the writer in the trio, as well as his two brilliant understudies,
did wonder if a person who got impatient in such a situation could possibly
have anything better to do with an hour or so of their free time.  Imagine,
for example, working out on a Soloflex, instead of kneeling in front of
your nice older brother and panting from his penis stroking high between
hour legs.  Imagine the yearning for a repetition of the blistering gush of
hot salty semen, not from a beautiful boy, this time, but from an athletic
adult.  Imagine imagining what was going to be happening on the soft rug of
a little girl's bedroom floor in just a few more minutes, and yearning for
that as she did for what she was panting and sweating for as her mouth and
tongue danced and played ever more ardently in response to the adult's
rapidly building tension.



                    Speaking of which, Randy came over by himself this
morning.  Came right in and sat down next to my bed.  We chatted for a few
minutes.  As soon as I lifted my hand he came to me, eagerly turning to be
kissed and leaning into me.  He was wearing loose clothing over his
sensationally soft, warm body.  We played for ten minutes, his hand going
up inside my shorts.  He seemed eager to get me hard, but Samantha arrived.
I looked at him for the first time, and he's smaller than he felt, and not
even the `hot pencil' boys sometimes talk about.  It was doubly cool
because he wanted a basketball, which was a great excuse to give him twenty
dollars.  He's friendly, smiling, happy to hang around when Samantha came
(not scuttling off), and stayed for two hours playing computer games with
Austin, Samantha younger brother and a ten year old who would make any
football coach go slightly insane.  Voice coach, too, as he has the most
interesting vocal style I've heard outside the top professionals.  He's a
non-player, and, even if he was slim, is simply one of legions of nice,
healthy boys who wouldn't be interested; likewise, Elston and Tonton.

                    Although they write books and contribute at the highest
levels of the intellect, pedophiles have no certain lock on who is and who
is not interested.  Some boys obviously are not, a rare boy obviously is,
and in between is the sixty-percent slice who have no opinion.  It depends.
But on what?  I think the alternative written by a swimming teacher who
became active with his entire class of twenty seven-year-old boys told the
truth, and this would not be unusual, boys or girls, assuming a nice and
attractive older male, privacy, and an on-going relationship.  Ten year
olds would probably divide at about the fifty percent mark, but by this age
peer pressure becomes strong enough to deter boys who would want to `if no
one ever knew', so the numbers become muddled.  At thirteen, the peer
issues have intensified, but, assured of privacy and secrecy, two or three
boys would probably submit willingly and repeatedly.  One in fifty would
display and act as the aggressor.  Something like that.  When you get to
the mid teens, it seems to me, hustling becomes an element, and boys will
become active for a quid pro quo.  Late teens are so filled with issues and
conflicts, a difficult playing field becomes impossible; some end up open,
some end up in the closet, and most don't end up much of anywhere.

                    Randy kisses extraordinarily; small, eager mouth.  As a
normal size twelve year old he should develop over the next year or two.
I'm torn as whether or not to come right out and tell Samantha that I like
to play with him once in awhile.  I don't think she'd think much of the
news, one way or the other.

                    So we went about the gamut this morning, for it turned
out Samantha wanted me to copy some hymns and psalms for Sunday School.
Imagine me capitalizing "god"?  But then she is devastating and I bow to
convention, not to the big G.  We worked for two hours with her reading and
me typing.  It wouldn't have made a half-bad feature film.  She is so cute;
her expression in the always-fun Creole patois, her insights, her
interpretations, all mildly different and fresher, funnier, and more novel
than a child with a normal IQ.  But retarded she is.  I told her I needed
to have her read me the punctuation as well as the words, and even after
dozens of them, she couldn't remember "comma".  The word "grace" appeared a
number of times in her clearly-typed original, and she missed it
repeatedly.  Even common three and four letter words throw her off, and her
ability to recognize phonetic combinations is actually zero.  The killing
thing is she knows the words to even the fast, intricate songs in English,
Spanish, and Garafuna -- doesn't know what the words mean, nor do I, for
that matter, but can sing them with reasonable accuracy -- the whole song
through.  Must drive her teachers wild, on the assumption she's ever had a
teacher.  Not me.  Love her, marry her, leave her all the loot, but
teaching any soul on earth the English language is not on my dance card,
saving my own natural children, whose first expression might well be: "God
forbid."

                    If writing is partly context and contrast, with
perspective thrown in, a study in extremes would be fondling Randy then two
minutes later transcribing hymns and psalms for a retarded girl.  Both were
happy partners in long-term relationships, and it seems to me that's what
it boils down to.  Adding more would be selling something bad, which is my
personal favorite when it comes to definitions of religion.

                    Randy's my first new partner since Clarence, two or
three years ago.  I have two major dichotomies in my life.  Being a great
artist and living in mellow obscurity, and being a pornographer, and all
but partner free. Tricks and vagaries I call it, but let me ask you a
question.  Which would you choose?  Mainstream success with its money and
fame, lacking a steady partner, or low-income anonymity with Samantha and
Randy?  This is a choice that separates the artist from the man, because
neglect leaves time to work, so complicating the issue that the artist is
left just wanting the no-money-and-fame part, and, push come to shove,
might or might not abandon the partners.  Men would make a choice.

                    I'm still working in circles toward my universal
recipe.  Actually, it's more a paradigm than step-by-step guidance, which
should follow at some point.  I know you think this is a writer's trick:
you're hooked on the tale of your own survival, you want to see, without
cheating, if we make the million words.  Two hooks, the first in your neck.
So it follows that dangling the ultimate feeding situation, for lace of a
better term, is yet another clever way to string you along, in addition to
the what-happens-next carrot typically dangled by the established novelist.
That's a lot of reasons to read.  Add the price, or lack thereof, and you
see how easy it is for a writer to trick a reader into believing he's the
best thing since sliced bread.

                    I should add promptly that I'm ruled by a third
dichotomy.  Whether to edit or spend time at the tail, as I call the end of
a developing script.  Both are thrilling at this level, but one adds new
work, and the other is basically fussy rote work that can best be done by
someone other than he who made all the mistakes in the first place.  At the
same time, it is fun to go back and tweak and trick and groom and curry;
try to prove that at least once-in-awhile you're the master of your draft
as well as dominating your art.  And then luck comes in with its fickle
finger.  I typed the preceding `draft' when I meant to write `craft'.
Would you change it back?  Fun at the tail.

                    I'd like to redefine how good the English language can
be.  How flexible it is even for a modestly educated scribe.  I have no
pretensions toward equaling Durrell, Lawrence, Joyce and the later
classics, and that's the point.  The language is so good, although
unlearnable, it remains effective (to use my freakenist word) in the hands
of an artist and yields a writer.

                    In another year or two Randy will look like I just
remembered who.  The Buddhist boy dressed in alluring purple robes, half
bare-chested in the television ad for a major realtor Same body, similarly
pleasant face.
                    Samantha got her watch band tightened but I kind of
like mine loose, except when chopping vegetables, so I'll leave it for
awhile for its toy value.  I'm right handed, but for some reason can't
tolerate a watch on my left wrist, though I've tried for weeks to get used
to the more sensible way to wear it.  I have a vague memory of reading that
back in the Fifties homosexuals would wear their watches on their right
wrists as a signal.  I wonder if there's some connection.  Good grad school
thesis for someone.

                    Ego aside, I'm having chronic trouble understanding how
good I really am.  When I was connected to the Net I got one hundred reader
letters ranging from very nice to extended-delirious, in a row.  It was
incomprehensible then, and I'm better now.  With a nice amount of help from
Writer Hughes, with his rock solid Rusty, Audrey, Dale and Vicky I've been
able to take the unlearnable to the ethereal.  And you know what the best
part of the mail was?  You'll think I'm kidding.  No writer ever said I was
funny.  How's that for being a major league class clown?  It's as assumed
as the fact I've seen the moon.  Hey, where I grew up it was either laugh
or toe tags for somebody.

                    I wonder how long this will take to get to John.  What
he'll think after he's wet his you-know.  Proud or jealous?  Man, I hope
it's the former.  I go around kicking Hemingway, Salinger and a major dozen
others as the socialist's content of the plastic bin labeled "Great
Writers", without wasting money buying shoes.  It's nice to have someone
out there who's worthy and most of all who is an inspiration.  Of course
I've done major rips on "NYPD Blue" and "7th Heaven", but to a far lesser
extent, and, in the interest of arcing back to the original story, which we
like to do from time to time, a popular media character is our lead player.
Am I setting you up for another adaptation?  With almost exactly 670,000
words to go, what do you think!  It will be off to the coast of Maine, I
believe in areas quite close to my four-year homes in Stonington and
Camden.  Mel Gibson and the boy's name is Nordstrom, if I remember
correctly.  Oops.  There's a wall of fog moving in, so let's make for
Kansas and our climatic scene with the Reorganized Family of the
Vacationing Griswolds.


                    "Darling," Wayne whispered in a faltering rasp, "let it
flow from your mouth.  Only swallow a little if you want, because too much
can change the way you grow."
                    Little Vicky obeyed.  Dale moved his right hand from
her breasts to her chin and in moments was slicking the child's silky chest
with the hot sperm of the handsome writer.  His mind active in spite of the
hot and sweaty lust of adult male ejaculating heavily and repeatedly into
the slightly pouty mouth of a pretty school girl, Dale reviewed various
scenes over the past two years, and, from the experience knew what to do
and when to do it.  He gently left his wet, tight sister, pulling her away
and placing the pillows under her bottom as he turned her eighty pound body
parallel with the wall.  Wayne dropped to his knees as the girls hips
wriggled on the pillows and she spread her legs wide.  She was soaked from
a second private release with her brother, so he mounted her in a long,
gentle stroke, then rose high above the child and began what Dale had
lovingly left for him to teach.  As Wayne quickly found a hard, fast rhythm
Vicky reached for her brother and brought his hands with her's to the back
of her stag.  Repeated she whispered the boy's name, finally coaxing onto
the back of the bucking athlete so she could hold both his hands against
the hard, hot muscles of her male's lower back.

                    "Dale, he's going to make me cum," she hissed almost
desperately.
                    "You're old enough, Vicky," her brother coaxed, "don't
be scared.  We'll both be here."
                    "I am scared," the girl moaned.
                    "At least I was," she added, but it was three minutes
later.  In a feat of strength and agility inspired by an aged aunt, Dale
removed one pillow from under his sister's soaking wet bottom and stuffed
it over her mouth, muting her screams to her sweating sibling, but doing
little to reduce their erotic lustiness and wailing want, followed by a
stunned silence lasting over a minute and finally yielding to mews and
moans from the little tiger lily and her soft words putting her fears
behind her.

                    The couple cradled in gentle arms had been successful
twice as Dale concluded his birthday story.  As it ended they recovered
quickly, Annie purring into her brother's ear.  They slipped back into
their clothes.  Dale left a note explaining that the money wasn't needed
now that their uncle was coming to live with them full time, or as
full-time as a writer could.  Vicky dialed the telephone.  "Hi, Mom," the
thirteen year old said.  "They came back?" she asked, apparently
rhetorically.  "I'm glad we waited six months, too," Vicky said into the
instrument.  "Way cool," she chirped, attracting everyone's attention.
"Yes, of course I'll tell him, you ninny," the girl laughed, "and right now
so spank my little yum-yum, even if she is six months, so she'll know
what's in store if she's ever mean to her twin.."

                    "Of course I'm kidding," the girl laughed again, "I'll
call you back in a few minutes."  She replaced the phone and looked at the
expectant faces.  "The results of the amniocentesis tests came back," she
said.


                    CHAPTER TWENTY





                    "Nordstrom," Dave said, "rowing isn't any great window
to universal truths and the enigmatic, it is a way to get a boat from the
dock to the island.  It's not to be fought like heresy or despotism, it is
to be regarded in the softer light of method over madness.  You have two
oars.  A philosopher deals with dozens.  Save your energy for the latter
and yield to the former.  Patiently, slowly, sweep them for and aft,
engaging the surface of the water as you pull in the direction of your
manly chest and allowing them to breathe the moist coastal air of Maine as
you push your hands back toward my manly chest."
                    "Couldn't you just stomp my kneecaps with your manly,
clam-diggers' boots?" the thirteen-year-old boy said, a pleased expression
on his roundish and aware face with it's trim of sandy hair.

                    "Would I do that to a good Catholic?" Dave Irving said.
                    "I'm a Catholic with a good priest," Nordstrom said.
                    "Who's taught you lower philosophy than a catfish eats
for dinner," the twenty-eight year old teacher observed.
                    "I'm bound for military school," the cute boy grimaced,
"what kind of philosophy would you suggest?"
                    "Perhaps something high enough that the apes couldn't
reach it," the man suggested.  They struggled on across the half mile
across the island, the boy's hands slowly untangling and adapting the easy
rhythm of sliding a long, slim rowboat rather than jamming it like a pram.
                    "You're not getting good at it," the rear-seat
passenger allowed, "but you're not getting any worse."
                    "If they'd shoot these walruses for blubber and not let
them go around climbing into people's boats," the boy responded, "we'd have
been at the island five minutes ago."
                    Dave crinkled a smile at his student and Nordstrom
grinned back.  They approached quietly, the thirteen year old even proving
adept at using the boat's oars against the rocks as they maneuvered into
the cobble beach.  The cove was sheltered by the thick pine growth of the
small island and the nudged gently, the boy moving carefully off the bow,
wondering which was harder, rowing a small boat or getting ashore without
wet feet.  The boat steady, the adult moved forward bracing himself for a
moment on Nordstrom's shoulder as he leaped to a nearby boulder.  Dave
reviewed the dangers, very substantial, of small boats and tides, and they
secured their slim vessel against being carried off on the rising water.
Operating in rough tidal zones, for all the annoyance and inconvenience
involved, teaches grace and coordination.  The two males retrieving hamper
and blanket from the half floating boat on notably rising water weren't an
entire suite, but nevertheless inspired moments of neat footwork.

                    "Clamber Aboard Island," the boy giggled as they caught
their breaths on a driftwood log.
                    "Welcome A-rock Island", the adult said, "though
there's enough trees to make a-board or two."

                    "So, Nordstrom," Dave said, letting a little sigh in
his voice, "are you comfortable alone with me or should we leave the tents
in the boat and head back after lunch."
                    "That depends on what you and do not want to do," the
thirteen year old said with a shy laugh.
                    "I guess it depends on what the weather will and will
not do, too," the teacher said.
                    "I don't mean to be evasive," the boy said, "but I do
have certain ideas, and I thought if we at least had lunch away from the
house and the tutoring thing I could say something, then you could decide,
because I'd really like to stay the whole weekend."

                    "About the scar, the accident, Jessen," the man used,
adding: "and I don't mean to be thorny or neurotic on the subject, and, to
tell at least one secret, I'm glad and flattered you're interested enough
to make it a major topic."
                    "I have a major topic, too," Nordstrom said, blushing.

                    "Secret?" the man grinned.
                    "Yeah," the boy whispered demurely and not very
convincingly.
                    "Then you'd better stay the night."

                    The issue settled, the pair made a second run on their
replica whale boat, slinging on backpacks and wobbling over the heavy
growth of boulders and cobbles.  One name for it could be "Totally Save
Island", Dave remarked as they circled the woods assuring themselves no
bears had taken up residence on the few acres set half a mile from the
nearest point of land.

                    "You really can ask about it," Dave said, "in your
shoes, I'd be curious, too.  You've got the grades to earn a little down
time, and I'm hanging out pretty much on my own, so if there are age and
cultural aspects to our relationship, perhaps we might ignore them on a
temporary, earned, me chief, you Indian, basis."

                    "You heap-big drummer, Nordstrom heap-small rower," the
boy growled.
                    "Heap-small body need catch up with heap-big brain,"
Dave laughed, "so you're doomed to row to Florida."
                    "One island at a time," the boy said.
                    "We've done the Greeks one poet at a time," the young
man said, "so it's an idea."
                    "Is there anything to it," Mr. Irving?" the boy asked.
                    "A lot of men have wasted a lot of time proving Not
much," the teacher said, "but it is entertaining, it does provide incisive
insights, and what else is there?  L. Ron Hubbard?"
                    "But it's a noose if you don't get it," the boy said,
"like maths are to a lot of kids.  I think in factions and then try to
convert them to percentages, for fun, but two pansy's wilting over a posy
just doesn't seem to go anywhere."

                    "Why did you say `two'?" the teacher asked.  The boy
blushed again.
                    "I don't know," he mumbled.
                    "Then it's going to be a night for deep, dark secrets,"
the teacher growled, and they hoisted their basket and blankets the last
few yards to a clearing in the middle of the island.  In a half hour their
camp was set with twin pup tents and a fire making coals.  They returned
the their comfortable driftwood couch and watched their boat swing gently
from one rock to another.
                    "If you're sure about staying," Dave said, "we can
ground the boat at high tide, but we won't be able to launch it for twelve
hours, unless we have to pry it from boulder to boulder because you've lost
your head an are bleeding badly."

                    "I felt comfortable setting my tent right next to
yours," Nordstrom said, "so let's haul it up."  That gave them a few
minute's work, and then the housekeeping was up to date.

                    "Do you have any pictures of Jessen?" the boy asked.
                    "Yes," Dave said, "pretty much a school kid, but take a
look if you want to."  He fished out his wallet and flipped through the
plastic sleeves.  "We took these of each other three days before he was
killed."
                    "Did you guys swim together a lot?" the boy asked,
studying the image of a young teen with wet black hair and a wide mouth
posed against the ladder of a high board.
                    "Merman and merboy," Dave said, "at the pool, rain or
shine, distilling Plato to the splash of morons doing cannonballs."
                    "Sounds refreshing," the boy noted.

                    For awhile they sat watching the temporary beauty of
coastal Maine at dead high tide, and bewailed the god who'd pull the plug
on it all, separating dry land from wet water with a band of damp brown
seaweed.

                    "I've got some pictures, too," Nordstrom said.  "He's
in a bathing suit, too, which is a little weird, because it's Father Yen,
and you usually see him in a collar."
                    "I'd like to see," Dave said, showing two more pictures
of Lessen Rudolph and one of himself.  The boy removed a small black and
white photo from his wallet and handed it to Dave."
                    "How tall is he?" the teacher asked.
                    "Six-five," the boy said, blushing.
                    "If you know the secrets of staying out of his way,
share them with a nonbeliever," the man responded.
                    "He just looks like he feeds on cashiers," Nordstrom
said, "he's been tamed along the way an no longer gnaws through his chain."

                    "Well," the man said, taking a long second look at the
image, "now I know what you meant about liking the priest and not the
church."

                    The two sat watching the birds.  Seagulls.  Damp brown
water weed, crows and gulls.
                    "How big were your secrets with Jessen?" the thirteen
year old asked.
                    "We didn't have any secrets," the teacher replied to
the boy's giggle.  "You know what I mean," the boy prodded.
                    "What have you heard?" the teacher and artist asked.
                    "Just that there were a lot of questions," the boy
said, "and then most people say something like, `You know how rumors get
started when there are unanswered questions.'"
                    "Common or rare," the man without a face asked.
                    "It comes up," the boy admitted.
                    "And you're out here, trapped like a lobster," the man
said, "I think you've settled something in yourself and that you're not
some kind of spy.  I hope I'm right."
                    "I listen to the other kids," the boy said, "but we've
only lived here a couple of years; this isn't my place, and, it's not that
I don't care what they think, it's just that I don't seem to care very
much."
                    "Not much of a life attitude," Dave said, "but present
place, present time, present boy, I vote yea."
                    "I'll come back to visit," the boy said, "but narrow
enough to question you and Lessen is too narrow for me."
                    "We couldn't have been accepted," Dave said, "it had to
and it has to be a shadow thing.  What would the alternative be?  Teacher's
dating students, having them as overnight guests, taking trips with them?
Where would it end?  Sitting up until eleven, reading, talking about
history and politics; dissecting religion and current events, debating the
abstract and arguing the unknowable?  What a world that would be.  Fifty
million boys with the beginnings of perspective and hints of insight,
watching the documentary channels, reading the computer magazines; why it's
hard to imagine an end to it all."

                    "Father Yen says the church would argue for
spirituality and faith," Nordstrom said, "that the icons of religion had
stood the test of time, that the glory and the spirit are themselves
divine, that the mystic and the ghostly are part of a great plan, that
there was more to hymn and psalm than clever words that rhyme."

                    "Glory, glory, hallelujah, this kind is super fine.",
the man laughed, finishing the boy's impromptu doggerel, and, least the
obvious escape a single reader, falling madly in love with his student.

                    "It is great entertainment," Dave said after some
moments, "and there is beautiful poetry, sentiment, and passion, but no
insight.  Cut and dried, decreed with leather on hide, no place to run,
with fingernails yet to be pried."

                    "Father Yen would give you a run for your money," the
boy mused.
                    "He can have it if he lets me run," the man responded.
                    "He's cute," the boy blushed, "calm as breath, off a
warm sea, still as the water under that breath.  You're just jealous that
he has a face at all."
                    "Nordstrom," the man whined, "we did not come out here
to fall in love and set up housekeeping, so knock it off with the cute
stuff, yourself."
                    "I didn't come here to do anything of the kind," the
boy shot back, "I accomplished that mission, with no theatrics, when you
were playing Goofus O'Moron the drill sergeant and making me dig holes and
fill them in while speaking in tongues to something that wasn't even there.
I said to myself that there was a man so overwhelmed with the abnormal that
it's actually quite beautiful.  That was all it took, and I remember
thinking only one thing and that was how glad I was to have an excuse to
take my shirt off near you.  Love.  You can't can it, you can't label it,
and no one inspects it before it drifts off on the air."
                    "You were very discreet," Dave whispered to the boy
sitting on his left.
                    "We had work to do, and I have a lot farther to go on
that stuff than you do, so the chances slipped by," the boy said.
"Besides, you were being paid, and that scared me."
                    "I'm glad we didn't wait until after the Fourth," Dave
said, "I'd hate to have camped with you the last week of August."
                    "We're ships that tarry in the night, at least," the
child added.
                    "I wish I could ring `Finished With Engines' instead of
`Standby'," Dave said, continuing a nautical dialogue that had begun early
in their relationship.
                    "I wonder how often it happens," the boy mused in
response.  "A kid like me and a man like you find some opportunity to leave
everything behind, and live happily ever after."
                    "A few in five thousand," the man guessed, "I'm sure it
happens, or at least I hope it does, and, ironically, it could happen with
us.  I've got enough money and friends from over the years we could shuffle
happily off to Buffalo so we'd appreciate Mexico that much more when we
crossed the border.  But I have no inclination to do something like that,
do you?"

                    "I don't see any challenge or mystery to it," the boy
agreed.  "There's too much neat stuff flying around out there to jump into
a box that says: `Relationship', and, for me, that would be a girl,
anyhow."
                    "That puts us on the same page on that issue," Dave
noted, "which is comforting.  With Lessen, it was different.  He did want
all of everything, that's why the papers made an extra thing of a routine
skid and crash accident, because he'd acted erratically from his first week
in my class, first, very privately with letters, but then in more obvious
ways like being by my car in the parking lot and bicycling around my house.
It wasn't overt, but it wasn't very subtle, either.  His letters concerned
me from the beginning.  I did sixteen years in school and never even
thought of writing a teacher a letter.  I tried being a little open, but,
predictably, that led to a nose-of-the-camel-in-the-tent situation Finally
I let young Mr. Carpenter win.  Changed from afraid to what-the-hell.  I
was single, no dependents, the house here and another in Florida, dating a
second cousin I'd known growing up, I could afford to take a chance.  Thus
the swimming.  From stiff interviews because of his letters, which he
claimed were just stories he pirated from the Web, to spending six or eight
hours a week together learning to use the high board."

                    "And that wasn't enough?" Nordstrom asked.  I would
have given a lung for an hour a week with Father Yen.
                    "I'm not quite as spectacular as your priest," Dave
noted.
                    "You're more exciting than he is," the boy remarked,
"because to me an ounce of brains is worth more than an inch of..."
                    "Two point five four centimeters," the teacher
interrupted, hoping to keep things as tidily in line with Grecian ideals as
possible with this dazzling specimen of boy.
                    "Something like that," Nordstrom blushed.
                    "I guess it's a little Romeo, Romeo to be finicky about
the linguistic side of passion," the teacher responded, "but if you treat
it like philosophy, largely as entertainment, and paint yourself, just
sometimes, as a single dancer before your priest's god, then you should
speak well or he'll end up holding your tongue."
                    "Father Yen would have preferred a long confession,"
the boy said.
                    "I'm on his side there," the young teacher said.
Lessen and I went that route, starting with his letters, and it worked for
two years.  He was satisfied, and got back into the swing of being a normal
kid.  Then I had a breakthrough in my painting.  He liked an edge he saw in
my work and wanted me to do a portrait of him.  Again, something that he
really wanted came up, the first thing being me, and he started getting
moody and difficult.  Yielding once had worked, so I yielded a second
time. But guess what.  Being rendered in oil as the beauty he was, and yes,
naked beauty, set off new fires, and, a few weeks later, they led to the
accident."

                    "We didn't bring a shovel, I guess," the boy mused,
changing the subject.
                    "No, why?" Dave said.
                    "I just had an urge to dig some holes," the boy
whispered shyly.
                    "In granite boulders?" the teacher asked.
                    "I thought a metal blade screeching on the rocks might
wake somebody up, and, at the very least I'd be..."
                    "Bare chested," the man whispered, completing the
child's sentence.
                    "Plato would say that was the second-to-god Form," the
boy recited.  "The perfection of the adolescent as an ideal almost as
unthinkable as it is unobtainable, then me, as the earthbound, day-to-day
Form of a kid digging a hole, and my wishes off of digging, as the farthest
Form from god."

                    "All that and you can convert fractions," Dave mused.
                    "All that and I summer on a stone and the end of a
rock," the boy responded, glancing around at the ledges forever meeting the
sea, but for the one cobble beach where only boulders did the job.
                    "Anyone who's out of the tropics is in the wrong
place," the artist said, "so you've got lots of company."
                    "Just half way up the Amazon, that's all I want," the
boy said, "I'm not into exploring or coming out like Ben Loman, I just want
to see different birds once in awhile, to hear different sounds, to know I
don't know it all, that I'll never see it all, that I'm human.  Around
here, you see it all in a month, so you become a god because you do know it
all; nothing surprises you, nothing intrigues you, nothing stirs in a bush
that could kill you.  Books and sun and a typewriter, a few decades to
leach out the bad stuff and then take a look around.  If you've blown your
life at least you tried.  Many are called, few are chosen, you know, that
game, and even ending up with the softest call and as the last choice."

                    "It's killed many a young man," Dave said, "these brass
buttons lead to this death, that blazing trumpet to that death, this book
to a forsaken desert, that film to `Temptation Island'."
                    Nordstrom Davis had had enough.  He'd fended off one
droll barb after another in the name of maturity and dignity, to save
nothing of emerging masculinity.  And there was a second facet.  He'd
watched the couples in the arms of Father Yen and they'd lain back in his
easy chair and masturbated incessantly for the entire first hour of
attractive heterosexual couples becoming as hot for each other as he was
for the tall wiry Eurasian showering his belly with cum at a particularly
sensual scene.  So, in total, the background of funny remarks, and the
intense taboo of being wetted with the seed of a priest tripped the last of
the boy's safety circuits and he began giggling, quickly slipping into
weeping hysterics as he fell into Dave's lap.

                    "It might be the stone or it might be the rock, but
something's getting to you kid," the older male said as he petted the
child's gasping, choking head.  His words, meant merely playfully, were
interpreted by the boy as exceedingly wry and droll, sending him into a new
spasm of fits and rapture.  "It's an island, let's keep it that way," the
man added, sensing the boy was about to settle down and wiping away his
tears.  In a couple of minutes he did the job over and snorting and
hiccupping the boy settled comfortably back at his left elbow as they made
bets with each other as to high the tide would actually rise.  The maths
boy devised a time-based system of scoring, and they played by putting
small stones at presumed high points, then waiting five minutes to place
another stone.  Since the tides vary to a degree there is no dependable
mark representing high water, so the game engaged them until it was obvious
the water was ebbing and Dave was rewarded with all the marking stones for
missing by less than half a linear (as against vertical) inch.  They
returned briefly to their camp to encourage the fire, and made a last
circuit of their small confines double checking for bears before they'd
begin cooking dinner.  They then returned to their driftwood and sat as
before, the boy at the man's left arm.

                    "Did Lessen think you were funny?" the boy asked.
                    "Sometimes he had kind of fits," the older male
answered, "you know, spells, attacks.  Frankly, I tried not to notice, but
I do have to say I thought it sometimes unbecoming so I hope you'll let
that be a lesson to you and if you interpret something in a frivolous way
that you have the dignity not to engage in any kind of overt display."
                    "Or there goes the island and our dry sleeping bags,"
the boy mused.  "I see your point."
                    "No fire, no boat, no place to swim," Dave added, and
the boy nodded in understanding.
                    "Too bad about that shovel," Nordstrom whispered shyly
after enough minutes had passed to be sure of his frivolity cure.
                    "You could pretend," the man said "You're five years
under age, and the law is flexible when it comes to make-believe."
                    "I want to," the boy said softly, rising and turning to
his right to stand between his master's knees.
                    "I want to, too," Dave whispered, touching Nordstrom's
handsome face, then running his fingers back past the boy's ears and under
his jaw to his neck.  Looking into the child's eyes, he continued his
feather touch to the boy's first button.  He undid them all as the thirteen
year old pulled his white shirt from his cargo shorts and placed on the
log, then stood of his adult partner, arms high over his head.

                    Dave pulled the beautiful young boy to him, kissing and
softly sucking his nipples as he rand his fingers slowly from the child's
soft, smooth underarms down the taut sleekness of his gently heaving
flanks.
                    "Father Yen did it mostly from behind me," the boy
whispered, "and he was naked even the first time."
                    "Did you strip romantically?" the man asked, "or
locker-room?"
                    "Kind of slowly, I guess," the boy said, blushing as
his master looked deep into his gentle blue eyes.
                    "Where did it happen?" Dave asked, standing and gently
turning the boy.  Nordstrom responded by reaching back and linking his arms
behind the powerful male behind him, and arching and wriggling to the
strong hands that quickly found his slightly soft belly.
                    "In his bedroom at the rectory," the boy said.
                    "Were you alone with him or were other boys watching?"
Dave whispered.
                    "He had me alone," the boy said.
                    "And it was your first time?" the artist asked.
                    "I saw something in the woods once," the boy whispered,
"but it was the first time anything happened to me.'
                    "Did you start it, or did he?" the man asked.
                    "I did," Nordstrom replied.
                    "How?" the man asked.
                    "In confession," the child explained, "I said I'd been
having sinful dreams.  He asked me about them.  I said I kept dreaming I
was running and I bumped my head on a honey tree and my hair got all
sticky, then I was in a shower trying to wash it off, only the shower was
in the woods, and I wanted it to be out in the field so everyone could see
because he came in the shower and helped me wash it out and I wanted
everyone to know he loved me."
                    "Holy shit!' the young adult exclaimed, "you and Lessen
were separated at birth Why didn't you just pull a forty-four magnum and
get the dude to dance while you whistled the tune?"
                    "Freedom of choice," the boy said, "there isn't much in
the church, so I made it a priority."
                    "I'd sure like to know his options after your `I had a
dream' speech," Dave whistled.  "There's a number no mathematician could do
a thing with."
                    "So you know it worked, then?" the boy said, and Dave
didn't know him well enough to tell whether the child was being
disingenuous or not.  Maybe someday he would, and that thrilled him as much
as the silky-smooth pubescent body panting and arching gently as his hands
roamed over the exquisitely soft tautness of his belly and developing teen
chest.

                    "How fast did it work?" the adult continued with his
quizzing, adding: "you know, to the nearest second or two.'
                    "Cripes, I don't know," the boy replied to the voyeur,
"it had to be in the hundreds."
                    "It must have been a long walk to the rectory," the
artist observed.
                    "Or, we could have walked slowly," the maths whiz
noted.
                    "Did it really happen right away?" Dave wanted to know.
                    "Yes," the boy said.  "I needed significant counseling
so we talked for an hour, then it occurred to me that only by knowing a sin
could I feel grace from freeing myself from its evil clutches and
degenerate influence."
                    "Society needs perverts like archer's need targets,"
Dave commented in a friendly whisper, only beginning to re-accustom himself
to the magnitude of sensations that resulted from molesting a welcoming
young male.

                    "What did you talk about?" Dave asked.
                    "He started with a disclaimer," the boy answered, "you
know, telling me anything we talked about was outside anything to do with
the church, that there was nothing professional involved, and that he
wanted to ask me a lot of questions, but that I could go if it got
uncomfortable, with no questions asked.  When he was satisfied I was there
of my own free will he started quizzing me.  He asked if anyone had really
touched me while I was taking a shower.  I told him the dream was made up,
and that I'd seen something while I was out playing Tarzan the Younger, and
I wanted to talk to him about that, not any dream."

                    "When did he get you naked?" Dave asked.
                    "When I told him how the boy I spied on undressed the
man he was with," the thirteen year old answered.  "He was interested in
the details, because they could help him draw conclusions as to whether
their act was a mortal sin, or merely a temptation leading to a lesser
violation of ecclesiastical law."
                    "I take it when he came to his conclusion," the older
male said, "it was spot-on."
                    "It couldn't have been otherwise," the boy noted,
"because we got every detail right -- I was spying from like six feet
away."

                    "And...?"
                    "He deemed it a technical transgression that should be
taken under advisement "
                    "Thus freeing the souls of two people he never met,"
Dave said, arching his eyebrows at mysterious ways, in general.  He liked
Nordstrom but felt since the FBI spy case, and the failure of the priest to
somehow notify the authorities, in the name of global security over an
individual's assumption of secrecy, the institution should be denied tax
exemption for the extremity of its anti-Americanism.  [The bible is rife
with vengeance and life is hollow and frustrating until you serve the cold
dish, individual or nation.  In language that is easier to understand, it's
okay to be pissed on, but you do need to dry off.]

                    "Nordstrom," Dave whispered as the boy began shaking in
his arms, "what was the correlation between what you saw happening in the
woods and Father Yen?"
                    "Not too much," the boy said, "I'd already dreamed up
the fake dream.  But I think it helped getting my nerve up, because the boy
I saw was really nervous while they were talking, but after he pulled his
underpants down while the man knelt watching him, he relaxed and they lay
on their backs together and he let the man do anything he wanted and they
talked while they were getting excited and pretty soon the boy was
inventing ways to touch the man, and after it happened they whispered for a
long time, and the boy -- he was about eight -- wasn't nervous and they
were making another date as they got dressed.  So," Nordstrom continued,
"that was proof that the weirdness thing was only skin deep.  Meantime, I
had a crush on Father Yes from second one of minute one and I wasn't the
lone ranger.  I heard other kids murmuring and one said `shower'.  I was
just another kid on the team as far as looks go, so I knew I had to start
using my brain.  I came up with my `dream' story for confession, then the
day after I spied in the woods something clucked and I stopped at the
church after school and he took me to the rectory.  He called my mom, then
took me upstairs."

                    By accord Dave slowly released the young teen and they
again sat side by side catching their breaths.


                    I'm trying to catch mine, too.  Randy has been here
most of the day playing computer games, and stayed on alone after Samantha
left.  His body is lyrics in perfect harmony, silky skin and enough fat to
sculpt his warm belly as delicate as a young teen's breasts.  Every curve
in playboy, with hot baby skin.  He is totally accepting, plays and we chat
happily as I'm desensitizing him.  I took him into the bathroom briefly and
we made out for a few minutes.  He kisses avidly and it's beyond
comprehension how that preteen mouth and lively tongue might one day feel.
Also, seeing him naked, leaning back against the bathroom wall, legs spread
in the classic position most boys assume naturally, and the ones who are
taught always repeat.  Then being naked with him.  He stayed an hour after
I finished with him, chatting and learning to play solitaire.  He's a
specimen boy, neither bold nor uptight; mostly mellow, partly playful,
bright, which is a refreshing contrast with Samantha, the princess of the
inner circle of charm, but not quick.  I invited him to come live here,
just mentioning the idea.  I could use a houseboy, and his family is
virtually next door.  He was over with Kira, emblematic of danger in small
packages with her lightest honey gold skin and round, solemn face.  I got
on Randy's case a month or so ago over teasing her, and for that or some
other reason, he's knocked it off and now she dotes on him as she always
has on Samantha.  Being nice to his cousin might play dividends well into
the realm of fantasy, and I'll return to my underlying thesis which is that
they could be sleeping together now, and, assuming he was nice to her in a
general way, no harm, no foul.  She's being denied this by superstition and
taboo sold as products.  "You children go in the bedroom and lock the door
if you want to that," is the only reprimand an experimenting couple should
ever hear, with caveats against intruding on normal activities.  Kira and
Randy may grow up to be fat and uninteresting, not to put too fine a point
on it, this may be the only chance they have to express an entire side of
their lives, and, while it's one you can live without, as most fat people
do, it's the same empty frustration you get from not avenging yourself on
those who've severely abused you, by act or omission, for extended periods
of time (as the world of Allah has abused the country in which I was
born.).  All one need keep in mind is the libertine lives the emptiest
possible existence, no hope of any kind, and that we're human, controlled
by reason, not animals and slaves to instinct.  And reason does not say
never, ever, how could that be reasonable? it says carefully and rarely.
Of course, there'd be nothing rare about a developing Randy sleeping with a
four-year-old Kira every night, but if you read it that she's one of a very
small group of partners you understand my slant on the issue.

                    Molesting an inexperienced boy is like playing with a
kitten, only softer and silkier.  And you do it in the same way, a few
minutes here, a few more two visits later, ten minutes, after three visits,
and so on.  If you hold a kitten more than ten or fifteen seconds, it gets
restive, and if you still try to hold it, anxious.  At it's first twitch,
you release the animal, then it will always like being held, or at least
not object, and you can hold it longer and longer, if, for some reason
would be inconceivable to me, you wanted to.  Randy knows the door is never
locked; there's not the slightest pressure; he's a good kid, I've known him
for years, I now live next door to him, and he's in control as to whether
he visits in the first place, whether he stays when the others leave, and
what happens if he stays.  I'm rubbing this in because it's important.
There's no conceivable way his life would be influenced, even if it was
open knowledge in town, by what goes on between us, while it's made
substantially better by our friendship, whether he's my boy toy, or not.
It's a refrain in a minor key, both on its positive and negative sides.  It
adds, when played with discipline, texture to the music of life, and of and
by itself, is capable of taking away nothing; will not be missed from the
orchestra.  Vastly less fuss, that's the place to start, eventually
sanctioning alternative relationships to remove any legacy stigmatism.
Every professional involved in any abuse case should assess on the bases of
force and coercion, and if it isn't evident, go on to a case where it is.
Save the really bad ones, the fourth grader huddled in the corner of the
playground, and if a kid's skipping rope with the others, any rumors
probably means she's getting more out of life than her (or his) playmates.

                    It's interestingly emblematic that the finest pyramid
in the world, by a hundred times, is the monstrous edifice in south central
India devoted to little boy's with big penises.  It stands, new looking,
carved to a higher standard, by far, than any other similar structure, as
proof in stone that an alternative society can sustain.  That they were
some odd thousands of times happier than we are, isn't the point.  The fact
that they disprove every word and thought on sexual taboo, is.  A thought
that should be an utter delight to any pedophiles reading this story is as
follows: what if the carvings are not lewd exaggerations?  It fits neatly
with my theory on excessive oral sex: what if little boys of that culture,
cute little seven year olds, had eight-inch penises jutting high between
their soft thighs and against their creamy bellies?  Just picture then
cumming like a young horse in the hands of a pretty little brown-eyed
sister, and the image is more or less complete.

                    Now I'm going around carving temple art, as if I need
another feather in my cap.  Back to Randy, and not making a pussy of a
kitten.  No furtive, incomplete quickies.  No domination, none at all. No
romantic questions or commentary.  No quizzing or creepy questions.  No
pressure.  Nothing enabling him as an effeminate.  Some stuff that a lot of
guys like to do once in awhile.  That's the whole pyramid.

                    A lot of arcing suddenly in the essays.  Arcing is
bringing a character or situation back repeatedly in the course of a story,
but guess what: first, Linden now claims Melissa took the camera, he found
it in her backpack, and is bringing it back, second, I ran into the one boy
I thought I had once molested, in any true sense of the word, now in his
thirties.  We spent half an hour talking about South Water Caye in the old
days.  The third example's on me.  The watches I thought were improperly
set, were set correctly.  So it's typical bird-brained artist, not typical
Belize -- a rare reversal of this nature.  As an excuse, I asked Andrew
three times if he was sure his watch was accurate before I set the computer
and microwave oven clocks, and then, as with the wet road, jumped to the
wrong conclusion when their clocks agreed with each other.  Mind-set it's
called.  Very dangerous.  Another example is when Roman, my efficient
helper when I was laid up, stole Samantha's bike.  I happed to be standing
at my bedroom window and saw him go under the house less than a minute
before she found her brand-new bike was gone.  If I hadn't happened to see
him, I would have blamed Marvin, a notorious thief who lived across the
road, and who has reportedly stolen four bikes from my house as well as
other valuables.  I used to find him sleeping in my outhouse at the old
place, and provided him a roof and meals at various times, never doing or
suggestion anything.  In fact, off all the boys who've stolen things, I've
never touched one, and I have had sex with the boys I can trust at least
six inches at midday.  If I feel guilt over anything in the past, it's not
becoming active with Linder.  Maybe it would have made a difference, but,
at the time, I had two juvenile males and I've never been interested in
running a boy farm.  Could one orgasm have changed his life?  Possibly.
Meantime, he's got lots of time to let his good side re-emerge and nothing
is more problematic than trying to judge how slightly deviant kids will
mature.  This was one of Gran's essential messages, and, at age 102, with
scads of nieces and nephews, in addition to her own large family, and as an
inveterate reader, she knew as much as anyone.  She'd seen remarkable
changes, both ways, between children and adults, but I do wonder if her
advice would apply to our age, with its profound levels of subliteracy.  My
guess is today's dumb kids are going to stay dumb, and probably too dumb to
be fun.  That's why I write so many essays.

                    I did a little soul-searching and summing up today.
Kira was asleep on the end of the bed, Randy was smoking through the
"Battery Charge" demo.  Samantha had conked out on the dining room table.
Sim just brought me a fresh stash, I had plenty of cigarettes, and I tried
to estimate how my list of toys would compare to my peers.  To again quote
Tiger Woods: "When I was eleven I had the pretties girlfriend you ever saw,
got straight As, and won thirty-two tournaments.  Life's been uphill ever
since."  Man, is it ever cool to be fifty-six and have the cute girlfriend,
six novels, plus, and to pay for others to go to school.  If I yielded to
the siren call of Modesty, I'd be lovable -- enough is enough for one
lifetime.

                    I hope there will be more sex in upcoming essays.
Writing novels is hideously hard work and it would be nice to indulge in
the tawdry and salacious while I catch my breath.


                    "You handled me really well," the boy, now breathing
normally, said with a shy smile, "I wanted to feel you naked against me, at
first, but then I remembered you had a hairy chest, and Father Yen was like
a little boy, so I wanted to wait so it could be a separate experience,
especially after you'd been with me for a few minutes."
                    "Two more peas, same pod," the adult said, "Lessen had
the same idea.  We made half a ceremony of it.  That was at the point I was
going all out for him, trying to haul him bodily out of his own way.  He
whispered about it, I yielded, and it's probably where I should have said
No."

                    "Was it your first time together?" Nordstrom asked.
                    "Yes," the man said.  "At first he wanted it to push
his boner against my erection, but when I was half naked, he changed his
mind, and I knelt on the carpet of the motel room floor as he put his hands
behind his neck and wriggled against me."
                    "Did it feel nice to you?" the boy asked.
                    "I was more into looking at him," the man whispered,
"and I think the physical sensation was probably more intense for him even
though he felt nothing but hot against me."
                    "Did your penis touch his belly?" the experienced child
wanted to know.
                    "We pushed against each other," the man recalled, "but
we were still in our slacks and underwear, so it was just hinting."
                    "How long did you stay on the floor like that?" the
thirteen year old wanted to know.
                    "Half an hour or so," the artist said.
                    "How'd he end up freaking out if you took so much time
with him?" Nordstrom asked.
                    "He'd been kidnapped from a RV center when he was
nine," the teacher explained, "the bikers had a couple of twelve year old
boys with them, but there were over twenty of them.  They took him to a
slave camp and held him for a week."
                    "That might have an effect," Nordstrom mused
sympathetically.
                    "They were call the Lesser Shadows," Dave explained,
"the leader wrote math textbooks and he had a geometry-based ritual were
each biker stood at a certain distance from a barn, a certain moment before
sunset, and if his shadow didn't conform to the formulae, he had to ride
off into the sunset for at least a month."
                    "I hope they had a bad cook," the thirteen year old
said, glad to hear a light note in his master's voice that seemed to
foreshadow an alternative kidnapping.

                    "His mother killed the boy and stuffed the bird," Dave
said, "she was a fiend, incarnate, domineering, stupid, and loud enough to
alarm anyone hiking under the wall of a canyon.  She cooked worse than she
was, and made him eat half-burned peas, which are as ugly as they are
nauseating.  They'd trailed the Atwaters out from a mall, where they'd
noted the discrepancy between boy and beast.  They let the air out of a
tire of their camper, knowing that at mid-day they'd find him changing the
wheel.  They scooped him right from under the old lady's nose, and gunned
up to a hundred so he wouldn't feel like jumping off.  They were as gentle
as they could be, but they took him back to their camp and raped him.  The
boy's took him first, then the lesser shadows, then the older guys.  Only
two adults penetrated him, but he knelt in front of the others, so it was
from zero to maximum overdrive in two hours."

                    "Did they play with him before they started raping
him?" the younger male wanted to know.
                    "First, they fed him, French toast, and eggnog" the
teacher explained to his student, "then, yes, they showed some videos of
other boys they'd abducted, adding a neat touch by beginning each sequence
with a minute or two of the victim's mother."
                    "What was he thinking by that time?" the boy asked.
                    "He said it was desensitization at the rate of a
forgetful sky diver's descent."
                    "You know what?" the boy asked.
                    "What?" Dave replied.
                    "Don't take this the wrong way," the thirteen year old
said, but we're not using a parachute, we're using a hot-air balloon."
                    "Interesting," his teacher remarked guardedly.
                    "It was so close while I was standing in front of you,"
the boy said, "now here we are sitting side by side, you dressed, me still
in my shorts."
                    "That you can be polite about it," the man laughed, "is
more than remarkable, almost awesome, because the analogy is perfect.  We
talk and rise, then stop talking, and settle, only to talk and rise, again,
exactly paralleling what happened when I was behind you.  Ergo, we get not
only multiple, but parallel views rather than a quick descent back to
earth."
                    "That's what I meant," the boy said, relieved, because
a gas balloon goes up and stays up until you let the stuff out."
                    "Choosing between hot air and gas is going to keep me
up all night," Dave said.
                    "I'll be enjoying the views," the boy said, making sure
the man loved him as much as he loved the man.

                    They did get naked.  Dave took his shirt off as they
sat on the log, exposing his tawny, lightly matted chest.  He stood and the
bare-chested boy took his hand.  They climbed, finding the romantic touch
quite practical when it came to Maine boulder beaches, from the "beach" to
a shelf of grass at the verge of the pine trees.  Sheltered from the light
breeze, wildflower dotting the grass, insects humming as ever, they knelt
close.  Both displayed, and they moved together until their arching chests
touched, the delicate child gasping at the rawness of the lightning jetting
from his swollen nipples as he swayed against the rugged matting of his
mature master.

                    "You can call me `Lessen" if you want," the boy
whispered.
                    "My nickname for him was `Sennen"," the teacher noted.
                    "Did you talk while this was happening in the motel?"
the boy asked.
                    "Yes," the man said, "he described what had happened
with the Lesser Shadows, taking a nap with the little boys so they could
get him ready for the adults, you know, by talking to him.  They'd both
been kidnapped and raped so they calmed him down from being snatched away
from his mother's tire and zoomed off at full speed.  By the time he went
into the sanctuary to watch the videos, he was nervous and excited but not
afraid, except for it hurting a little, which both boys said was a small
price to pay."

                    "I've been thinking about you that way, even with your
shorts still on," Nordstrom said, "wondering how much it will hurt."
                    "The power of suppository thinking," Dave said.  "We'll
give that a big, hairy miss.  With all these rocks, you'd have an excuse to
be stiff-legged when we get back to town, but there's stiff-legged and
there's stiff-legged, and wise eyes that know the difference."
                    "How long was Lessen stiff after being with the Lesser
Shadows?" the boy asked curiously.
                    "He had two young boys," the adult said, "both of them
ejaculated inside him before the youngest and smallest of what was a slim
and fit group, to begin with, followed the boys, and only one of the
full-grown males mounted.  He'd been picked by drawing straws."
                    "There should be a law against not kidnapping a kid in
a situation like that," the boy said.  Acting, it seemed permanently as
one, they rose and returned, romantically, to their seat overlooking the
calm cove.

                    "That was even closer," the boy said, "do you know that
seventeen forty-ninths is thirty-five percent?"
                    "Just that madness divided by insanity equals love,"
the adult answered
                    "Which crazeth the young, and, alike, the younger,
yet," quoth the mathematician to the athletic male at his right.

                    "It is kind of a numbers game," the boy allowed, "the
altimeter goes up, and then the number drop and we're friends sitting on an
old, gray log that should have been a telephone pole."
                    "Driftwood makes me a landlubber," the teacher said, "I
mean, if so much of it's out there, drifting, and it's so big and heavy,
and so hard to see, aren't the results inevitable?"
                    "I think the inevitable results of an altimeter reading
zero is a crash," Nordstrom said.
                    "And we prevent that by...?" the man asked.
                    "Talking so he won't write another essay," the boy
winked.
                    "Character," the man murmured like a drama coach
prompting from the wings.
                    "Sorry," the boy said, "doing what we are.  I'm lucky
with my mom, but Lessen wasn't.  If there hadn't been an accident, what do
you think?"

                    "That could make a guy take up smoking," the man
observed.  "I don't think he would have been okay.  I could reach him,
especially after that night in the motel, but Shady reached further.  He
was too tractable with me, and too wild on the outside.  Drinking, friends
who reeked of cool; it was hard to see where he was, much less where he was
going.  `They all find something, none of them starves, no one starves,'
that's a line from "Death of a Salesman".  His mother had him for eleven
years before I got my mitts on him, so he was a forlorn hope more or less
from the get-go, in spite of, as I said, playing the compliant, responsive
kid when he was with me."

                    "Booze at that age must be rough," Nordstrom said.
                    "Alcohol has a tradition of pleasure behind it," the
master said, "and to either succumb to addiction, and act out, or be denied
the pleasure for life is the definition of the space between ye rock and ye
hard place," the man agreed, "plus there was lots of pot, all the time, and
ye knife of ye combat vintage."
                    "You didn't kill him on purpose, did you?" the boy
asked.
                    "I would have used less fire," the man replied.

                    "You're so amazing," Nordstrom mused, half to himself.
"I mean I thought Father Yen was cool because he wasn't a sycophant and was
a realist, but that was all kind of passive on his part.  Reacting to my
questions, and half the time agreeing with my view, or being vague and
saying things like you can't disprove the existence of this or that.  But
your mind isn't trained," the boy went on, "the balloon isn't tethered, it
drifts, but somehow you do paddle it around up there, which is helpful when
it comes to not being a flake."
                    "You rowed us out here, champ," Dave responded, "so at
least you know what you're talking about."

                    The master's reply struck the boy as funny.  There'd
been enough silliness though, he thought to himself, but it wasn't a case
where thinking did much good.  So he stood, looked nervously at his teacher
and then moved between the bare-chested adult's legs.  "I want to feel you
against me, again," he whispered.

                    The boy kicked his sandals off as the adult unbuckled
him and dropped his shorts, placing them on the log.  His hand's went to
Nordstrom's waist and he molested the panting boy for several long minutes,
then, as the child displayed, pulled his underpants to his feet and removed
them The naked boy spread his legs, the cobbles of the beach finally
seeming a plus, and his master leaned to him. The thirteen year old was
fully adult in size, his baby pink penis uncircumcised.  Dave held the
shaking youth's hip with his left hand, and gently pulled back the boy's
foreskin with his right.  Nordstrom gasped as he had at his first carnal
touch, and, when he was eased in the crinkly matting of the athlete's
chest, and moved slowly up and down, began hissing and mewing
uncontrollably as his legs shook and he panted for breath.

                    Sensing the fast rise of tension in the young teen, the
man eased his hard, swollen glans from his chest and stood, pulling the
naked child strongly too him.

                    "Did Father Yen cum off first when you were together in
the rectory?" the man asked the panting boy in his arms.
                    "Yes," the boy whispered.
                    "I want the same," Dave said, "I want you to watch me
cum."

                    "He used to let me be the first sometimes," the boy
said, calming with a few hiccups as they returned to ground zero..
                    "I'd like that if it ever happens with us," the adult
said, "but we're violating enough standards and practices, so that one's
sacred."
                    "Thanks," the boy murmured, "it made a big difference
my first time, because I, you know, sort of cooled down real fast when it
did happen with me."

                    "That was Lessen's specialty," the artist said, "hot
going in, cold coming out.  He even called me a faggot once, but, half way
to the door he stopped so fast he fell on a throw rug, and by the time he
reached the top of the stairs he was back to his full seven-inch display."

                    "His what?" the boy asked.
                    "He was with the bikers for a week," the master
reminded his student, "he grew more than is ordinary, and earlier than is
ordinary, and, not to tell tales our of school, he had more semen than two
normal adults."

                    "So you really didn't kill him," the student repeated,
amazed he could speak at all as the memory of the sensation of his
uncircumcised penis against his master's chest half exploded through his
trembling loins, causing his boner to swell as his teacher stared down and
he leaned back as far as he could while spreading his legs widely.  Dave
reached across and masturbated the wanton young teen, bringing him fast and
close, then again hugging the panting child to his bare chest.  He stood
and the boy unbuckled him, and in a moment they were standing gently
together finding they matched perfectly, the slim pink penis with the
rougher, thicker erection of the adult, measuring within a quarter inch.

                    "I think we traded the balloon for something harder and
faster," Nordstrom noted.
                    "It will happen for both of us," the man said, softly,
"I'm not trying to string you along.  I'm way out of control, now, myself,
but I learned to get past the point of no return with Lessen, and have
reversal of fortune, which is the most genteel way I can say it, rule the
hour, but Rof, as I've come to know him, is a kindly puppy and knows when
to sleep so boys can be boys.."
                    "When you're an adult does it make you feel like a kid
to do this?" the boy asked.
                    "In a word," Dave concurred, "if it's like this,
willing, private, and comfortable, with plenty of time.  If it's sneaky,
quick, and incomplete, you'd end up feeling like a dirty old man, even at
your age."
                    "Will I like touching little boys when I'm mature?" the
child wanted to know.
                    "Everyone wants to," the man replied, "but the wages of
sin is death, which is puzzling, because death is also the wage of virtue,
but, moving on, the answer is Yes.  You may want it already with a child,
or find one at any time.  The biggest gift out here on this island is that
now you know, from having a second partner, that what you have with your
priest isn't a fluke, but just a minor part of life that can be shared from
time to time with anyone who feels the same way you do.  That's all that
counts.  How old that partner is, or their sex, are simply not figures in
the emotional equation: it's how well the you know each other and what
happens during the other ninety-eight percent of the relationship between
to people that counts.  When you're my age, you won't favor an eight year
old over a ten year old because you like little boys, you'll favor the one
you know the best and like the best.  Women marry men in an age span of
fifty years, and if they marry the one they know the best and like the
best, they're probably making the best choice.  If you were eighteen, I'd
like this with you, and I'd like it if you were six.  If you were over
eighteen, I wouldn't like it with you, because I'm not a homosexual.  Even
at your age, I wouldn't like sleeping with you every night and waking up
with you every morning, as I would with the right female.
                    "I kind of feel that way, too," the boy noted.  "I'd
like it sometimes, but if we lived together, I'd want my own room, not just
bed."
                    "If you stay at my place, you can have your own wing,"
the artist observed, "but that's a pie-crust promise; there's a whole lot
more interesting stuff out there than a premature relationship with an
older guy, or, probably, anyone, and, as long as you don't let your
philosophy of mixing sperm and boy become too convenient, you'll have
exciting stories to tell, and, if they're good enough, I might forget I'm
not gay and something might happen."

                    "I hope we do," the boy said.
                    "If Lessen was still alive, I'd be visiting him," the
man said, "even with all that happened.  But that's fairly unusual.  When
you move on, you usually do, to new people as well as a new place.  I think
that's the way it should be.  If less people ran up huge bills on cheap
long-distance telephone calls to people essentially out of their lives, the
country would be a better place.  You should engage locally, not dwell on
the distant.  You're here with me, now, and not dwelling on your priest.
That makes it nice and is no slur on him.  If you pulled out your telephone
and spent an hour talking to him, that would be different."
                    The boy grinned.  "What if we spent most of it talking
about you?" Nordstrom asked, "because we do when we're together.  He
quizzes me, but the only exciting thing was when you made me dig those
holes while you did your wild-west imitation of a wolf with his foot in a
trap."
                    "Nobody's perfect," Dave responded in a mock whine.
                    "Guess again," the boy said, cuddling close and raising
his face for their first kiss.  His left hand went to Dave's rugged face,
pulling him to his mouth, his right, avoiding the man's scaring, pulled at
the adult's left shoulder.  Dave eased from the log, bending to the avid
boy, and stripped out of his shorts and briefs, yielding fully to the
welcome in the boy's strong hands and coming fully against the child's
naked body as the by swirled and danced his tongue, seeming to want to lick
his partner entirely inside his hot, urgent mouth.  As the naked adult
pressed between his widely spread legs, the boy broke the kiss and lowered
to the rigid penis at his smooth, boyish chest.  He licked the wet phallus,
then, as his master's hands held him gently he began experimenting with
having an adult's penis in his mouth.  They spent the boy's initial tries
adjusting their position, then, when they were comfortable, the adult
displayed as the boy moved vigorously and steadily up and down on his
master's long, thick shaft, taking it half in his mouth as his hands worked
skillfully at masturbating the now shaking young man.  The tableau lasted
five minutes, then, as it had before, love and happiness -- the kind you
don't want to end -- overcame the heat and lust of the moment, they slowed
with each other, and finally returned to the essence of their friendship,
which was sitting comfortably and talking to each other.

                    "You were a little hesitant at first," Dave said, "have
you taken Father Yen that way?"
                    "He says priests are allowed to walk in the Garden of
Eden, they don't own it," the boy answered, "we only did things with our
hands.  I've never even kissed him, and I don't want to."
                    "Now that he can't own you the way we just were, will
he let you use your mouth on him?" the man wanted to know.

                    "Now there's a theological issue worth thinking about,"
the boy said, "about as Jesuit as you can get.  To have not dominated me:
does it convey the right to accept me?"
                    "I'd carry a big bottle of Advil to a session like
that," Dave said.
                    "You've got that right," Nordstrom grinned, tracing a
finger over his lover's scar.
                    "Would you like to have him in your mouth, if he
changes his principles?" the man wondered.
                    "Yes," the boy whispered softly.  "If for no other
reason, and I think it would be sensual, than to thank him for being cool,
not greedy."
                    "I hope you figure something out together," Dave said.
                    "What happened just now," the boy mused in a whisper,
"make me want to go up and lie in the grass, on my back, with the back of
my legs against your chest."
                    The man was also in a contemplative mood.  "If that
happened between us," he said, "maybe your father would compromise on what
you want with him and let it happen without hindrance from the
pseudo-philosophy part and parcel of all religions."
                    "In his name," the boy said from that magic land where
no one could guess if he was being droll or was innocent.
                    "Let your will be done," Dave added, "but that's
something that never happened with Lessen, and will probably only happen in
my life, so I don't want slam-bam-thank-you-man."
                    "How far did you go with the other boy?" Nordstrom
wanted to know.
                    "In this case," Dave answered, "I was a fellow pea in a
pod with Father Yen.  I left a lot for others, and should have left more.
It was hard, because he was greedy, and wanted it all, but I outweighed him
by a hundred pounds, so we stuck to our own small ritual, with all the
world to teach him the rest; more to do with what I perceived as kindness
and reason than any philosophical take on the matter."

                    "Was your ritual always the same?" the boy asked.
                    "Yes," the man said.  "We'd dress in the same slacks
and shirts we wore on the way to the diving clinic; same everything.  We'd
reenact what happened in the room, deliberately, didactically, so he'd
learn that consistency and redundancy -- a formula -- becomes much more a
part of you than anything that happens willy-nilly and here and there, when
and whenever."
                    "And he wasn't satisfied?" the boy wondered.
                    "His mother always made him hurry at things," Dave
said, "he was used to performing at top speed, which meant he needed now
things to perform, all the time.  I tried limiting him to one video game at
a time, play it through, then go on to the next.  That helped and he was
beginning to respond, but I only spent a few hours a week with him.  With
more exposure, there might have been that rarest of human conditions, a sea
change; an entire rejection of one set of ways and values for another,
assumed with passion.  Small chance, realistically, but it could have
happened."

                    "I don't want it with you," the boy said, "I don't want
even a micro-change until my legs are against your chest and you're looking
into my eyes, and I can feel what's happening inside me.  At that point,
you can freeze us for a million years and I won't get bored."

                    "I'd never make it that long without those eyes," the
man noted, and again they came gently together, lips and tongues promising
that once and awhile it would be nice to sleep together, all night long.

                    "What was your ritual?" Nordstrom asked after some
minutes.
                    "A long talk," the man said.  "I'd quiz him about
things he wrote in his letters, and what happened in the week after he was
hijacked from the campground, then we'd come to a pause and he'd say he
wanted to take a shower.  That's what happened in the motel.  Not very
original, but I'd had enough of the ad hoc and extemporaneous to last our
the year, so, acceptable."
                    "Did he stand against the wall of the shower so you
couldn't see him?" Nordstrom asked.
                    "Why, is that what you'd do?" the artist inquired.
                    "I think so," the boy said, "it would be so awesome
hearing a man opening the bathroom door, first, then the shower door or
curtain, you know, a minute later, knowing he was going to see how your
body was, then almost watching the fear run down the drain with the water
as you feel it melting away from what he'd do with you, then the last lump
melting and falling off, like ice when you defrost the refrigerator, when
you feel the touch of him against your bottom or your back and know the
adult behind you has a hard penis, just like you do."

                    "It was more romantic than that," Dave said, repaying
the boy for leaving him between the rock and hard place a time or two.
                    "That means you talked to him, once the door was closed
and he knew you were really with him," the boy responded
                    "He was playing Shy Baby," the master said, "the same
game he'd played in the bedroom when we took his shirt off.  Then he
continued it by stripping and hiding in the shower, water off.

                    "The wolf shouldn't look at Little Peter," Lessen
whispered as the door clicked shut.
                    "Then Little Peter shouldn't show the wolf how soft and
tender his little boy body is," the wolf growled softly.
                    "Good wolf's are dogs," the naked ten year old said,
"and dogs are okay, but when they see things, they get excited and you have
to tell them to go away, then that gets them more excited, and then they're
wolfs again, and it's more exciting than ever, so Little Peter takes his
shirt of in private with the wolf, and then runs away and hides, and the
wolf finds him and looks at him, with no clothes on, and sees everything he
wants, almost, and then it gets very hard for the little boy to drive the
wolf away because if the wolf is this excited just seeing him all naked,
what will happen when the wolf comes up behind him and uses his fingers to
touch him?  How will the boy ever tell the wolf to go away, after that
starts happening?  He might not even want to.  Or he might go into a trance
and dream it's a man standing behind him in the shower, and the man knows
the small pink body just in front of him has been in the hands of wolves,
before and those wolves has had him for hours and hours, time after time,
and that Little Peter has been wet from those other wolves, and so the man
doesn't have to teach the little boy anything, turning the man into a wolf
that drives away all the others, who are now mere hounds."

                    "You've never really shared what happened," Dave said,
"and you don't have to; it's just that if you ever wanted to, this might be
the time and place.  Or you can let it go at: `They molested me, you jerk,
mind your own business.'"
                    "That's more how I feel about the old lady," the boy
said into the wall of the shower, `She's a freak, okay, what's it to you?'
Then you'd come back with `those burned peas'll do it every time,' and I
could hate you as much as I hate the rest of the world that didn't take me
away from that ludicrous bitch before I learned to wet myself."

                    "It would be a change of subject to tell me what
happened after they parked the bikes," the twenty-six-year-old teacher
said.

                    "They'd built the place up pretty well," the boy said.
"Mal, he drove the bike I was on, handed me a comb, and carried me into the
small cabin.  He told me they were going to rape me, and the boys inside
would tell me about it, then pushed me through the door to where Nicky and
Pierre were sitting on the floor playing videos.  They had a third
controller, so I sat down on the rug between them and started playing
along.  They told me not to worry; that the Lesser Shadows like to pretend
they were persons of the dawn of time, before the world was spoiled by
good, but that the big, bad rape would be a torchlight ceremony with
everyone dressed way cave.  They showed me their costumes after awhile, and
gave me mine so they could look at me in it.  They had lots of food and
eggnog, but told me about what happened at sunset, so I could only eat it
until I had my mother's cooking out of my mouth, then we'd eat Mexican
food, and not much of it.  They both had looked really good in their cave
suits and said I did, too, so that was the reason for it.  They talked
about hunger as an abstraction, when to me it was mother, drunk, again, for
the odd two or three days, but I got the message, and seeing so many cute
guys when we arrived, they were all wearing tee shirts and cutoffs, was
another reason, even in my innocence of such things, to think in terms of
being a little hungry, some of the time, instead of fat, all the time,
which was their unofficial motto."

                    "Yet it wasn't a cooking school," the older male said.
                    "Good food and being away from my mother was all I
could think about at first," the boy said, "but then we tried the costumes
on just for a minute, and the subject kind of changed."
                    "Good," the man said.
                    "How did I know that?" the boy rejoined.  "I'd been
hauled aboard a Yamaha with an engine for an earth mover and they said it
was a hundred, and it was like a hundred and forty or something, with
sparks on the turns just so I wouldn't go letting my mind wander, then into
the parking lot, and a lot of guys standing around to look, like I was a
package from some fairy queen, then into the cabin where the boys are
playing video, all in say, ten minutes, so I didn't know when the subject
changed whether they were going to eat me or just keep me on a hook in the
kitchen for when they needed the blood of an Englishman, because I'm
English and my mother is five time more English than the queen."

                    "It must have been nice, under the circumstances, to
know what you didn't want to talk about," Dave observed.

                    "You make everything funny," the boy said to his tiles,
"and it's just so you can be a bad wolf and look at my body, and think
about what I looked like in a caveman suit, and think what a whole bunch of
young guys without an eating disorder in the group, also dressed a la the
cave, looked like when they began to get interested in what I look like
even before they took my suit off, and their suits off, and we were huddled
together under the torches for over an hour while they raped me."

                    "I'm still looking at you," the teacher said, "and
wondering how you felt when you let them see your penis."

                    "And you want to see me the way I was with them, too,"
the boy said sourly.
                    "I just want to see if there's one side to your
schizoid behavior that makes sense," Dave responded.  "Maybe it's open
carnality, total nakedness with each other, you wet from me, me wet from
you, you telling me every secret of what happened under the torches, me
asking all kinds of questions, because I don't have any stories to trade
for yours, and you finally turning around, when you're ready, so we can
watch each other jerk off and you can watch me cum off on your belly, in
private, one-on-one.  If you're going to slip from Happy Peter to
disgruntled victim, then I'll leave you in peace and shower later, no harm,
no foul."

                    "How can I tell?" the boy asked, "until I feel your
hands on me, just above my hips, really softly and gently, and down low
enough so you'll know my secret, and why I'd be standing this way even if
we weren't playing a game, and I was really just a scared, innocent boy."

                    "And when the wolf touches the wraith, what does it
turn into, long-legged and attractive as it is."
                    "I'm not much of a boy most of the time," Lessen said,
"so maybe I could try that."
                    "And how long would that last?" the man asked.
                    "Until the wolf turns out to be the one that's a
wraith, and reappears as a stick without a brain."
                    "Well," the adult mused, "if that happens it won't take
him but a second to know where he'd like to make contact with your
soft-skinned, pubescent body."

                    "You'd like to see it all covered with young-man
sperm," the boy taunted, "just like I did, because they had a video camera
over my head looking down my back, and I could watch what they were doing
with me while I was lying on the bench in the main lodge and one after
another came up and knelt behind me with one of the boys at his hip, and it
was a twenty-seven inch monitor, so I saw all the details of what I looked
like and that's how you want to see me."
                    "How did you see looking at yourself that way," the
teacher asked, ignoring the child's petulance out of a complete lack of
alternatives.
                    "It was all the way up on my shoulders," the boy
whispered, his voice finally settling into the sick-sounding husk, "and on
the back of my neck and in my hair.  There was a thick white puddle at the
base of my spine and the boys used it to keep their hands wet for the
bikers."
                    "That wasn't the first time they raped you?" Dave
interjected, hoping a few seeds of reality would keep the boy focused.
                    "I was on my knees most of the time," the boy said,
"but at first they did it inside me, so the other would get excited.  That
happened while I was on my hands and knees, but they had rented an extra
camera and monitor, so I could watch while I got molested."
                    "I knew there had to be a sane cult out there,
somewhere," the man said.
                    "They didn't worship what happens at the end," Lessen
responded, "but they thought it was artistic, which they defined, perhaps a
bit conveniently, as beauty lacking symbolism, beauty created for it's own
sake."
                    "There's always a few in every crowd," Dave noted.
                    "They kind of won me over," the boy continued, deciding
not to waste time figuring out whether the deadpan voice behind him was
serious or off on one of its droll sidebars, "because a cute boy accepting
a cute young man isn't weird and ugly like pictures of bathroom stuff would
be, it's somehow on a higher plane."  There, let him chew on that and see
how funny he'd be next time.

                    "You were away from your mother," Dave said, "so I
don't think you were fit to judge things like that.  You probably thought
French toast and eggnog were gifts of the food gods, and they're common, so
what plane you were on, artistically speaking, having never been on one
before that didn't involve the likes of Peter Pan, is not something you
were, or are, capable of evaluating impartially."


                    Speaking of sex and art, Fidel dropped by this evening.
He's my "persistent catamite" and the only boy I've raped.  I have to turn
him away, frequently, otherwise he'd be here every night.  Do I dump him as
I was?  No, I let him hang around once a week and we jerk off together in
the bathroom about every two or three weeks.  This evening there was a new
variation, notably aesthetic.  Because of the blustery weather, the front
door was closed and the shutter were closed, obscuring the living room from
any visitor.  I invited him in, at first saying I didn't want to play, as
our usual activity is with both of us naked in the bathroom, leading to the
possibility of suspicious behavior if there was a delay in answering the
door.  But with the door closed, and the two of us dressed in the living
room, the scene was very different.  I told him to stay around for awhile
while I decompressed from a Herculean day which had started at dawn and
would continue until two the following morning.  I made tea and burned a
bud.

                    I've mentioned my world's-most-comfortable chair, and
always wondered if it would be good for having sex.  It's a ubiquitous
plastic chair with the right, front leg missing.  The corner rests on a
five-gallon plastic bucket, which serves as a heel rest.  Just to the left
is a low table, and leaning back against the wall, left arm propped, right
foot up, is the next thing to an actually easy chair with a foot rest.
Yes, it's passed every test in the comfort department, but would it be good
for sex?  Read on, and you will find out.  The answer is Yes.  Fidel, with
the door closed, began masturbating as I drank my tea.  I put my leg up and
began stroking, too.  We did that, occasionally leaning forward to look at
each other, for about ten minutes.  If anyone came, we'd be decent by the
time we opened the door, so the comfort level was high.  Fidel usually
wears long pants, heavy socks and sneakers, and, common here for some
reason, several pairs of underwear, boxers, briefs, gym shorts, and a
bathing suit.  I'm probably exaggerating.  It takes him a long time to
undress, and dress, so the comfort level usually isn't high.  Anyway, this
time it was, and we were able to take our time.  Sort of like working in a
lab rather than a Polaroid, to use an anologic simile, so you won't catch
me out there, from the world of photography.  So we smoked, drank tea, and
masturbated a few feet apart, much like I used to do with males in the
saunas of bath houses.  Without hurrying, we got excited more quickly than
usual, and by the time the tea was half done he was standing over me, and I
was boy-hard and waiting for him.  I usually try to cum with his sperm on
my hand, at my age it helps, and we usually use baby oil with each other
and ourselves.  This time, since he's totally the aggressor in the
relationship, I thought I'd observe and not participate in a mutual cum.  I
know it all sounds dry and half-academic, but that's only the beginning.
Fidel is seventeen, extremely attractive, and nearly wanton as a lover, I
wanted to see him naked, but with the privacy situation had to make do,
which also led to my accepting him without participating.  Instead of
sharing his sperming, I stopped jerking off and pulled my shirt high as he
began spreading his legs to get close to me.  For a moment I sat perfectly
still to see if there was any tell-tale motion of the building to the
rhythm of his stroking fist, but I felt nothing.  My chest and belly look
like a boy's, hairless, milk white skin, soft as a young teen's (it's never
been half as soft as Randy's).  Leaning against my left leg, with my right
out of the way, thanks to the modified chair, he was able to hold his
glans, which had just emerged, against me just under my ribcage on my right
side.  He tensed for over a minute while I just looked, hands holding my
shirt to my neck.  I coaxed him a little, verbally, and he ejaculated for
about half a minute, leaving two tablespoons of hot semen in a pool the
size of a butterfly.  After we'd both looked at it for a few moments, I wet
my hand as he finished stroking, and tried to jerk off, but, and here's
where it gets interesting, there was so much of his seed on my right palm,
it felt bad instead of good, and I went for a towel, easing my erection
back into my shorts.  Live and learn.  I think even our usual baby oil,
which is messy and leaves a scent, would have been a distraction, that's
how artistic it was.  Yes, being naked with him would have been more
exciting, he's a beautiful boy, but in art there should be comfort as well
as lively engagement, so I take solace in that.  A beautiful experience, is
a beautiful experience, and if wishing it had been perfect keeps it alive,
you have a whole new philosophy to cope with.

                    Fidel and Randy might be something to look forward to.
If the younger boy turns out to like sex, a seventeen year old would be
more exciting to him than I'd likely be.  There are many places he can
lead, and I hope none of them are perfect.

                    Fidel is an interesting research subject.  While I
don't quiz other boys, because of his (gently) aggressive nature, I do ask
him questions.  He says he has no other partners, and cums off very
heavily, so it's likely true.  He displays anally, and says he had an older
boy inside him when he was younger.  He says he'd been with one girl, and
is interested in females.  This actually says quite a lot.  He's a catamite
to the extent I once saw him go up and kiss an older boy on the arm, the
older boy pushing him gently away.  Anyone could have him.  He's, as they
say here, simple, but low-key and very pleasant, amply attractive with an
almost hairless boy's body, works in town much of the time, and yet is
partner-free.  This coincides with previous commentary on the sparse
attendance at border steam baths, where men can take boys at will.  It
could be summed up that perverts are indeed a rare breed, but that brings
up a very thorny question as to whether the majority wants to be
perversion-free, or is mandated to be free, and if they want to be free,
why?  Natural inclination, or indoctrination?  Again, thorny, because how
do you know unless you've tried it, and what if you'd had a gentle
introduction in a bathtub at an early age, how would you feel, then?
Another thorn is how, as things open up, those who've held a homophobic or
morally-guided position feel about what they missed out on.  The more
sensitive of these will also dwell on the pleasure and fulfillment,
five-percent sexual, they could have given a few boys and girls along the
way, yet denied them.  That's enough rocks for one snowball.

                    The microwave is the computer of the kitchen.  I've
never lived with one before and found myself wondering how I got along
without it, much as the people wondered how they'd ever gotten along
without Mssrs. Roebling. (Opera writers who passed on my drama based on
hunting down counterfeit compact discs might consider a musical based on
the career of Mrs. Roebling's essential role in this most dramatic event of
its time.)  The primo luxury, so far, is dawdling over a meal, then
reheating it a time or two.  It's actually strange to finish a plate of
piping hot food.  In a perfect world they'd have a magnetron tube on the
end of a flex shaft hanging from the ceiling, and you could heat things up
without leaving the table, perhaps actually keeping the food hot while you
chew simply by holding the transmitter to your cheek.  (Where my tongue
is.)

                    A universal recipe has never been feasible before,
because re-heating food usually means a long wait for a double boiler (and
lots of gas), or frying, which adds oil and mashes the food.  Now you can
dip into your basic rice or pasts, add a chilled sauce, and sprinkle on
frozen meat or seafood, add cheese, and it comes out like it had been in a
salamander in a hotel kitchen, only probably better.  Therefore, two big
plastic tubs, one for your basic, another for the sauce, and a smaller one
for the meat or seafood in the freezer, and you're in business.  Make a
huge amount of rice or pasts.  It will keep for a day or two at room
temperature, so you only need refrigerate a single maximum size plastic
bowl.  The sauce, with a butter, flour, milk base will keep for days in the
refrigerator, and to this you add your vegetables, microwaving the fresh
ones in place of blanching or par boiling.  Your chicken, meat, or seafood
are cooked before the rice and sauce (so you can use the stock), and, when
cooled, stored in the smaller plastic bowl in the freezer.  When it's time
to eat, two or three pot spoons of rice, one or two of the sauce, and a
handful of frozen cut-up chicken,, we're talking half a minute, here, and
into the nuclear environs for six to ten minutes.  It comes out perfect
every time, and you can re-heat anytime you want.  The only hint I've found
is to stir the product stored in the freezer as it congeals, to make it
easy to serve.  Add a pressure cooker for the meat, rice, and sauce, and
about an hour and a half in the kitchen adds up to a dozen or so big
servings that can be kept for days or weeks, while your gas consumption is
cut by two thirds and your grocery bill by half.  (If you don't have a
couple of hours to spend in the kitchen every few days, thoroughly
re-examine your life.)  For tea, the machine heats the beverage, sugar,
creamer, and the mug, but not the handle.  How cool is that?  Ironic, isn't
it, that in America the rage is for just the opposite, for fussy little
servings, wildly over-packaged in almost indestructible wrapping, and
chicken and pork at the price of lobster and shrimp, with everything
tasting like minor variations on the Hot-Pockets theme.  Burger King wants
you to have it your way, but may I suggest my way?
                    The food is so good, that's the difference; so good
that the first thing you want to try is making it look better.  I don't
know if I'm ready for parsley, but at least I'm thinking about it, which I
never did with fried leftovers.

                    Now I'm in another dither over the camera.  I was a
little intimidated about taking time off from the keyboard to really
explore it last fall, what with like nine-hundred-thousand words to go, but
now things are pretty much up to snuff, so I could take a day here and
there.  I want to hire a pickup truck and borrow Alex's long step ladder
and take pictures from ten or twelve feet off the ground, shooting down
from high oblique and reducing distracting elements like wires and cables.
Dangriga, like Santa Fe, is rich in vignettes of the curtains in a
weathered window variety, but these are rarely photogenic from street
level.

                    Another arcing in the essay department.  My Chinese
watch has moisture under the crystal.  What's that all about?  I've hardly
splashed it while doing Queenie's dishes, and it says Water Resistant.  It
would be fairly typical to find an otherwise excellent instrument is flawed
by some tiny lapse, like a cold solder joint on a circuit board.  An
infinitesimal more rubber in the seal, and the thing would last for years;
without it, maybe not even months.  Another example is my refrigerator, a
poorly painted Mexican brand.  The whole creeping machine is rusting away,
while working perfectly.  A little more paint, probably fifty cents worth,
and instead of lasting five years it would last ten or fifteen.  Data and
music discs that scratch at the slightest touch are another example.  We
get a lot of gray-market, factory-seconds, and refurbished merchandise
here, adding an element of excitement to shopping for anything that doesn't
say Del Monte.  The sneakers I bought for Tonton popped the first time he
laced them up and the seams of his new pants split, too.  In a way, it's a
mixed bag because the stuff is pretty dirt cheap, considering the fact
we're a hundred miles from nowhere, and with a needle and thread even I can
stitch clothes up, better than new, at least.  We've repeatedly proven
Crazy Glue does not work on sandals that pop in two days, so there's a
benefit others probably overlooked.  Other benefits are smaller and harder
to ferret out.  Headphones that sound like talking peanuts just seem like a
waste of money, and waterproof flashlights with thin cardboard liners are
only interesting as a conversation piece when they light spontaneously, and
refuse to blink when you want to see if the fir de lance you spotted the
previous day in your outhouse is still there.  I saw the snake, the
flashlight didn't work, and, I forgot to add, a hurricane was overdue,
which is why I bought it in the first place, but otherwise it's a made-up
story, except for the cardboard which looked too flimsy to hold a roll of
paper towels.  One thing's for sure, you have to be a writer to
appreciation things like this.  Everyone else belongs, legitimately, at
Wal-Mart.

                    To touch or not to touch, that was the question.  It
was not one of art, the beauty of the coltish body leaning with its folded
in front of its face, its chest arching perhaps subconsciously in welcome,
its boyish bottom raised in more obvious welcome, was natural-beauty,
defined to the extent that the most liberal gallery in a liberal city
couldn't display photos or other graphics of nude, partially nude, or
studied works of children.  "Boy Displaying in a Shower" wouldn't hang
before the public eye even if the shower door in the image was closed.  But
not all agreed, and it sounded as if the Lesser Shadows frankly disagreed.
Certainly the society who built the most beautiful temple on the planet
disagreed.  Art galleries should be filled with interesting and attractive
man/boy art and boy/boy work in all media.  If the girls are squeamish, let
them play dolls, boys are the most beautiful, by a tiny margin, anyway.

                    Okay, already, he was beautiful, and seemed to
appreciate beauty, so?  He was trouble on a stick.  The best sentence in
the English language describes the frustration of dealing with an abused
child, sympathize with him as you will, understand as you can, try as you
might.  They become warm gelatin, press anywhere, they flowed elsewhere,
then, in frustration, try pressing fast, and it merely thinned the gelatin
the more.  Any place he could talk, the boy would want another place, used
to being hit so hard, he hated being touched at all.  At one time he'd
probably been afraid, now he hated, and was old enough and more than sharp
enough to take a touch in the shower in the first place and show up at
police headquarters, in the second place.  But was art something else?  Did
it, could it, be the transcendent power, the one place where he could be
touched and touched again, touch back, and thus open some kind of sustained
dialogue, building instead of skittering?

                    "Jerking off isn't very photogenic," the boy whispered,
changing the subject, "not the way it's usually done with you know, your
hand going really fast, so Abraham, the art director, had worked with
Farro, the choreographer, to come up with something that would work and
maintain its artistic dignity when recorded on video tape.  Just like
"Miami Vice" had no earth-tones, Lesser Shadows had no jerky movements.
That's why they'd picked me.  I was deemed the cutest boy who'd miss his
home the least."

                    "I owe you an apology," Dave mused, "for jumping to
conclusions.  I felt the planes you spoke of might have been oriented on
lust, salacious carnality, and degenerate acting out under a cloak of
expedient philosophy and convenient spirituality."
                    "We were under torches," Lessen reminded the older male
standing inches behind him in the dry shower.
                    "You could have been under a spell, too," the man said,
"they might have bolstered you with LSD."
                    "I never felt anything like that," the boy said, "it
was all solid and real, not wavy and vague, they were into it..."
                    "For art," Dave nodded.  It was hard to disagree with
the principle.  Liberal galleries in liberal cities displayed no images of
children in any media, society deeming anything below a juvenile's head and
shoulders erotic.  Of course, there was a shooting-fish-in-a-barrel aspect
to the issue.  Free, the galleries would display nothing but cute kids by
themselves, with other kids, or with attractive adults.  Once the shock
wore off, this expedient, do-it-yourself art form would choke out
legitimate workers interpreting non erotic themes.  Yet measured simply by
beauty, pleasure, and emotion, the kiddie graphics would dominate, and, if
ended up flowers choking weeds, it would also end up a monoculture, and
that ground was staked out by the advertising agencies."

                    "No poster boys," the child said to his wall.
                    "But it does make it legitimate," the older male
observed.  "It should be the way of all flesh, carnality governed by
decency, not morality, privacy, not prohibition, and, if that's the way of
a peaceful world, and we're not there, then it's up to the artists to lead
us there, because the unions are empowering the leftists, who have always
been and are today, destructive brutes with boxes for everything from
Festive Occasions to Great Writers and Pornography.  Their expedient world
is not survivable, forcing an alternative which does not exist under
contemporary mores.  In the real world," the speaker went on, "it does
exist, so the Lesser Shadows become artists in reverse, leading from the
abstractions of theology and morality to the age-old reality of adults
making love with children, particularly, because it's more intellectually
based, men making love to young boys."
                    "It's nice to know I've served the advancement of
humanity in case the ever re-institute the draft," the ten year old boy
said.
                    "What's nice is having lots of evidence proving your
involvement," the adult responded.
                    "It's in hi-res," the boy added.  "I look pretty foxy."
                    "A sane army would let soldiers have pet boys and boys
be barracks pets," Dave noted, "so you may not be out of the woods.  If
your film is too good, it could swing the paradigm so quickly you'd end up
in uniform by the time you're twelve."

                    "In uniform?" the boy asked wryly.  Dave smiled at his
comic effort but let the comment pass without laughing.  Larger issues were
on the table, and he'd never worked with his student so well focused.  It
would be ill-advised to risk the mood with comic relief by responding to,
and perhaps encouraging, the droll and witty efforts of the mercurial boy.
                    "What kind of language did they use while they were
molesting you," Dave asked.
                    "The writer was a tall Swede named Mex," Lessen said,
"he had high ideals on that score.  The boys, Nicky and Pierre, clued me in
so I wouldn't mess up the sound track.
                    "But that's not to say they were uptight to any extreme
degree," Lessen continued, "after all, the name of my film was `Torch
Dong'.  That was Mex Helgendorf's idea, because it set the stage for an
interplay, for trapping the audience with their own assumptions by playing
them off against parallel variants.  The way it worked was juxtaposing a
stone age setting with the music of Strauss, costumes of silk, and the
English of an Earl of Oxford.  We talked quite a bit and he said he like
playing with alternative themes to see if it could be done in an engaging
manner, not just as a gimmick like in `Slaughter House Five', where a
survivor opens an old door on a battlefield and steps into a party.  More
subtle.  Cave motif, knuckle-dragging persona, but quiet music and gentle
words to go with the repeated rape of a little boy."

                    "You might not want to audition for the sequel," Dave
suggested, "because if he's into variations on a them his next story may
take place in an elegant school where the boys behave like Neanderthal
toward the captive male, then rationalize violent behavior by virtue of
your previous mode of living."
                    "Doing me worse than my mum?" the boy said, a
spontaneous incredulity in his voice that might have deceived another, but
his teacher was wise to his retreats into bluster and his adroit footwork
under the Blarney Stone.
                    "It was just a thought, Sessen," the adult said, "your
relationship with your mother appears to include intensive reading, and you
didn't teach yourselves, nor did you learn in the socialist box labeled
School; you've never mentioned your father or any other likely mentor, so
guess who's left?"
                    "Until a year ago," the naked boy acknowledged, "then I
stopped being a toy and became a slave.  And I went to the school box, and
verily it was not up to my standards, nor those of a clown, and lo the
jocketh spoke jock, the cuteth spoke cute, and the fateth spoke not at all,
which made the whole campus creepy and eerie Of literature, not of trace,
no phrase of rhyme from any face. Lo said I unto myself, verily and
forsooth, this is not your place.  Self, said I, back to myself, it is
badder then worse and shoddier than shoddy, but worse is to be had from the
land of toddy.
                    "I meant the old lady, of course," the boy said, his
latest dance under the stone leaving Dave weak-kneed at the lightning
savagery of his spontaneous genius.  A lot of voltage for a bottle.  Handle
with care.
                    "You had me going for a minute there," the man quoth,
"generic critiques, understandably, make teachers nervous."

                    "Wolves make naked boys nervous," the child responded,
"because they're immature and don't know if it's just a game to play in a
boring motel, or whether the man is feeling things with a rising intensity
from looking at the child's smooth body and imagining it on a big screen in
hi-def video covered like a snowy mountain here, and a snowy plain, there,
and a spring melt well under way with the snow sliding over milky meadows
and forming rivulets leading to a richly flowing stream just above each
slender hip.  No sound intrudes other than the harsh whispers and panting
of young males with a wet boy.  If that's how you see me, and what you
hear, then you're not a canine, you're a man who'll sooth my fears, and
pretend I'm his little girl, and he's my daddy, and I want him to teach me,
so I led him here."

                    "Is it time for school, or do we have all night?" Dave
asked.
                    "It's just pretend," the boy whined, "make some of it
up yourself."
                    "You were out front changing the tire on your bicycle,"
the man began, finally dropping the boy in his tracks.  Lessen fell on the
towels covering the floor of the shower, assuming a tight fetal position,
his hysteria mute.  In mime, the master blew firmly across the tip of his
index finger, holstering his imaginary pistol as he knelt to see if his
disciple yet lived.  It was easy to tell, as Lessen, for all his occasional
stoicism, could not help panting, gasping and hiccupping, nor voluntarily
ebb the flow of teas actually dampening the peach-colored bath towel.

                    "I knew there was a varmint in you somewhere," the
master soothed, "and I just wanted a shot at him.  I didn't mean to knock
you off your feet.  You looked beautiful on your feet.  I was standing with
my penis just an inch or two from you slim, white back for a long time, so
I know," the male continued, "and I liked standing close and feeling the
heat of you against you, and picturing you as one beautiful young male
freshened your snowfields with fresh, hot blizzards, one after another,
gasping and panting over your beautiful pre-teen body and at the memories
of seeing you gently and fully mounted by their own.  I wanted that for us,
not a basket case looking for a laundry behind iron bars.  I want you
mostly the same, with occasional freshness, not fresh all the time, and
occasionally the same.  I don't think I can make it happen, your mother
having years on me, but I could be wrong.  Allowing for that, I decided to
swim with you.  We changed in different rooms, so there was nothing to
that, but in the pool you were aggressive and seemed to know what you
wanted.  We'd talk for an hour or two on each date, and that may have been
a mistake and I should have responded to your displays more readily.  But I
have an out there because you were hanging with trogs and banging with trog
wanna-bees, leaving me little time to work ways on you, mysterious or
otherwise.  Your mother, for some reason just the beast you describe,
indicated that you'd been punked out, so that put carnality in play.  You
led, I followed, but you diverge at will, spreading bread crumbs on all the
paths.  This is fun after school, fun while you're working on your dives,
but, alone, in a locked room, the whole night ahead of us, what's fun as we
ride down Elm Street is what you were talking about in Heller's film,
contrast as a gimmick, which lasts about as long as it takes to say the
word.  I'm not tired of it, and I hope I never am, but this isn't the time
or place."

                    "You're fighting fire with fire and you've got more
experience," the boy said.
                    "But," the adult responded, "what if I point out that
you're the one with Lesser experience?  You might take it as a play on
words, and then I'd be stuck trying to revive my goldfish at the bottom of
his aquarium."
                    "I thought I was meant to be a little girl," the boy
noted sourly.
                    "And I thought I'd never have to resort to chains and a
medieval rack to straighten your kinks out," Dave said. "I though you
telling me the details of what happened would help, and I hoped openly
molesting you for a couple of hours might be the answer."

                    "They'd beat your trying to be funny all the time," the
boy retorted, "the rack would be child's play, and you doing me over in the
shower, well, that's close, but sophomoric tangents and bush-league asides
get so tiresome you could stick me against the wall and it probably would
be an improvement, you know, say there was a line of your other students at
the rack and I didn't want to waste the whole day."

                    "Humor is a terrible thing to fail at," Dave agreed,
"any lack of levity can affect the self-esteem of the one who thinks he's
funny, and scar his victim, senselessly."
                    "My mother, generally speaking, the Lesser Shadows,
specifically speaking, and now you, unspeakable, and I'm still young,
meaning not matter how sick I get of it all, you're still going to picture
me as Nicky and Pierre let me to the altar on the set and the youngest of
the Anglo gods was led behind me while I lay over a sheepskin covered in
read silk and watched him approach from two angles on the monitors.  You
just want to ask me if the twelve year olds stripped out of their primitive
fashions before they massaged us with gel.  You want to know how close
everyone huddled, and how long it took for them to all get naked, and what
it felt like when Nicky guided Johan against me and what the eighteen year
old looked like as the other naked young males helped Nicky and Pierre get
Johan and I comfortable.  All that stuff and what it looked like at the end
with two cameras less that two feet away from what was happening between
his athletic teenager's body and my little-boy body."

                    "We'll get to outlining in two months," the teachers
said, "and meantime, it's better to start with a full text, and derive your
summary from that."
                    "Great!" the boy enthused, "I'll leave out the funny
stuff, then the text will serve as its own sketch, and I can hang out with
dubious friends."
                    "For a full moment there I thought you were going to
say you'd be hanging out with your mother," Dave said.
                    "Nothing could make her look good," the ten year old
noted, "but you seem to make her look less bad."

                    "Funny you should put it that way," Dave responded,
"because you have long moments of making the entire human race look
better."
                    "I was trying to be funny," the boy explained
patiently, "so you'd stop wolfing around me and wondering how gentle Johan
was and how much Nicky helped him and what his expression looked like on
the monitors, and the noises two dozen handsome young males as they huddled
around trying not to do anything fast because it would spoil the shot.  You
want to know what Pierre whispered when he knelt by my head and coaxed me.
You wonder how long it was before I felt his teen loins firmly against me
and Pierre figured out, out of all the males, who the most excited was, and
how he guided Bergo into position squatting and blocking my view of the
monitors while Johan rested against my body, and how Nicky, who'd been very
successful with what he'd done now came and knelt at Bergo's left leg and
put out both his palms in front of the twenty year old's penis so that when
he, Bergo, did what Johan was going to do in my belly, I'd know exactly
what was happening.  You'd want to ask if Bergo, squatting just in front of
me, shaking and trembling and sweating, filled both Nicky's palms when he
spilled his hot, young-adult seed; even, you'd want to know, how much sperm
splashed on Nicky's arms, and if any of his spraying seed splattered on my
shoulders and neck, here and here, and stuff like that."

                    "You've got a point," the master mused, "but I prefer
thinking of you as a boy I picked up hitching, you know, running away from
his mother.  He's a nervous and shy little boy but we have lunch together
and we begin to relax even though I'm reluctant to enter into a plot to ice
his old lady.  We get to the motel after a long afternoon of driving
together.  While driving we have left both cabbages and kings to our
betters and he's told me that he wants to go camping with the handsome
young bachelor living down the hall, and his mother is threatening to have
his friend investigated by every cop in town.  I feel sorry for the tyke
and agree to call his teacher to arrange a date for them the following
evening, when we'll be back in town, the boy and I.  He thinks that's
great, but then he gets shy and embarrassed and finally murmurs that he's
inexperienced and doesn't want to disappoint his friend when they're out in
the tent.  I respond sympathetically, telling him he can be frank with me
and ask any questions he wants, and I'll tell him as much as I know.  This
leads to a long dialogue, ten or fifteen pages, if it was written out, and,
after awhile, he begins teasing me, and, yes, in an hour or so I'm a big
bad wolf and he's hiding in the shower with towels on the floor so ye wolf
might dine in comfort on his naked young body."
                    "Is the wolf full of hot seed?" the boy responded, his
voice suddenly lily soft and boar feral.
                    "The boy is going to spend all night alone with a young
adult," Dave replied, his own voice lowering to a cactus scratch, "so, yes,
the wolf spends his seed as he allows the boy to practice what he's going
to do in the tent."

                    "Does the boy take the thick, white cum of his adult
partner in the shower, or do they go lie on the bed so they can talk and
make it last?" Lessen wanted to know.
                    "I'll have to ask him," the teacher said, "all I know
for sure is he wants me to cum off on his little-boy belly, because he
wants his cute friend's seed in his mouth, but he wants to see what happens
with an adult, too."
                    "I've done it in private with just one adult," the boy
whispered in his new voice, "Mex Helgendorf, the writer."

                    "Were you alone with him for a long time?" Dave
quizzed.
                    "He was a writer," the child allowed, "they get paid
for the long ball."
                    "So lots of quizzing?" the man asked.
                    "Yeah, but he knew how to do it," the boy said.  His
words might have had a cold edge, but apparently his memory was of warmer
things, for the ten year old suddenly released from his curled position,
and pushing his head and shoulders out the shower door, re-arranged the
towels as he wriggled, ending arched over the sill, his arms stretched high
above his head on the bathroom floor, his legs spread as wide as the luxury
shower stall would allow, and his hips thrust high in the air.  Dave moved
between the boy's legs, kneeling so his penis probed the child, then rested
solidly against the young boy's full, teen-size erection.  His left hand
fondling the silky inner thigh of his student, he used his right to jerk
off, cumming heavily on the young male's tense belly and panting chest.
Not wetting his hand with his own heavy cum, because we learn as we go, he
stroked the now mewing and lashing child until the boy tensed like cold
iron and after a long shuddering pause sprayed repeatedly high and fast,
soaking his own wet, slick chest with a heavy, splattering shower of thin,
watery sperm.

                    "What happened next?" the boy asked.
                    "He went on a `more' jag," the man said, "which was
predictable enough.  I guess I would have been surprised if anything else
happened.  He became persistent and demanding, even acting out in class by
hinting at what was going on, and, when we were alone, blackmailing me into
doing what he wanted.  I traded in my car for an older model with driver's
side, only, airbags, then began giving in and promising I'd do some of the
things that had happened while he was with the camera club.  Eventually
along came a wet foggy night, and I gave in.  I'd pushed the right buttons
to get him to want to use his mouth with me while we were driving.  I
thought it was going to be easy, if killing a ten year old can ever be
called easy, then he began a long, graphic account of hiking off into the
woods with the writer, Mex."

                    Nordstrom looked up at the man at his right shoulder
and rolled his eyes.  "Did you say the writer?" he asked, "as in paid for
hitting the long ball?"
                    "Crime, trauma, and disaster on a dark road on a damp,
foggy night, and you're wondering about what we talked about while I got up
my nerve?"
                    "It beats sitting on a log by the bay watching the
tide," the boy replied.
                    "But what it probably doesn't beat is a young and
inexperienced Nordstrom, age eleven, becoming mature in the hands of his
priest," the master whispered.
                    "You may be right," the boy allowed, "but my story
doesn't beat what happened to Father Yen when he was a fourteen-year-old
gymnast, so I should start with what he told me while we were getting ready
to be naked with each other."

                    "It doesn't seem to have corrupted you, so I guess I'm
old enough," the artist said.
                    "Lassitude, lack of moral fiber, degeneracy," the boy
responded, "I've had to grow up with them all, as well as food, the
hairball step dude subbing for Dad, while I'm hoping he, Dad, doesn't go
off the deep end thinking of that smooth ball of nothing tensing up over
his wife and ice the freaking moron, and my sister missed angel camp by at
least a thousand summers, and food, again, and hanging out with the
stoners, who aren't bad company if one lives on a stone, instead of
grinding Plato with you, and now there'll be talk about you and me, and
however Lessen died, he'll be reborn, so, compared with the top half of the
A-list, a little corruption seemed like a day off, and, guess what, still
does."

                    "It is the Fourth," Dave said, "so you're not exactly
ditching."


                    But I'm going to ditch for awhile.  We're just passing
the 350,000-word mark, with two-million characters and five-hundred pages
also in the offing.  I've always had trouble mixing numeric and spelled-out
numbers.  Strunk and White say use one or the other, don't mix them, but I
do it, anyway, perhaps having something of the rebel in my and wanting to
act-out in novel fashion, bursting the surly bounds of humdrum fiction with
a 10 here and a ten there, brassy, devil-may-care, a proper urchin through
and through.
                    Writers seldom acknowledge each other in print, just
like Macy's doesn't tell Saks, but maybe if it can be part of the story it
would be okay.  What I wanted to do was eliminate John Hughes, original
author of my previous derivative effort from an image I do want to sketch.
This original story is more apt.  Being off the net I'm not able to find
who wrote "Man Without A Face", only that Mel Gibson directed as well as
starred.  Anyway, there's one so totally cliché scene, when Gibson yells
at Nordstrom for looking at his scar, that the writer gets to stand by the
harpsichord.  The scene, from "Amadeus", is the presentation of Salieri's
welcoming march.  "An interesting little piece, but wouldn't it be
better...?"  No derisive laughter on my part, though: the script, in its
original, was probably heavier than the film.  You know, so many people
hired on to cut and say No. In contrast, I have so few hired on if I want
to pack us bag and baggage off to China, we're behind the wall faster than
Mimi shipped Drew.

                    "Yen, my son, you grow so tall."
                    "Yes, uncle," the fourteen year old said, "I'm like the
stork or the heron.  It is most feeling of embarrassment that I walk with."

                    Ni looked at the nephew half his age.  There was a
forming cragginess to the developing face, a trace of dark, silken hair on
his upper lip, a golden softness to his liquid brown eyes.  He had grown
nearly a foot since the prosperous salesman's last visit, not a year
earlier, his body now exaggerated in its long-limbed, big-footed,
knobby-kneed coltishness.  Lanky and spare, the child nonetheless moved
with a solemn grace, and was capable of standing still, head bowed, anytime
doing so seemed to please those around him.

                    "The eyes of others follow your beauty," Ni said softly
to the boy, "not the distance between yourself and the sky."
                    "But they pin themselves as the iron of a compass pins
itself to the iron of the north," the boy said, "they follow like prints in
snow, and it is now the wish of my mother that I begin teaching younger
boys that of the bars and mat and rings which has been taught to me, and by
old custom that means the pool of the boys, some the age I've sought
successfully, but most as yet unsuccessful in that pursuit by as much as
three anums, for the duration of one hour following each class."
                    "You feel they will tease you, my nephew," the older
male said, "and I understand your fear."
                    "None are even close," the boy continued, "they climb
in sense of mocking one upon the back of the next to speak with me."

                    "Well," the uncle mused, "they are gymnasts."
                    "And a light heart doth conquer such?" Yen asked, "or
the elder does leave free himself of the feelings held in the heart of the
younger?"  His English was imperfect but his message as sharp as a Sherwood
arrow.
                    "Yen," the man said gently, "as the wobbly child of the
stage becomes a stag, so you will grow, so you will reach full manhood.  At
that time, because you are wise and gentle, all will look up to you; you
will be above all.  As a youth, it is perhaps good for you to learn of
being tall only in stature, as your new students see you, to be treated as
less than you are, to be humbled by the taunts of boys and serve as the
object of their foolery.  Others are beset upon with fist and blow, and
that you are spared, but to be spared all is to be a flower grown under
glass, When it is the glass that breaks, it is the flower that dies."

                    "I see the poetry of your thought, dear uncle," the boy
said, "but my mind is not a dwelling of comfort the logic, for should your
metaphysical glass not avail itself of wholeness, in the first place, no
stem or bud or leaf should endure beyond the first sprout of the seed."
                    "The organics of a weed or flower or grain of rice, my
nephew," the man said, "should not so engage your attention that you take
them seriously.  They are for poets and those unfit to fill any role but
that of scrivener.  Dwelling off their flimsy pages means the winds of the
world blow on you, not by you, and that you lean in their direction.  Since
time immemorial, the winds have always ceased, have returned as pleasing
breezes.  But, my nephew, as your song of flower and sheltering glass is of
a student's mind, my winds are of a teacher's, and both are equally wrong
when it comes to the burdens you face.  If you were normal, Yen," the man
continued, "your young gymnasts would respect your knowledge and love you
for your gentle ways, but you are a supreme boy, taller, kinder, and this
is merely a distraction, a novelty, calling on the same instincts that made
our ancestors note the markings of prey and food.  Now the rice comes
steaming hot in porcelain bowls, and heat from the combustion of oil, yet
the instinct for the different remains, the obsession with any change in
the pattern that began with the trail of the beast across a valley floor."

                    "Hooves to grass to carve a path to stop the wandering
man," the fourteen year old student said, doing his best with a language
the equal in complexity of his own, "feet stopping of the man, foot
changing the way they go, but uncle, is it food or the eye of the tiger's
glow?"
                    "My son," the man replied, "it is hooves you find, not
the print of the paw found only in the wet of the mud; they are domestic
beasts, and you have only startled them, caused them to mill nervously, and
react by teasing, which is the only way known to them."

                    "So it is the bearing of the cross with slackness not
accorded the upper lip," the boy mused in his own way.

                    "Not so fast," Ni said, adding: "I picked that one up
on my last journey over that vast sea and sequential sojourn in the land of
the pink walrus, `not so fast'.  If they could run, it would fly from their
lips as they flew on their wings of plastic no larger than the hands of a
child."

                    "The wings of magic legend seem of a fantasy, calling
forth the massive bird of gobble-gobble and far aloft feather and all,
suspending him for forty-seven years.  Compounding interest in the legend,
pages as paper washed in the finest clay, so bright are the colors and
crisp is the text promising the turkey will almost never have to pay."

                    "Let the problems of others be a solace to you, my
son," the affectionate uncle said, "while regarding them not for their
entertainment value, alone, but as cautionary, for there, with unlimited
food backed by the unlimited magic of the plastic wing, go you and I; go
we, go us all.  The village of the glossy walrus does not teach us anything
but the true nature of ourselves, for in it are blockages to alert movement
of all colors, including our own.  They warn us with frank and open
display, of how we will look one day, and are masters at inspiring the
search for any other way."

                    "I am but a student of their language," Yen said, "and
have yet to be guided to its faultless interior, but preparation for the
journey, casts doubt upon the trip; their tongue seems most inferior,
advancing like a rock of stone buried almost to its tip."

                    "Oh, they merely wobble as befits those who are
fatigued," Ni said, "for ten-thousand years they've brought us, with their
code of risk and greed."
                    "Then, uncle," the tall adolescent said, "protecting
us, how is it to be done? from the rubble of their vast collapse, when
their plastic's done?"

                    "You take the view of a little fish," the man said,
"because you live in a lesser pond, see with smaller eyes, because they
bestow on us a wondrous gift, and a magnificent surprise."

                    "Such as?" the boy asked, demonstrating in a respectful
way that though his years be tender he, too, had delved and divined amongst
the vagaries and variances of the foreign tongue, and been rewarded with a
nugget or two to hold, to cherish, and to use as he might."

                    "The planet is a tired place," the uncle said, "its oil
going up in smoke.  Some end is near, some end is clear, but it's our end,
that's the joke.  But twice it needs of thinking, and twice must it be
surveyed, for what is funny the outside, may betoke fine plans well laid."
                    "Who would know and how would you find," the boy said,
"what is going on, their language offers no hint or clue, seems naught but
verbal con."
                    "If of nothing they speak," Ni responded, "then nothing
there is, getting to the heart of the issue, for eternal peace is their
offer to us, an end to the world via tissue."


                    This is excessively difficult to write and could easily
get tiresome to the reader, so from here on out I'll translate their hype,
and know you'll still follow the leader.


                    "There is a philosophical sub-set," Ni said to the tall
boy in the passenger's seat, "who see our time on earth cut short by
certain realities, concurrent with an end, though a spectacular end, to
inventive genius, which, in the end, simply invented it all.  This branch
of doctrine, informally called Free Spirit, allows us to gratify ourselves
on alternative paths; to live more of life in fewer years.  Free Spirit
philosophers know, in the first place, they may be wrong, so decorum rules
their behavior, and they are good citizens in every outward way.  However,
when the doors are bolted for the night, and the shutters drawn and
latched, they believe taboo should be left to sleep in the barn, that men
and woman should not just yield to their desires, but become avid in their
pursuit.  This pursuit includes family members, principally fathers and
older brothers with their daughters and younger sisters, and also includes
extensive involvement with small, stable groups outside the family.
                    "I'm bringing it up," the driver went on, "because of
your situation with your gymnastic students, which constitutes a small
group, and a group that is likely to endure for several years."
                    "Assuming I don't drown the freaking lot," the boy
muttered, "I suppose you're right."
                    "What I have in mind is an experiment," Ni explained,
"an exercise to determine if ways once accepted and sustained over
thousands of years, by many cultures, can be re-kindled in our time, a,
because that time is running short, and, b, because little new remains to
engage our attention and draw us forward as we have been drawn for the two
white centuries."

                    "And `heads of knuckles' are meant to take the place of
computers and cell phones?" the boy asked dubiously.
                    "With taboo sleeping in the out buildings," the man
said, "and outside any lock that is locked when someone's around, there are
options in a club of maturing boys, that, while illegal, lead to the
discovery of pleasures so intense and enduring they justify their forbidden
status.  In a building world, these sins of the flesh compound enervated
and degenerate behavior, slowing the building, but in a static world, it is
the filling of time that becomes paramount, not the use of it, and what was
once deemed cretinous lust, becomes, instead, the hub of small groups who
make up internally for that which is not available, or not worth the
effort, externally."

                    They tried it in Chinese but Yen still didn't follow,
so they relaxed as a few miles passed, then turned in and parked in front
of the athletic center, checking their watches and agreeing they were
early.

                    "Is there any boy among your students whom you
personally dislike?" Ni asked, "never mind the pranks and silliness.  Any
individual to whom you have a real aversion?"
                    "I'm half-kidding when I complain," Yen said shyly,
"they're all okay, and I must look kind of freaky to them."
                    "Is there anyone of them you especially like?" Ni
asked.
                    "Husu So," the boy murmured, "he's never played tricks,
and he's suddenly getting tall like me, so his eyes `meekly look', and are
warm with understanding."
                    "Do the other boys like him?" the uncle asked.
                    "Yes," Yen said.
                    "Have you and he spent time alone together?" Ni asked.
                    "I think he'd be embarrassed if I asked," the boy
murmured.
                    "At your ages," the man responded, "excitement can be
mistaken for discomfort, very easily, as to a maturing boy both go hand in
hand.  Does he stand close to you, when he could stand or sit further
away?"
                    "Yes," the boy nodded.
                    "And if you are the new arrival, is it the same, do you
seek his company?"
                    "Yes," the boy murmured softly.
                    "If you were alone with him and he told you, in secret,
he was deeply involved in taboo behavior and repeatedly sinned with an
adult male, how would you feel?" Ni asked.
                    "I don't know," the boy replied.
                    "Give it more thought," his uncle suggested, "would you
think less of him, maybe to the point of annulling your friendship and even
telling other boys, or would you want to know the details of who his
partner was and what kind of acts they performed when they were alone with
each other?"
                    "I wouldn't `feel for the sword', but I might be very
confused," the boy said.
                    "Assume," Ni continued, "you had many hours together,
perhaps an entire night, in a private place, and assume what he told you
was very positive, that he liked being handled by a handsome young adult,
that he learned to trust the man, and be free when he was in the man's
hands, and, further, that he wanted to tell you all the details of what
happened his first time with the adult, and, further yet, that he wanted to
teach you some of the things that had happened during their private times
together.  Would you want to remain alone with Husu, or would you make
excuses and return to your home?"

                    "I would want to hear his story and stay with him," the
tall child whispered.

                    "How do you feel speaking of these things with me?" the
twenty eight year old asked, secretly thrilled at the creation of a zygote.
                    "In view of the underlying philosophy, and in view of
their wide-ranging historical precedent," the boy answered, "I feel less
nervous and self-conscious.  I like the way your voice sounds when you ask
me personal questions, and I think you are what the lesser walruses call
`way cute'.  Talk of similar things fills the air, but of young girls most
is spoken, yet what better for a boy than to leave his first mastery to an
older male?"

                    "How old are your gym students?" the uncle asked in
return, embryonic in his thinking and hoping he wasn't proceeding too
rapidly.
                    "Husu and four others are thirteen," the boy said, "and
Yo, Fan, and Muy are twelve."
                    "I didn't mean to be suggestive," the man said, "but
rather to lead you to the way of many thoughts, not so that you might lose
yourself amongst them, but so you might find a discreet and shady way of
private passion and pleasure, not only for your fresh loins, but to share
with the young bodies of others, Husu at your side."

                    "This is an ancient way?" the boy asked.
                    "It comes and goes," the uncle said, "at times men
dominate with young boys, at other times, more restraint is called for by
the social order -- confused boys make poor warriors -- and dread torments
are reserved for those who'd tamper with the fighting stock."
                    "But I've heard it told the other way," Yen said, "that
the most dangerous fighters `gird for the boy in their shadow'."
                    "They were not confused as boys," the older male said,
"they grew to as great a code as any, proved it better than most, and
passed it on, here for five-hundred years, there for a thousand, and,
before that, no one knows."

                    "If it happened very early," Yen said, "as man first
left the cave, how would a boy, with a handsome young hunter, seek that
which his young heart craved?"
                    "You mean the man's hands gently on his body," the
adult said, "possibly as they lay in wait for game?"
                    "Yes," the tall, lanky youth said.
                    "He'd show his belly," Ni said, "as a female would her
breasts.  He would lie against his chosen male, arranging his dress so his
nakedness would press against the hunter, perhaps wriggling and thrusting
his hips to his partner."
                    "What would the hunter do?" the boy asked.
                    "If the sun was warm, and no game in sight, he'd roll
the child on his back; strip from the youth, all his clothes, and play
gently at pillage and sack.  His mouth he'd use, on the bare young chest,
finding each nipple in turn, then naked he'd be, against the youth, slowly
kindling the body of the panting child, and finally letting him burn."

                    "We still have ten minutes before the other begin
arriving," Yen whispered softly, removing his big, coltish hands from his
lap, leaning back, and for the first time in his life let the solid mass,
long and heavy, bulging his gym short hugely be seen by the eyes of
another.  His uncle's eyes slowly left him and looked into his eyes.  "The
boys were not teasing you," the man whispered, utterly sure of his ground,
"they were displaying for you.  If you think back you'll probably recall
they seldom if ever wore any kind of shirt when they were stunting and
cavorting."

                    "That's why I like Husu," the boy responded, "he kept
his shirt on.  Very modest."
                    "Did you let the boys see you bare chested?" the man
asked.
                    "No," the teen said, "I think that's why they fooled
around, to try to get me to take my shirt off with them, but I was meant to
be their teacher, and it didn't seem proper."
                    "It wouldn't have been," his uncle agreed, "as Free
Spirit behavior intrudes, so it damages, leading to draconian reprisals.
The sure way to prevent this is to limit the intrusion, and a teacher or
coach, on duty, should maintain the decorum that comes naturally to you.
On the other hand, it is teaching that is going to happen, and a lot of
fast learning, so there is flexibility, especially for the first time, when
the teaching aspect is valid.  If this is successful then the same rules
apply as if the common interest were video games or reading; as they add,
they are good, as the substitute for that which is better, they are bad.
                    "In his wisdom," the older male continued," the creator
gave his domain a day of twenty-four hours, leaving ample time for utility
and social convention, with an hour each day for that of the free will's
invention."

                    After staring down at themselves for long moments,
their eyes met again.  Yen slowly pulled his gym shirt high up on his
chest, exposing his childishly soft, hot honey skin to the raptor's eyes of
his handsome young uncle.  As the adult reached for the child, his head
lolled against the seatback and he thrust in welcome.  Ni touched the boy,
gripping him gently and fondling him by sliding his hand back and froth
along the mature child's fully adult penis.
                    "Come swim with us after practice," the boy whispered.
                    "That's too fast," the man said, "we can hint strongly
if you and Husu leave with me in the Jaguar, and the boys know we're
heading out for lunch and to spend our Saturday together at the water park.
In a few days, perhaps you could choose two or three of your team to join
us, and after that, say in a week or two, I would love to join you in the
pool after your practice.  Perhaps we could even rent a suite and some of
the boys could stay overnight."
                    "Yes," Yen panted, pulling his shirt higher as his
athletic uncle stared at the creamy softness of his hairless torso.  Ni
slipped his left hand into the boy's shorts, feeling wild heat through the
youth's athletic supporter.  A car pulled into the gym's parking lot and
with a hard squeeze, Ni left the boy and Yen dropped his long, baggy gym
shirt.  "Are you going to stay for the practice?" the boy asked as he
stepped from the car.
                    "I'm going to find us a hideaway," the man said, "so
I'll meet you here in two hours, with Husu invited if he wants to join us."
                    The boy nodded and peeked into the closing door.  "It
felt beautiful," he whispered, "you were right about everything.  It may
not have made me a new man, we'll see how the team scores in practice, but
you have as your lover the most freshly minted boy in Nanjing."

                    "I'll try not to forget," Ni smiled as his nephew
closed the car door.

                    Much of the magnetism between Yen and Husu was a
product of their near mirror images to each other.  The one boy, six months
the elder, had only an inch or two and ten pounds on his younger friend.
Both had eagle faces with high cheekbones and prominent brows over lively
eyes, both were of an equal golden tint, of boyish skin, of a last childish
softness at their naked bellies.
                    Lunch had been a nervous affair, and Ni had let it
remain so rather than entertaining the new boy with tales of the often
dramatic roads he traveled representing those who represented to levels at
the end of small, fast elevators.  He had just chartered a sports fisherman
for the season, and he felt the boy might be interested in that, but no, he
sat quietly eating as did the two young teens.  He was nearly silent on the
ride to the water park, intentionally not luring the boy as much as an
inch, indeed, just the opposite, saying he could wait in the club house and
play darts.  Husu had tried to hide a look of disappointment, and so he'd
smiled On-the-other-hand, and, changing in the adult facility had joined
the boys in line for the first ride.

                    All eyes were on the tall, athletic threesome.  Ni
looked for any trace of discomfort in their handsome guest's face, listened
for any awkward strain to his voice, and, the more-so, any tendency to
display or reduce their budding relationship by the lewd to the crude.
Yen's modesty he was assured of, and he trusted his nephew to pick his like
as any kind of friend, and this he had done for the boy merely smiled shyly
at the more obvious glances from attractive young people of both sexes and
remained focused on his hosts.

                    Were their manners almost too good?  The tubes for the
river ride held one or two, and both boys insisted the other be first to
ride with their six-four adult companion, while he suggested the boys ride
together.  Finally Yen whispered to his uncle: "I'm too nervous to find out
if he wants to stay with us, but you'd know how to do it, so let him ride
with you first so I wont have to wait to find out."  That made sense, so
the issue was settled and they ordered one double tube and one single, then
floated off on the ten minute ride, the thirteen year old in the young
athlete's lap, Yen holding the larger vessel as they swirled out into the
river.

                    "I'm glad you two boys finally had time to meet," Ni
said to the child in his lap as they splashed and tried to paddle their
round donut of a boat.
                    "We never knew what to say to each other," Husu said,
"and it was strange looking so much alike and sort of different than most
of the other boys."
                    "Well," the man observed, "if one of you drowns, that
will solve that problem."
                    "You've already done that," the boy laughed, "because
when I get alone with Yen I'm going to ask him a lot of questions about
you, so we'll have a lot to talk about."
                    "Is there anyone you'd like him to ask questions
about?" the man wondered.
                    "If the questions were really private and the answers
really secret," the boy said, "I'd like to tell him some things so we
wouldn't have secrets from each other."
                    "Would you have a lot to tell, or a little?" Ni quizzed
the handsome boy.
                    "A lot," the boy whispered.
                    "To a boy your age a lot can be watching the family
cats," the older male noted as Yen waved good-bye and paddled off on his
own.

                    "Something did happen in the family," the boy said, if
grabbing at a straw of a segue, thrilling the older male at his shy
willingness to share.
                    "Yen and I are going to share secrets tonight," the
adult said.  "We're staying at the sleaziest hotel for a hundred miles," he
added, "and we were planning to lock phobias and fantasies out of doors and
burn candles an incense indoors, alone, with all the sounds one hears
around him in a shoddy building.  If you'd like to join us it would be my
nephew's and my joy to please you."
                    "All night?" the boy asked.
                    "We'll have our own car," the man replied, "so anytime
you might wish to leave, you'll be home in ten minutes, but we'd like you
to stay for morning showers and breakfast."
                    "May I bring Lei, she's twelve, but she's very petite,
like a ten year old.  She's my sister."
                    Ni waved deliberately at Yen, attracting the boy's
attention and bidding him paddle back to the double tube.


                    Randy was over at seven this morning, backpacked and
uniformed for school, just dropped in to chat and bring me a man made of
dough.  We found egg shells for the eyes, the only thing that suited for a
nose was a cigarette butt, and we used foil from a pack of smokes for the
mouth.  He is under some kind of pending reunion with his mother, who lives
in the States, but that is almost universal here, some of the kids get to
go, and my guess is, overall, the lucky ones get to stay.  It takes a lot
of money where I come from to equal borderline poverty here.  He is one
sensationally nice kid and probably old enough, at twelve, to stay that
way, baring intense peer pressure to get with it and join the teen scene.
I've mentioned casually that he can come and live here and he smiles and
nods, but we haven't talked about it.  He wants to clean up for the cats,
Maybe it's a sign of age; he thinks if I go under the bed I won't have the
strength to get out.  In any event, they're my freaking cats and he's
spared.
                    Clarence was over yesterday and everyone was gone so we
were able to spend half an hour in the bathroom.  He's still growing and
has matured to exceed me.  I take him like a little boy, left arm around
his chest, right hand, slick with baby oil, on his big penis.  He becomes
wantonly active, thrusting and panting wildly as I try to match him with my
hand, his penis hotter, harder, and more erect than Andrew or Fidel.  He
tells me when he's cumming, five to ten minutes, then spurts heavily on his
belly with sperm flying everywhere.  We are very careful when we clean up.
This house is going to attract a lot of snicker when it opens as a museum,
for there, just as I say, is a cement bathroom; solid and ridged, so that a
shaking, shuddering, bucking, panting teen doesn't feel like an astral
earthquake as he cums off heavily on the floor above.  Andrew and I also
spent half an hour there the day before yesterday.  Writing porn means
exaggerating some facets of clinical sexuality, I'm sure you understand,
just as a science fiction writer exaggerates the speed and maneuverability
of the vehicles transporting his characters; it's part of the craft, and I
plead guilty, but to offer extenuating circumstances due to the fact that
Andrew has, several times, had climaxes lasting several minutes.  He's not
cumming hotly and steadily the while time, but spilling as he tenses to
ejaculate fully, which he usually does.  But day before yesterday, he was
in long pants and shoes and didn't feel comfortable getting naked (me,
either).  He pulled his shirt up, but couldn't spread his legs as he leaned
against (for the tourists) the north wall.  He spilled three times, slick,
hot, and salty, but not fully, even after ten minutes.  He tried bucking
against my teeth and upper lip, but it didn't quite happen.  I suggested
next time he wear shorts and sandals so he can be naked as he leans against
the wall, hands behind his head, and legs widely apart, this by was of
eliminating the five minute, incomplete, orgasm.
                    Image time.  Randy and Clarence together in the shower,
the child taking the heavy cum of the mature teen.  From the standpoint of
research, it would be interesting to be taking Clarence, then have Randy,
naked, come into the bathroom and start using his tiny, soft hand on the
bucking older boy.  Would the teen cum off at the soft touch and the sight
of the beautiful, smooth body, or would Randy have to be hard and fast with
him, as I do?
                    Time may tell, and, in the meantime, it'll be awhile
before I can think of a better way to wake up than with a half-hour chat
with an all-boy cutie.  He jumped in my lap and kissed me, and then was off
for school.  The carnal pendulum.  I was just thinking the other day that
it had probably been the longest time, a month or so, without a partner, in
memory, then Randy, Andrew, Clarence and Fidel on successive days,
restoring the writer to his established place at the center of the
universe, while probably costing posterity less than two thousand words
(two hours) of his deathless prose.

                    One girlfriend, four closet boyfriends, one lean, gray
lamb in wolf's closthing, with Daryl and Rhageedha on the periphery and
Kira as a future interest.  That should keep me out of the bars.  And, as a
bonus, there's Queenie as a daily reminder that I don't hit on anyone
obviously, insidiously, or in any way direct or indirect.  Free will, free
spirit, call it what you will, kids are cold dough without it as two
fleeting experiences taught me, both recorded elsewhere.  Taboo may be an
abstraction, but it can cross wires, and the fact these don't exist in a
healthy child is no relief to an unhealthy victim.  It must be remembered
that man is born in no state at all.  The Pennsylvania babies, kept alive
but severely neglected do to the circumstances of their illicit births,
display, as they grow, not even the human qualities of a rodent; have not a
scintilla of grace or trace of spirit, nor the least hint of devil or
angel.  That, unarguably, is the essential human.  Everything that makes
Haley Mills "Pollyanna" is the result of indoctrination, with intelligence
and talent just as subject to the whims of fate as nursing and toilet
training.  Once we are human we become varied and the story gets
interesting, but we start with absolutely nothing, and a million moppets
bathing with their loving daddies will love bathing with their daddies.
And this is not saying guide, for, more, but suggesting we guide against,
less.


                    The water park had been a good idea.  Husu felt creamy
and soft in the hard arms of the athletic older male as the child lay now
comfortably back against the sinewy adult, and Ni could have floated
happily for an hour, one boy in his hands, the next bubbling along at his
side.  What could intrude on such an idyllic scene?  Altered the building
excitement in the three beautiful young males?  Truncated their afternoon
at the elegant park, with its tunnel of love for later in the day?  As
usual in a long novel, it started with a story.  They found a reedy
backwater in the artificial river and Yen joined his uncle and friend in
the big inner tube as the younger boy began.


                    "Did you see him again?" Lei asked, poking her pretty
face through her older brother's door.  Husu looked up from his book and
smiled at the girl, his heart skipping a beat at her perfect, quiet Asian
beauty, her delicacy, her soft beauty belying the fact she was every bit
the athlete he was.
                    "Yes," the thirteen year old said with a blush.  The
girl's pretty eyes brightened and she ran to her room, left off her school
things, and returned in a moment to sit on his bed and gaze at the tall boy
at the desk.
                    "Tell me," the twelve year old asked.
                    "He just looks a lot like me," the boy murmured,
looking down at his text.
                    "We're growing up," Lei said, "we don't have to avoid
things we don't understand, anymore, we should try to understand them so we
can grow up more."
                    "He's just a kid," the boy said, not himself sure who
was trapping who with their topic, nor whether he wanted to be the trapper
or the trapped.  Any option was better than more algebra, so he blushed
shyly, letting the bright beauty lead.
                    "That's like saying Lin Ya is just my friend," the girl
said quietly.  You know how I feel about her, how about I think of her all
the time and can tell her laugh a hundred feet away; you know I dream about
her, because I tell you.  I even tell you my daydreams where we find a
quiet pool and bathe together, staring into each other's eyes for and hour
until we're like prunes, then drying off with towels and lying on a blanket
in the grass until we're nice and warm again, still staring into each
other's eyes.
                    "I know it's just a crush," the girl continued, "but
that's the sweetest love of all because it comes without a houseful of kids
and piles of bills."
                    "That's a good place to start," the boy allowed, his
nerves screaming at the proximity of the tiny beauty bouncing gently on his
bed and tying his tongue which was so dry it hardly needed any knots.
                    "It's dazzling," the girl responded, "to look and lose
yourself and remain lost as long as you look and find each other when you
blink"
                    "I wonder if it would be the same with glasses," the
boy murmured, quipping nervously since they both had perfect eyes.
                    "I wonder if it would be the same with a boy," the girl
mused in response, "a tall, handsome boy who you loved more than a crush; a
forbidden boy and secret love."


                    "Yen isn't forbidden," the brother observed, "you'll be
at his school next year and you can see him all you want."
                    "Surviving an obtuse brother for a week makes a year
look like a century," Lei said, "plus, he is forbidden to you, something to
do with sex, I think, and that's plenty to think about, you know, if you
wanted to."
                    "I guess you and Lin Ya are kind of forbidden, too,"
the boy said softly.
                    "That's not why we look at each other and talk about
kissing," the girl said, "not because it's bad, because it's whole and sure
and natural and might last for years if the Clan of the Walrus doesn't
clean the corners of the trough."
                    "They're more likely to block access by all but trained
mountaineers," the boy remarked, finding refuge in the scary stories she
loved to hear of the monster looming on the far side of Taiwan.

                    "Then never mind them," Lei suggested, her eyes locked
on her brother's craggy face.
                    "Okay," he whispered, his head bowed now in her
direction, his eyes seeming to dare where he was to weak to follow.  Slowly
the handsome face rose, but caution was useless, the heat of her gaze was
instant and full; compelling, finally, irresistible.
                    "Boys are boys all the way through," the girl whispered
from somewhere in Husu's tumbling new universe, "more fire, more danger,
less sweetness and light; more: I'll be left with something than an equal
sharing.  More primal need than sensual diversion, more fit for analysis
than glib and superficial giggling, more there there, more heat, more
depth, less grace and beauty, and," the pixie continued, "not to put too
fine a point on it, more physical reaction on the part of the female, and
that's something I could show you if you want to lock the door for a little
while."

                    Now Husu was trapped.  As a gentleman, he should rise
and do the girl's bidding, but he'd been doing his homework in his
underpants, specifically because his sister was dropping by to chat ever
more often and he was a male animal.  But to rise, face her, then cross to
the door, her eyes cartoons of lightning and smoldering embers, that was
more than he'd bargained for.
                    "Nobody will be home for an hour," the brother
murmured.
                    "Yen," the twelve year old said softly, "I want this to
be very private, and I need to hear the lock click, even if it's just a
whim; please?"

                    Figuring just how trapped his tongue was might take an
hour, the boy knew, and untangling his long legs the rest of the day, and
that would have been if he'd just been a kid sitting with his legs under
his desk.  Now there was a long, hard hugeness to him, an ear of corn it
seemed in his white cotton briefs, throbbing and pulsing hot and fast, as
never before and as he never imagined even when he lay in bed at night
thinking of the newly-formed athletic team he'd recently joined and the shy
new coach who added strains of secrecy to Lei's stories of the beautiful
Lin Ya.

                    "Take your shirt off before you get up," the girl said,
"so I'll feel more comfortable with you when it's locked."
                    The boy sat, not even his eyes moving as he stared at
the sixty-pound beauty in from of him, her arms now over her shoulders as,
still gazing, she undid her hair from its school-girl berets, letting it
flow over her delicate shoulders, raven, shiny black and thick and
luxuriant as the mane on a priceless beast.
                    "I'm wearing a bra, that's why," the girl coaxed that
statute, wildly handsome, so close, so lifelike in its eternal stillness.

                    "Maybe there's too much light," the child observed
after several long minutes, "I'll be back in a minute with candles,
meantime, if you want to, you can get up and lock the door, and it will be
as if nothing ever happened, always, I promise.  But if you leave it open,
I want to take my skirt and blouse off, after the candles are safe, of
course, and I want to go stand in the corner of your room and pretend it's
a shower at your new club, and I want you to pretend I'm Yen and we're too
nervous and bashful to say anything to each other, like Lin Ya and I are,
but I want you to teach me what you'd do, and even though it's not a real
shower, and there's no actual water, you shouldn't wear your underpants,
and you should get me naked just like you'd want to strip Yen after he said
Hi when he felt you close behind him."

                    The girl looked steadily at the beautiful boy for
another minute, then rose from the bed and kissed him tenderly on the
forehead.  "You are very beautiful," she whispered, then quietly left the
young male's bedroom.


                    Isn't this getting a little commercial?  Suppose you
were watching the drama unfold on television; would you be inclined to raid
the `fridge or visit the john?  Make a quick business call?  Respond to the
scent of smoke on the air?  Or would you stay glued to the set, mesmerized
by the pretty little blond girl prancing and preening for a trip, courtesy
of the sponsor, but unflinching though it is in fact a Tyne Daley trailer
that shows?  I don't have anything to sell, so will occupy the time by
suggesting you cut Nifty a nice check, actually write it, sign it, and mail
it, or use your credit card.  No institution does more to bring some
balance to the world, and none is more worthy of your support.

                    I suppose if the water were running, it would be a soap
opera, organ music sighing and cresting.  This is New York by the knot of
the necktie, nose an inch away, me saying words to the effect of This is
how it's done.  These are the values.  This is love.  Get out with your
neurotic smarm


                    "Hi," came Husu's soft whisper.
                    "Hi," the twelve year old whispered back, her voice,
even uttering a single syllable, soft, husky, and welcoming.
                    "Do you want to talk?" the naked boy whispered as he
stood behind the child in her bra and panties."
                    "Would you want to talk with Yes?" the girl whispered
back.
                    "Yes," Husu said.
                    "I want to when this happens with Lin Ya, too," the
girl said, permission obvious in her husky voice.  "Do you want me to ask
you a question?" she added.
                    "Yes," came a soft whisper.
                    "What if I hadn't left to get the candles, would you
have stood up?"
                    "I didn't have my pants on," the boy said, "I don't
know, I just..."
                    "They were on your bed, Husu," the girl noted, "I
wasn't teasing you, I wanted to see."
                    "I wasn't sure," the male said, "and it's kind of
different with boys.  More stuff happens.  I thought you might think it was
really weird and get sick, or something."

                    "It's embarrassing with girl, too," Lei responded, "I
feel so different than I usually do I was afraid to let you see.  That's
why I changed my mind and thought up this game.  It's one thing to be brave
in uniform, and another thing, when, you know..."
                    "This is better," the boy agreed.
                    "But you know what?" the girl said.
                    "What?" her brother prompted.
                    "We could do it both ways.  Sit like we were before,
but dressed like we are, now, then I could ask you to lock the door.  Then
we can come back here in the corners, and pretend you're with Yen so you
can show me how you'd touch him."

                    "I'll go put them back on," the boy rasped to the
delicate girl.  The couple ran their lines again, and Husu, naked but for
his bulging briefs, pushed back his chair, sitting a moment for his
sister's avid eyes, then slowly stood and faced the twelve year old hardly
two feet from him..  Arms at their sides the two children stared down at
each other.
                    "Will it all be over when we touch?" Lei asked.
                    "Either way," the boy husked in a straining adolescent
voice.
                    "Do we need to hurry?" the girl wanted to know.
                    "It would be better if we do everything very slowly,"
the boy replied.
                    "Do you want to play the game more," the sister asked,
"because I'll be just as happy if something happens on the bed the regular
way, whatever that is."
                    "I like playing it," the brother replied, "looking at
you from behind and wondering what it would be like if it was Yen who came
up behind you, and you said Hi to him."
                    "Would you stay and watch everything," Lei asked,
moving back to her make-believe corner, "or would you let us have privacy?"
                    "I'd want to be with you, but I'd go if you wanted,"
the boy said.

                    "And I'd want to be with you while he watched," the
girl whispered.
                    "If you were me and he was behind you, where would you
want him to touch you?" the boy asked.
                    "I'd want to feel him naked against my back before he
put his hands on me," Lei said, "then, after I was a little bit used to
him, I'd want to feel his hands under my bra so he'd know boys aren't the
only ones who change when they are with a partner they love."
                    "Sometimes boys can't control themselves when they're
inexperienced," the locker-room-wise boy noted to his sister, "so if
something starts happening while I'm talking to you or after you've let me
start touching you, you should tell me what you want.  Should I keep it
private in my underwear or under my hands, or do you think you'd want to
watch, even if you weren't ready?"

                    "You could hold me against you in a way that I couldn't
see," the girl said, thoughtfully, "then, afterwards, I'd know what
happened, but not exactly how it happened, so the mystery might be deeper
than ever."
                    "I'll help clean you off if I do have an accident," the
boy promised.
                    "What do you mean, `clean', the tiny beauty said, "the
cleanest thing I can think of is the seed of my beautiful, kind, sweet
brother."

                    "I guess some people have dirty minds," the boy noted.
                    "It would be dirty if you sneaked in on me or held me
down or demanded anything," the girl said, "but not if you showed me where
you'd touch Yen if he was standing in front of you, even in this pretend
shower."

                    "Here," the tall thirteen year old whispered, easing
the tip of his full, man-size penis against the honey-silk warmth of his
sister's slim back, then placing his hands on her flanks, just above her
slender hips.
                    "You feel hot against me," the wraith said, panting at
his touch
                    Gently they pressed together, the female instinctively
raising her arms as she leaned against the wall, welcoming the hands of the
male as he found her belly and began openly molesting the petite twelve
year old.  "It's a little weird when you think about it," she whispered to
her tall, naked brother, "you know, Ford doesn't have to go around crudding
up walking to sell cars, but the church has to crud up what we want
together to sell religion.  They invented sin to sell a savior."

                    "The problem is," the boy whispered, ravishing the girl
as gently as he knew how, " they are fundamentally right, but not
absolutely right, especially historically speaking.  If men and boys spent
all their time molesting their daughters and sisters and getting them
pregnant we'd end up a bunch of rattling skeletons, all sizes and shapes.
But that is not to say responsible kids who do well in school and are
focused, overall, can't spend a few hours a week together in private, and
be just as responsible about what happens between them as they would be if
they had to baby-sit a sick child."

                    "We'll have to be very responsible when I get older,"
the girl whispered in response, "I can tell that from what I feel against
my back.  There's a solidness and heaviness to you that tells a girl you're
very ready to be a father."
                    "I hope you feel the same way when Yen has his body
pressed against you," the boy said, "then you can marry him, and I'll marry
Lin Ya, and we'll all live together with no secrets, and two guys in the
house to cook and clean when our girls get lost in each other's beautiful
brown eyes."

                    "It would be beautiful to watch you with her," the
sister said, "or even listen through the wall if you wanted to be private
with her."
                    "You and Yen, too," the boy husked, his hands now on
Lei's bra, "lying on the floor next to your bed in pitch dark, seeing of I
could tell from his breathing when he was going to pant out his warning to
you."
                    "Are you going to warn me before it happens?" the girl
asked.
                    "Yes," the boy said, "the male always does.  It's meant
to give a female a last chance to save herself, but I think most boys
probably tell the girl so she'll welcome him."

                    "Will you tell Yen?" she asked.
                    "I'll try," the boy said, "but books and the Net only
tell you so much, and they tell you you can't always be sure of things,
especially when you're inexperienced."
                    "But you will tell me?" the girl said.
                    "With you it's safety," the boy said, "so I'll practice
so that when you're mature and we take a risk together, it won't be too big
a risk."
                    "Should I practice pushing you away?" the girl asked.
                    "If you could do it while we're together for the first
time it would prove you were very responsible," her brother answered.
                    "You're so powerful," the girl said, "you'd have to be
very responsible, too."
                    "What if you had your arms and legs around me and were
begging me to stay?" the boy asked, "would I be responsible if it happened
inside you?"
                    "I don't know," the girl said, "right now I know you're
getting ready to put your fingers under my bra and I wouldn't dream of
stopping you if your freedom with me meant twins in two hours."

                    They huddled close, the female still stretching against
the bedroom wall to welcome the handsome young male, his face buried in her
neck as he hunched over her, his slim adolescent hips thrusting gently but
ceaselessly against her perfect young body.  A feral grunt from the boy and
echoing hiss from his sister signaled the will of his fingers and her will
for his touch.  "I'm twelve year old, not ten, and I had to grow
somewhere," she whispered as the tall boy gasped and moaned at the firm
mounts and big, hard, sexy nipples bound to her flat chest by her training
bra.
                    "Does Lin Ya know?" the boy choked.
                    "No," the child said, "I'm very careful, no one does."
                    "But you're so mature," the boy whispered, "you could
get a baby from me."
                    "Feel down inside my panties," the girl responded.

                    "Nothing," Husu was just thinking, "could get me to
leave her shocking and exciting chest."  Guess again.  His right hand
lingered long moments on her big mound and swollen nipple, then traced down
over her panting chest and belly and finally underneath the elastic of her
girlish underwear.
                    "Oh, Lei," he whispered, "we're going to have to be so
careful."
                    "All our lives, I guess," the girl agreed, adding: "but
not now.  I'd rather die from tonight than die without it, from you, than
without you."
                    "Our doctors are adept at saving girls," the boy
comforted, "if it happens, you may have to date a cute medical student, is
all, which would be more in keeping with what we have, you, Yen, Lin Ya,
and I, than paying a regular doctor."

                    "But only tonight," the girl said, "tomorrow you teach
me the ways of experienced girls so we can be together until we have me on
the pill."
                    "Yes, darling," the boy whispered, the girl now
yielding herself to his strong gymnast's arms.  He turned with her and
moved to the bed, bringing his pillow under her bottom as he lay her on her
back.  Staring at each other, the male moved behind the female.  Lei raised
her legs, grabbing behind her knees, and pulled them nearly flat against
her heaving chest.  The boy used his right hand to find the girl as he
knelt close behind her, then with a soft grunt, lowered himself to his arms
to he could stare into his sister's wide, hot eyes.

                    For long moments the tall, coltish athlete surged
gently against the thighs of the tiny girl beneath him.  The child's hands
stroked his face, her eyes locked on his.  She mewed her welcome and
experimented with thrusting her inexperienced loins to greet his gentle
urgency with her.  From time to time they'd stare down between their
beautiful young bodies, at her teen breasts, at his mannish size as he
continued his timid rut.

                    "Husu," the girl murmured, urgency straining her voice,
"be free with me.  I'm an athlete, not a fairy princess.
                    The rugged teen fell to the petite girl, moving her
hands from his face to high above her head, he prodded her inner knees as
he lay panting on her, and the girl spread them wide.  He raised again on
his arms and stared hotly into her eyes as his powerful hips surged hard
and fast against her tender body.  Her eyes grew wide and then filled with
shock as he began lunging against her, penetrating her scalding, tight
wetness almost violently until with a loud cry he crushed himself to her
and froze on shaking arms as the girl hissed and panted, writhing
underneath him and mashing her heels into the mattress as she thrust
against his rigid male body.  Gradually she eased, finally lying still
beneath him.  Husu lower to her breasts, then heavily to her.  "Are you
okay?" he whispered.

                    "Very," the girl murmured almost sleepily.  "I just
found out it's going to be easy to cum with you and I almost lost control."
                    "It was beautiful," the boy said.
                    "Did you warn me?" the girl asked, fright tingeing her
almost brown eyes, "I wouldn't have heard you."
                    "No," he said with a soft smile.  "It didn't happen.
You can still push me away if you want."
                    "If I move a muscle," the girl whispered, "I'll go all
the way and I won't feel it and share it when it happens."
                    "Do you want to pretend?" the boy asked.  "You could
call me Yen, or you could pretend I was a man raping you to give you
something to think about so you wouldn't move."

                    "I've got enough to sort out, already," the girl
responded.  "Wanting your child, not being able to have it, and the test
strips so I'd know soon enough so a medical student might be able to save
me, so what's going to happen isn't completely dangerous, then whether to
have your baby or Yen's, and what it will be like living with Lin Ya when
she's growing with your child, and how long this passion with you will
last, and how I'll feel as our daughter matures and falls as in love with
her dad as I am with my brother, and how you feel inside me now, and what
it will feel like if you get excited by fantasizing we could have a child
now and you showered with me every night before bed to see if you could
feel it, and the thought of doing what we were doing in the corner, only in
the warm, steamy shower, would make you want to be completely free with...

                    "Oh,..."

                    They trembled rigidly together for almost two minutes,
then the buck settled to the bare chest of the fawn, softly kissing her.


                     "Did she get pregnant?" Yen asked Husu as the younger
boy decided to try the smaller tube.
                    "It happened on Wednesday, so we don't know yet," the
boy said, "but I did find a medical student -- Lei looks cute in pictures
-- so she'll be okay if she is."
                    "It would be kind of romantic to keep it for a week or
two," Yen said, "I mean, if she is, anyway, wouldn't that make it more
exciting?"
                    "Yes," the younger boy said looking fondly at his
coach.  They floated to the terminus of the river ride, look around with a
sense of yearning at all the rides and thrills they'd be missing, made a
phone call, and boarded the Jaguar.


                    "Is there more to the story?" Dave asked.
                    "It was a pretty seedy hotel," Nordstrom replied.
                    "Good," the master replied, "because I'm beginning to
want to lie in the grass with you as much as you say you want it, and I'll
need something to distract me from the feeling of your body and my will."
                    "I still want it," the boy whispered, "plus you've got
a kid to kill off in chapter and verse, so it should be successful."

                    The naked males petted the fire and snacked, Dave
offering the boy a plastic tumbler of white wine before they found a soft
patch of grass and Nordstrom lay on his back pulling his knees against his
chest.  Dave knelt behind the boy, coated himself and the child with
mineral oil, and then huddled over the beautiful naked teen.  Feeling he
could maintain better control over the hot, tense situation if he told a
story, than if he listened, Dave began whispering to the dirty-blond
fourteen year old as he thrust experimentally against the inexperienced
young male.

                    "My main wish was that he come to a happy end," the man
began hoarsely as he felt the slick boy begin to yield to his gentle but
persistent half-inch thrusts.  "That was the only option.  An ordinary kid,
and you'd follow the law, ditch him when he proved intractable, and hope
for the best leaving him to the mercies of a liberal land.  But not Lessen.
He was massive and he didn't fit, fit less all the time, so it was
inevitable his suffering would be massive, with his mother or without her.
He'd die of exposure, aids, privation, or be beaten and raped to
death.. For kids of brute mentality, that's bad enough, but for a fairy
princess mind, and a had-enough-already soul, it would be one cruelty too
many.  Only a god could tolerate that much pointless suffering."

                    Nordstrom's hands went to his master's face and
shoulder and he experimented with thrusting cautiously against the huge,
hard shaft entering ever more deeply into his young teen body.  "What
happened?" he whispered, "what buttons did you push?"
                    "I wanted to set some stability and surety in his life
and our relationship," the tall athlete said, "not diddle with this and
fool with that.  With that in mind, for all the good it did, I only wanted
to molest him in the shower, only wanted to jerk off on him, on his penis,
then masturbate him as he stretched against the wall of the shower.  Set a
ritual, a specific time and place we could be free with each other, long
enough to cum two or three times, so the experience would be complete, and
let it go at that, as far as sex was concerned.
                    "It worked for awhile," Dave continued, "he was calm,
responsive, and satisfied.  I thought the issue had dissolved, that he'd
begun to stabilize; that we were making progress, however alternative our
route, it was working for us and especially for him.  He was a beautiful
lover and on his own initiative even bought some girl's clothes as the
thrift shop to add a little taboo to our private times when we had the
locker room at the pool to ourselves, or when he was spending the evening
at my place.  He made a devastating schoolgirl, cowgirl, ballerina, and
negligee model, inventing sweet stories about being trapped alone by a
blizzard with `her' handsome daddy.  There'd usually be some problem with
the hot water, leading to his (her) saying we were both mature people and
shouldn't be embarrassed about sharing the shower.

                    "That went on for almost a month.  His letters to me
resumed, very different than his first efforts.  We spent more time
together swimming and just hanging out.  We lingered longer in the shower
and became more intense with each other.  Everything was better than I
thought it could be, week after week, but life has this unfortunate way of
being year after year and finally decade after decade.  I suppose that's
good for most of us, considering the alternative, but it wasn't for Lessen
Rudolph.  It started, and I guess `returned' would be more accurate, five
or six weeks after the night at the motel.  He began sliding off here and
tripping there, deliberately turning nominal events into points of
conflict; burgers or chicken, chicken or pizza, pizza or sushi, the arcade
or the moves, movies or the theme park, this channel or that channel, this
video game or that.  We should have gone and lived in a cave where the
choices would have been this squirrel or that rabbit."

                    Nordstrom moved his hands from the artist's face to his
gently heaving flanks, massaging the adult up and down, his hands gripping
more tightly as he brought them higher on the straining torso of the lithe
athlete.  "Are you okay?" Dave whispered.
                    "It hurts," the boy said, "but I'm sure glad it's you."
                    "I think I can hold still for awhile if you want," the
master informed the sweating teen.
                    "You'll make me into another Lessen," the boy
responded, his eyes glowing with amusement.  "Do I want you gently, or
fully?"
                    "It's not wanting them both," the man said, "everyone
wants that, it's wanting them both at the same time; insisting on them both
at the same time.  When it comes to things like sushi pizza, sometimes a
kid catches a break and can have two things at once, but it's pretty hard
to watch a film and ride a coaster at the same time, and it gets annoying
to see half a movie and then suddenly have to leave and implement Plan B,
then wait in line for an hour until someone in a printed tee-shirt walks by
and Plan C becomes, all at once, the new must-see inanity.
                    "With other kids it would be the almost inevitable
conflict between childish ways and boring old adult behavior, and we would
have parted company, no harm, no foul.  Not with young Mr. Rudolph.  He had
no other options; his mother was ever worse, probably going clinically
insane, and he would have run away from any foster care arrangement.  He
had an enormous amount to offer, but only as an artist, and no field
requires more structure, self-discipline, and dedication.  By this time I
was mixing his glass with half Pepsi and half Coke.  He wasn't pushing to
see far how he could go, where the limits were, what constituted a comfort
zone, like most kids, he was pushing for all he was worth, staying out to
ten with his stoner buddies led to staying out to eleven; twenty bucks for
the arcade merely whet his appetite for fifty; a fifty mile trip, for a
hundred mile trip.  If he could have refocused so that a ten page story
lead to a twenty page story or a B in history led to and A, he would have
ended up master of more than he could have imagined, but he was a wrong-way
kid, I guess to the bone and first breath.  The fickle and fluke didn't
teach him perspective, they became be-all, end-all goals.  The Lesser
Shadows taught him the stakes could be high and the drama extreme, and,
where a normal kid might have used the experience to transcend conventional
boundaries and succeed, the boundaries, themselves, became Lessen's
fixation, and, as ever, the closer he got to them, the further off into the
distance they moved, and ten at night became two in the morning, sober
became drunk, and his manners, rudimentary to begin with, trailed off into
ironic commentary and sarcastic put-downs.  As this began to happen, the
sex, at least, remained a constant.  He avoided the hustlers and creeps
that gather where drugs and kids are to be found, and actually became
hotter and more potent as his body matured By this time, he'd turned eleven
and was cumming more heavily than the pros in the porn videos, and getting
the same response from me."

                    "That changed, too?" Nordstrom asked, knowing he was
being mastered by a beautiful and sensitive male and wanting the experience
to last as long as possible, an unfortunate proclivity for a character in
any novel of mine and a good example of why we are cautioned to be careful
of what we wish for.

                    "Not subtly, either," the man affirmed, slowing his
thrusting and becoming still over the boyish teen.  "I don't want it to be
over yet, so I'm going to have to leave for awhile," Dave whispered.  The
boy nodded and they parted slowly, nesting in the warm grass like drowsy
deer, the back of the younger male against the chest of his master as the
adult gently molested and masturbated him.

                    "'Not subtly,' I think you said," Nordstrom prompted,
breathing softly and apparently content with his role as boy bookmark.
                    "I tried to get involved in nothing extra," Dave
continued, "nothing to do with supplying weed or booze or wheels or letting
them party at my house.  I had my plate full with teaching, art, and
running heard on a kid of a dozen.  Fat lot of good it did.  One night he
shows up with Jimmy Reardon, brother of Al, who, wouldn't you just know it,
is in jail and unlikely to get out for the odd five or six years.  Jimmy,
nine, is essentially homeless, and guess who has a home.  So this lead to
that, with me thinking, Aha, maybe someone to look after will be the
catalyst I've been hoping for.
                    "For awhile it seemed to help; my lawyer kept an eye on
things and Jimmy moved in with us; Lessen tracked on his new brother and
went through another improvement cycle.  We were extra discreet with what
happened in the shower, and life went on.


                    "Jimmy's been asking me questions?" Lessen said.
                    "He can't stay nine year old forever," Dave said;
"about us?"
                    "I don't know yet," the eleven year old said.
                    "Tell him," Dave said, "or I will.  I've been meaning
to, but I haven't had a chance.  I don't want to inveigle an encounter, I
want it to come up, and I'm not in any hurry for that to happen.  Our
family secret is about half of what most are, and I figured he could handle
it or I wouldn't have invited him to shack up here."
                    "He doesn't just ask questions," the boy said.
                    "How long have you been alone with him?" the master
wanted to know.
                    "A few hours," the boy replied.
                    "I want that.  I guess you assumed that even though
I've never come out and said it.  Baring normal parents, it's my theory a
child needs a love center to his or her home, and that can include the
taboo, as long as it's affectionate and consistent.  I've been doing office
work at school I could do here to give you two privacy.  You're two
extremely attractive young males and if the Shadows indoctrinated you with
the beauties of dancing outside the spotlight, your only reaction should be
happiness with your partner."

                    "What should I do?" the boy asked for the first and
last time in their relationship.
                    Only one thing the teacher knew or had thought to try
had worked in the past.  It hadn't worked well, but nothing else had worked
at all.  Full inclusion.  Anything else seem inherently creepy and devious.
Barring inclusion, if the younger boy showed any discomfort, disclosure, as
detailed as Jimmy wanted to hear it.  It was an exercise in taboo more
fitted to a writer than an artist; how would you render it other than as
gossamer white wraiths seeping in through the heating ducts?  No, taboo
couldn't be illustrated, it had to come as the thousand words, not the
picture.  The odd thing to Dave was that he could find none of it, however
closely he knew it to hang.  Even if Jimmy were a weekend guest from an
engaged and lively family, a boy's boy of boys, if he wanted to spend a few
hour whispering with a handsome male two years his senior, how could that
possibly hurt?  If that whispering led to an attractive and gentle adult,
how?  And a neat sidebar: boys their age could be whispering about hacking
on the Net, getting a gun, finding liquor, or a dozen like mischiefs, both
thinking pervs were creeps, and to what philosophical conclusions did that
lead?  "Yes," Dave sighed to himself, "the heavy hitters use a
word-processor."

                    Lessen's question hung in the air, cloaked in irony.
Here the boy was asking advice -- should I take algebra or history? -- and
the topic was likely to lead to gentle hands removing the underpants from
an arching little boy.  But it was the last play of the game; Jimmy was a
quiet kid, gentle and affectionate, passive and somewhat detached.  How
much damage would be done to him if things went wrong?  It was hard to
imagine any at all.  Versus the total destruction of Lessen if the anchor
didn't hold, if he didn't swing to it, get his bow into the wind, and
fucking keep it there.  Two ordinary boys, and he would have passed: spent
some time in the shower before turning on the water.  Lessen and a passive
boy?  Deal.

                    "Take him a candle," the master instructed his student.
"Stay while it burns down.  I don't mean to get sappy, but use its light
well.  If it brings the house down us, at least we tried."  He realized
he'd said too much, that the sensitive boy would interpret `we tried'
correctly as `he', Dave, `had tried', which would open a can of worms
involving what he had tried or was trying and why he had or was trying
whatever it was he was, or was not, trying.  Luckily for them both, Jimmy
was a slim Anglo cutie with big eyes and freckles, and the thought of him
in candle light overcame the mercurial older boy's ever edgier
interpretation to his disadvantage of everything he heard and half of what
he saw.

                    "I want to leave his bedroom door open so you can
listen," Lessen said.
                    "As long as you tell him," the man said, reviewing his
last-ditch, no-holds-barred strategy in especially diplomatic terms, half
wondering as he did so if it wouldn't be better to grab the yokel by his
shirt and scream at him that if he wanted more than this out of the human
race, he was crazy.  Unfortunately, a major psychiatric sub-set agrees that
mental illness is largely voluntary, amounting, simultaneously, to an
attention getting ploy and slacker's cop-out.  Being crazy gained Lessen a
lot, when one came to think of it; for openers, he had a sex life that
would stump a goat, extra this, especially time, more of that, especially
time; more time than all his other students, combined, instilling, as time
went by, the need for more.  You don't fight a fire with gasoline, but you
might use it to start a backfire.  It wouldn't work, but it was the only
option.

                    "Come down if a few minutes," Lessen said, and left to
find the candles.  Dave stripped to his briefs, wondering if he'd ever
reach the age of even fifteen.  He felt as nine as the boy in the guest
bedroom on the first floor of the house.  He was harder than he'd been
their night in the motel with Lessen, harder, longer, thicker, more
throbbing and rouge at the tip than he'd been since he'd pretended to have
trouble with his athletic cup when he was twelve.  The lust was feral, an
atavistic common denominator demanded by the god of the second spear.  Yes,
it was the penultimate hunt, but the loins came so soon before the belly
that it might seem to a crude sort of interpreter than the food of the
first spear directly nourished the second, and its hunt was for spears to
add to the hunt, i.e., not to be ignored.  But it wasn't feral, it was
abnormal.  A sleeping girl, that should be the wild man's summons, his
siren, her belly, her breast, her welcome, and yes, he'd go for it, but not
raging, pulsing, hammering as he was over just the thought of Lessen alone
with little, freckly, Jimmy.

                    How abnormal?  He'd read the true story of the waifish
prostate, appearance that of a child, with `no sign of being a women', and
how the first cruising car always stopped.  How many men would have pushed
the immature body away if they'd found it to be that of a boy?  Odd.  That
made it highly abnormal.  The tall athlete shook his head.  If writers were
the power hitters, they sure had to work for it.  He shook his head, again,
and descended the stairs, still huge, arms as his side.

                    The soft light glowed across the gray carpet of the
hall, spilling from a wide crack in the door.  Dave eased against the door
frame, and remained still.

                    "It doesn't have to be tonight, if you're tired, it
could be anytime, and some kids your age aren't interested, or they're
immature and think it's gross, or they have like this la-la home life, and
they don't have time, so it's just that we kind of have a secret in the
house, and we don't want you living here and thinking something's going on,
and it makes you nervous or uncomfortable, and, you know, you're too
embarrassed to like ask questions or talk about it, so if you want I can
stay and we can hang out by candle light, and tell stories, you know,
mature ones, not the regular kind, or I can go because usually I take a
shower about now, anyhow, okay?"

                    "I just told you a little stuff, before, because I felt
the same way you do.  I didn't want to get you embarrassed."
                    "I thought you kind of hinted at something."
                    "Did you tell Dave?"
                    "Yes."
                    "What did he say."
                    "Bring a candle."
                    "Cool."
                    "He tries.  He's an adult.  What else can they do?"
                    "He's a pretty cute adult."
                    "It takes one to know on in that department."
                    "You, too."
                    "Ditto."

                    Nervous laughter.

                    "Are you kind of a lot experienced or a little
experienced?"
                    "Kind of a lot, I guess.  How about you?"
                    "I spent a week with a club that was making videos,
when I was ten."
                    "Were they gentle with you?"
                    "Yes.  How about you?  Was the man gentle?"
                    "He touched another boy while I watched, then I said I
wanted him to teach me."
                    "Where was it?"
                    "We were building a tree house and he had some old wood
in his back yard.  We asked if we could use it.  He said we were welcome to
it, and Norry, he's my friend, twelve years old, asked Robert, that's whose
house it was, if he'd help us lift up some of the heavy pieces.  Robert
invited us in for milk and cookies and told us he'd built a tree house a
couple of times.  He asked if any other men like our fathers were helping
us, and we ran the list of dysfunction and alternative orientation that
kept us least half-free of the parental umbrella.  When I talked he found
out I read a lot, Norry, too, so we became more friends.  He said when he
was our age, he did mature stuff in his tree house with older boys, and he
liked experimenting, and we shouldn't invite him to stay after he helped us
if that kind of thing made us too uncomfortable or nervous.  Then he went
down in his basement to get a pulley and some rope, so we could talk.  We
looked in our pockets to see if there was anything we could give him, you
know, like as a present for helping us, but we only had some junk.  Norry
was good at thinking, way good, so he went to the sideboard and stole a
silver salt tray with a blue-glass liner.  When we got the last board up
for the floor, the man helped us brace it and lay on some old plywood for
the floor.  He came up the ladder to check it and Norry gave him the salt
tray and said it was all we had if Robert would stay.  Robert was very
touched.  He stayed all afternoon, and we built a bed and two pretty good
chairs using just a saw, a drill, and a screwdriver."

                    "He sounds pretty okay."
                    "He was even more cute than that.  Athletic, like Dave,
tall, too."
                    "I'm surprised you risked all on something as minor as
a salt tray."
                    "It was the thought that counted."

                    Silence.  Dave listened extra hard.  More of the same.
"Well," he thought to himself, "at least they're not a pair of giggling
idiots."

                    "What happened next?"
                    "Robert said when the man helped him build a tree
house, they worked in their underpants to get used to each other."
                    "Did that make you really nervous?"
                    "Before I could even look at Norry, he said he had to
go back to his house, and that we could come over if we wanted, after we'd
talked, and he'd be back in an hour with some pizza which he'd bring if we
left a rock on his patio.  So we didn't have time to be too nervous,
because we wanted to help him take his tools back."
                    "Did you talk with Norry at all?"
                    "We just nodded."

                    A brief silence could have been attributed to Lessen
nodding: "I'll bet!"

                    "Then what happened?" the eleven year old asked his
nine year old friend.
                    "We walked back with him.  He said he had some old sofa
pillows we could use and a tarp until we got a roof built and that we could
pick them up the next day or he could help us carry them into the woods if
we wanted to talk more.  We nodded to each other and said Okay.  He said we
could leave our clothes at the house if we were ready to experiment with
having the feelings older boys get.  His house was pretty alone, but not
completely isolated, so that made us kind of nervous, and he explained he
thought it would be cute if some neighbor did see us walking into the woods
that way, because it was natural for boys to spend time with men and not
always talk about killing things or scores, and that we'd be very discreet
and private most of the time, but once in awhile we could let the world
know that real people had real preferences that were not exactly the same
as everyone else's ideals."

                    "Was he a salesman?"
                    "Airline pilot."
                    "Oh... that's cool."
                    "He flew to Manila.  There was a club there that taught
American men how to be with young boys.  He told us about it and showed us
some pictures so we'd all be the same when we took our shorts off."
                    "Were you?"
                    "Like totally."
                    "Were you embarrassed having Norry look at you that
way, and, you know, looking at him and Robert?"
                    "He said it was okay to blush, so we did, then he took
us down to get the pillows and some camping gear while we started to get
used to the way we looked, and in a few minutes we were back up on the
floor of the fort.  That's when he sat back against the trunk of the tree
and pulled us onto his legs."

                    "Really close to him?"
                    "Norry more, because he was older and I wanted him to
let things happen, first.  He could see that I'd gotten really nervous all
of a sudden, so he said I'd be more comfortable if I sat Indian style on
the other cushion, and that I could even light the stove and make tea if I
got bored, because only some of it was exciting to look at."
                    "And making tea's exciting?"
                    "He was just trying to protect me if I got
embarrassed."
                    "So you stayed and watched?"
                    "Yes."
                    "From how far away?"
                    "It was a tree house."
                    "Sorry, you're really good at telling stories, I
forgot."
                    "That's okay, it was kind of small, so details are
important."
                    "I just wondered if, you know, your legs were touching
them while you watched."

                    "Not at first, but almost.  I was by Robert's left
knee, but in awhile I was under it, you know.  Plus, I touched them some
when I pulled Norry's underpants off, and some more when Robert let me help
him get his briefs off."
                    "Did that happen right away?"
                    "No, we had a lot of questions so it was like half an
hour."
                    "Did they get you naked, too?"
                    "No, I wasn't ready for awhile.  I mean I was, but it
seemed to me I was getting readier all the time, and we had plenty of time
because he'd invited us to dinner, so I felt if I kept getting readier from
watching them, it would be more exciting."
                    "Dave likes to make it exciting that way, too.  We used
whisper a lot when he got behind me in the shower, and we still do some,
and he still takes his time."
                    "I know, I listen outside the door."
                    "Cool."
                    "Does he let you get on your knees in front of him?"
                    "No.  He's into definition, as in defined relationship,
so much, and no more.  It's meant to be a stepping stone to me as
responsible, dutiful kid."
                    "You're too much the artistic type to be all dull and
same-old, doesn't he see that?"
                    "He's the best artist you ever saw, so he knows all
about it, but he was lucky because he got brought up with all that
discipline and tenacity stuff; I got brought up on colonial romances by
John Masters, Robert Ruark, and older ones like Kipling and Stevenson,
then, just when I'd figured out that was the life for me, at least learning
about it and writing about it, someday, if I couldn't actually go around
Cape Horn on a windjammer with some cute mate who wanted to take me down
along the keel to show me the golden spike, and it was time to start paying
attention in class and going baa-baa when the teacher called on Lessen
Rudolph..  That coincided with ye olde tumbler of ye extreme grog, so
dedication and perseverance got trapped by the ankle in a grate as Port
Royal settled into the sea, drowned, and make no mistake, lad, drowned
`till ye sockets housed crabs."

                    "I was lucky with Norry and Robert.  It doesn't take
long to figure out the only was out of the hard stuff is getting it out of
the way, but someone does have to show you, not just yell at you to hurry
up all the time.  They taught me in a few weeks, mostly Robert, of course,
but Norry was older so I could see how he learned and copy him.  We ended
up with a beautiful tree house on two levels, painted and varnished and
even with geraniums because it was so cool and dude we could get away with
it.  Just a few weeks, and after that, nothing else mattered except working
extra slowly and taking extra time and getting it exactly right, and then
maybe learning to do it a little faster, though Robert felt that was best
left until someone paid you."

                    "You either get it or you don't.  It can't be modified
in after purchase like big speakers for a car.  You can't fight your way
back to retrieve it like a lost ice ax You can't put Humpty together again,
and he gets real mad if you try."

                    "Humpty's okay the way he is."
                    "Thanks, but Humpty's got a loose rudder pintel and one
of these days it's going to break.  No rudder for the kid."
                    "Maybe the wind will blow you in the right direction,
and you won't need one."
                    "That's already happened, how come I ended up here, but
the wind always changes."
                    "But Dave lets you be a boy in his hands.  I watched
that happen with Norry in Robert's hands, and, I mean, you're not related
or anything, but you and Norry are boys, and Robert and Dave are men, so
you could, you know, if you were fooling around in your head, and you
wanted to be, like, funny, not think of it as the wind always changes, and
makes storms, but as the son also rises.  Only it should read, for you:
`always rises'.  And I'm not just making up something dumb, because the key
word is definitely `always', so, if the son always rises, the wind may
never blow.  I mean, it's a stretch, but there's got to be some answer to
drifting out there with all those other derelicts and crashing into them,
first, and then into the rocks."

                    There were several moments of silence.

                    "Do you want to?"
                    "Yes."
                    "We're both experienced so we don't need to do
foreplay, do we?"
                    "Next time."
                    "Cool."
                    "You wanna turn our back?"
                    "Okay."

                    "Hi."
                    "Hi"
                    "Are you that way because of what happened when you
were ten?"
                    "Yes."
                    "Are you bigger than Dave?"
                    "We're about the same."
                    "Does it happen like a teenager with you?"
                    "I think so.  Like a big kid, at any rate."
                    "It's starting to happen with me, too."
                    "Is it white?"
                    "A little."
                    "That's good for nine."
                    "I like thinking up dumb stuff so I can write for
morons on television when I get older, so I think of it as: `Dragonballs
Me'."
                    "Television's yesterday's news.  You can write for the
Web."
                    "That would be cool."
                    "Then you could tell everything that happened while
Robert was teaching Norry and you were sitting like an Indian at Robert's
left knee, and, you know, you wouldn't have to leave out what happened at
the end when the man's leg went over you, because sometimes that's the best
part."
                    "It was all the best part, especially pulling down his
underpants and seeing how grown-up he was."
                    "Did he lift his hips up to help?"
                    "Yes."
                    "Be sure to put that in.  That's what happened when I
went for a hike with Mex He was the writer on the film I made.  We met a
kid who was out fishing.  We were wearing caveman costumes we borrowed from
wardrobe, they were like stylized, made of silk instead of animal skins, so
Kevin got interested in how we looked and we started to talk and Mex had
worked in a restaurant in college so he knew how to clean fish, so like we
were cavemen preparing raw food and it was easy to pretend and make up
stuff.  Kevin thought we were really funny, but it got kind of messy, too,
because Mex was a what-happens-next? kind of dude, so by splashing us with
gross water from cleaning Kevin's fish, he made it a good idea to swim in
the pond and wash off.  Our costumes cost eight-hundred dollar, each, so we
couldn't swim in them but we had to rinse them off so Mex asked Kevin if it
was okay if we did it there, where he was, or if we should find a private
place along the edge of the pond.  He said he lived in the nearest house
and it was isolated so not many people ever came around and it would be
okay.  Then Mex asked him if he'd like to come in swimming with us.  Kevin
didn't say anything, just kind of nodded, you know, like he wanted to but
was scared, which is how I felt when I first arrived on the set.  We took
our costumes off and led him into the woods at the edge of the pond.  The
ground was soft and mossy, so we lay him down and took his shirt and jeans
off.  We asked him if he wanted to keep his underpants on, and he raised
his hips way up high."

                    "Do you want to get on my bed so we'd be more
comfortable?"
                    "Could I do it a little from behind you, first.?"
                    "Okay, but don't do anything fast."
                    "I know.  My director was big on going slow, and the
art director, even more."
                    "Robert, too, he was really slow with Norry, that's why
he thought I might get bored."
                    "It would be, if you watched other guys very much, but
it's exciting at first."
                    "Yeah, like whispering.  I'm glad my first time was
with someone who liked to talk.  That way I found out Norry's secret that
he wanted to tell me, but was embarrassed, but Robert made him feel
grown-up, not like a little kid, so he could tell."
                    "What happened?"
                    "Wait, let me get behind you and you can tell me about
Kevin, then I'll tell you."

                    "He was thirteen."
                    "Had he been molested before you took his underpants
off?"
                    "More exciting."
                    "You're kidding."
                    "No I'm not.  See if you can guess."
                    "Nothing like with animals or anything?"
                    "Not."
                    "That's a relief.  Then he played with like a little
boy, like seven or something?"
                    "You're getting warmer."
                    "Maybe there were two of them."
                    "Colder."
                    "One?"
                    "The one and only until we came along."
                    "Did it happen a lot with him?"
                    "Yes."
                    "So it must have been someone he could be with a lot,
but he lived in a rural house, so that means it must have been someone he
lived with.  Brothers don't usually like to do things together.  Am I
getting warmer?"
                    "Lisa."
                    "His sister?"
                    "Yes.  She was really cute, but she was eleven and too
old for me.  I just watched."
                    "She came out to the pond to be with her brother?"
                    "She brought him a picnic lunch and got to the pond
after Mex started molesting us .  By that time we'd talked quite a bit, so
we didn't need to hide anything.  She swam off with her brother while he
told her who we were, then he brought her over to meet Mex.  She said Hi to
me too, and I could see in her eyes that she was sad I was too young, but
when I turned to go she grabbed my arm and led me up to the grass and sat
me down, then waited in front of me for her brother and Mex."

                    "She sounds nice."
                    "We were more friends than she was with the older
males, but when it came to the kind of things that happened when I made the
video, she was with them."


                    I view writing as making a beautiful puzzle picture out
of imperfect pieces rather than a bland picture out of perfect pieces.
It's tempting to comb back through and curry out all the inconsistencies,
file and sand each sketch so ages and personalities fit with Teutonic
precision, but this is a mural, not a postage stamp, and it's free on the
Net, not something you paid thirty dollars for.  Additionally, I have
enough ego issues as it is, and knowing I turned out letter-perfect copy at
rates exceeding fifteen-thousand words a day might empower the conceit that
drives the reindeer to a more Santa kind of guy.

                    Samantha in the pouring rain.  She's a muscular little
thing.  She's off on a church fandango and last night was foraging for
bucks to carry on the trip.  Wide open rain, cold, blowing a gale, and the
dripping lark landed on my veranda, tapping at my door.  I stopped the ran
with fifty dollars, and, since she was expecting twenty, brought out the
sun, as well.  She said my wife was a lucky girl, and went home to pack,
leaving me to find comfort in more than mere status as a literary god.

                    I guess microwave ovens have been in common use for
over thirty years, but they still have a new-toy appeal.  It took awhile
but I finally noticed that the revolving platter turns exactly one
revolution every ten seconds, so if you open the door at the end of three
minutes, the handle of the cup is at your finger tips.  If you wait for it
to beep and go off automatically, it turns another quarter circle, and if
you get really careless, the handle ends up away from you; awkward, to say
the least.  If this sounds on the trivial side, you may be right, but the
muses have been pulling their little thudding hearts out and they need some
slack.  There are not signs in literary heaven, no posts to guide the way,
so in addition to doing all the work, they need to guide the sleigh (but if
held on a gentle rein, they dance along the way).

                    Hum-drum-drum.  That, I was just thinking, is my life.
It's been nice having gray, cold weather to liven things up a bit, because
otherwise it's a freaking coal mine.  Yes, they perform well, but they need
a good secretary to type it all out, and, perhaps over cared-for, they do
like to prance along prodigiously, so the typing mounts up, hum-drum-drum.
                    I rode in a symphony the other day.  A local mini-van
bus that had so many rattles and squeaks it was like a wet dog which and
industrious had festooned with a thousand bottle caps.  If I was rich I'd
buy this ultimate rattle trap, drop a crate engine and new drive train in,
and cruise the back roads of Mexico at twenty miles an hour in rust-bucket
heaven.  My idea of a good time.

                    I was thinking when you molest a boy you don't give him
an immediate gift.  For instance, if Randy and I happened to be staying the
night in a hotel, I doubt he'd follow me into the shower or climb in my
bed, willing as he would be to have me follow him in to bathe, or get in
bed with him.  And immediate gift, so to speak, would engender proactive
traits, and these are not in evidence with him or other boys.  He comes
here on his own, he wants what happens, as I did and many boys do at his
age, but he doesn't initiate any activity.  So the gift it is, is
long-term, teaching him that nothing god-awful happens, so, as a man, he
won't be scared to teach a willing boy.  I didn't even know what Jon had
done with me at Timberlake, didn't even know how to masturbate, though I'd
jerked him off several times; only as an adult, with Jose, did the lesson
come home, that I could touch him without turning either of us into
interplanetary zombies.  Contemporary society views this very strangely,
pointing out that boys who were molested then molest others, as if it were
bad (a boy who chances to get hooked by an older male, while fishing,
doesn't, as an adult, teach little boys about being hooked, and might even
teach them to avoid it).  It goes with frequent saying, if any kind of
rape, psychological or physical, is involved, if the younger partner is in
any way unwilling, social norms are right, but if the circumstances are
otherwise, as they very often are, then the conventions are not only wrong,
but highly destructive, and man teaching boy is not only acceptable, but,
in a confusing and hazardous world, usually preferable Again, and always,
not for all, but for more than enough to legitimize the fight against
arbitrary taboo.  The minorities got recognition thru militancy,
burn-baby-burn, but they turned out to be worth little more than token
inclusion.  Healthy pedophiles are movers and shakers, through and through,
and should be mildly bolder, not militant, in promoting their
relationships.  If I lived in New York, for example, I'd wear a "Nifty.org"
tee-shirt (but wouldn't hang out with bare-chested roller-buddies).  Steven
and I pushed it to the limit in Dubuque, or at least to the tune of three
police interviews, but there's a long way between talk and the walk, so we
made out fine, and if it hadn't been for a jealous sister (over material
things, not psychological), we wouldn't have had problem one.  Push a
little and be accepted a lot.  And, to add interest, if I'd pushed any
harder, I would have had Beth, too.  Trouble was, I didn't like her,
nine-year-old beauty that she was.

                    I still think it's cheeky to write derivative stories
longer than the originals, but, at the same time, can't help feeling a
little smug knowing it is unlikely anyone will pull the same stunt with
"One Fish".  My apologies, again, to both authors (and others) for
overusing their work.  I doubt providing crutches for a colleague was not
on their minds when they typed: "FADE IN".


                    "How long did she have to wait?"
                    "The pond was kind of cold, but she was looking right
at them so it didn't take more than a minute."
                    "Did you like watching it happen to them?"
                    "Yeah, they were both really mature.  I got that way
pretty fast, myself, off of making the movie, but for an inexperienced kid,
because I'd never seen, you know, that part of it before, it was really
exciting."
                    "Did they molest Lisa, or just rape her."
                    "They were like I'm being with you, like I'm not
kissing you and petting you and cuddling with you and whispering romantic
stuff, I'm just making it so you can feel everything a boy does.  They were
the same, like they were doctors doing a medical experiment on a patient,
you know, so she could feel it like you are."
                    "Did you lie down on the grass so you could see between
their bodies?"
                    "Yes."
                    "Did they go up over her so you could see everything?"
                    "Most of the time, until they started shaking too much,
then they'd rest against her chest for a minute, sort of like learning to
breathe again, but they couldn't stay against her for long because her
hands were way out over her head so her nipples pressed against their
chests when they lay with her, and that made them rise up and their hips
go, again, I could tell, even though I was supposedly too young to
understand details like that."

                    "Did she put her legs around them like in the movies?"
                    "No, she kept her knees on the grass, but she beat her
heels into the ground a lot when she felt it happening from them, inside
her."
                    "Were there other ways you could tell what was
happening?"
                    "She got like totally wet with them.  Mostly from Mex,
and he wanted to feel incest cum on his penis when he was inside her, so he
mounted between her legs after Kevin.  Then she had to get up right after
he sprayed, because her dad was home and she wanted to go take a nap with
him while her thighs were all slick and white.  After she left, Kevin told
us that her dad was the only one she'd let make her cum, so we pictured
what was happening in the farm house over the hill while Mex and Kevin
molested me."
                    "Did you make it a story?"

                    "Yeah."
                    "Do you want to tell it?"
                    "Sure.  But don't forget Norry and Robert."
                    "As if."


                    "Dad, don't turn around," the girl whispered through
the workshop door.
                    "What's up, kid?" Griff Howell said
                    "I just want you to get ready to look at me," Lisa
said.
                    "I'm always ready to do that, darling," the man said.
                    "No, Daddy, not like I'm a kid," the child prompted,
"but like you do in the special way now.  After I've been for a walk with
Kevin."
                    "Did you lock the door, Lisa?" the man said, his voice
reduced to a husky whisper as he gazed steadily at the mower he'd been
repairing.
                    "Yes, Daddy."
                    "Do you really want to be like this?" the man
stammered, "I don't want you to think we have to be together every time
you've been with your brother; just when and if you want to, angel, okay?"
                    "Yes, Daddy," the eleven year old said, "sometimes I
like keeping what happened with him private, but this is different.  Dad,"
she whispered softly, "I was with an adult.  He was molesting Kevin and
Lessen, he's only ten, in the pond.  I was really handsome, tall and
athletic like my beautiful dad, and I took my frock off and swam with them,
and Kevin told me they were making a movie in Wife Valley, at the old
Campbell ranch, so we swam over and he introduced us.  I really liked the
boy, he had fiery eyes, so I wanted him to stay and see what happened with
Kevin and Mex."

                    "Did he watch you, darling?"
                    "Yes, Daddy, he stayed.  And afterwards I didn't clean
up, Daddy, and I didn't put my dress back on.  Not even my panties.  Daddy,
I know how you get excited when you find out I'm wet from my brother, but
this time it's from a tall, handsome stranger.  A man."
                    "Sweetheart, did you?"
                    "No, Daddy, I told him and we made sure.  I told Kev it
had happened with us, because he can't make me cum yet, and I don't want
him to feel self-conscious about it, but I thought if I came right home and
sort of surprised you, that might help me let go, you know, if you were
just a little more like you when I've just held Kevin in my arms.  He was
the last one I lay underneath, Daddy, Mex, after he'd watched my brother be
successful with me, and he was so big and hard and deep in me I had to beat
my heels on the ground so I wouldn't let go.  It would have happened if I'd
wiggled my hips even a little, but I want to be in your arms the first
time; maybe, someday, in my brother's, but, now, yours, now."

                    "Can I look at you now, Lisa?" the boyish thirty year
old asked.
                    "Yes, Daddy," the schoolgirl whispered.  She had
flyaway brown hair, a thin boyish face, slightly big mouth and teeth, and
the unformed belly and hips of a younger girl.  Her nipples tipped, with
delicate pink flowers, the developing mounds typical of a young teenager.
Griff turned on his stool as she approached, his breath hissing at the
sight of her.  He long, coltish legs joined in a slime of clotted semen,
and thick cum coated her inner thighs.  The man stared, from a foot away,
gently touching the child's wetness.  She pushed closer and he began
kissing her and licking her clean.  His hands worked quickly as he bent to
Lisa, removing his boots and socks, then unfastening his overalls.  In a
minute he stood, pulled down his briefs as she stared down at him, her
hands fondling her big, hard nipples, and stepped naked to her.  The girl
took her tall, athletic father's hand and led him to the old sofa at the
side of the garage.  Lying back as he stood watching, she secured her left
ankle to the seat and splayed her right leg on the floor, thrusting high to
the naked male towering over her.  Griff knelt and found the child's wet
thighs with his lips and tongue, finally using his mouth directly on her as
she gripped the sofa with white knuckles and bucked and squealed, welcoming
his avid use of her young body.

                    "Daddy," she cried out and the tall father manhandled
his long-limbed eleven year old from the sofa, fell on his back, and guided
his naked daughter to his waist.  Her eyes were huge as they paused, the
male going rigid as the female positioned herself, then nodded privately.
He thrust fully into her hot wetness, and she leaned forward to stare into
his handsome face as his strong, greasy hands clamped hard on her soft,
childish waist.

                    Griff had always mounted his little girl as she lay
with her legs spread beneath him, so they spent a gentle minute
experimenting.  Looking down at her dirty waist the girl commented that
that was one way to invite a girl to take a shower.  Then they found each
other and her eyes widened.  Bracing her right elbow on the sofa, where her
heel had just been, and gripping her father's right shoulder, Lisa found
she could set a fast, hard rhythm against the beautiful, panting animal
beneath her.  "Oh, Dad," she whispered, "it's going to be so easy."

                    "Yes, darling," the sweating man whispered, quickly
matching the short, fast urgency of his daughter as she massaged herself
against the hot thickness of his huge penis, "now you know you're beautiful
to a strange male and you have felt his spill in your belly, so you know
the truth, and that is that you're a free woman and not some captive of a
father who caught you with your brother."

                    "I want it to happen with him in his bed tonight,
Daddy," the girl whispered hoarsely.  "I want to set at the breakfast table
with both of you tomorrow and know I've gone all the way in both your arms,
so I can have the same feelings I had the morning after you walked in on us
and I sat at the table knowing both your seed was swimming inside me."

                    "Darling," the man said, his daughter having found a
smooth, comfortable rhythm, her boyish hips moving confidently, her breasts
swelling fully to the gentle touch of her mate, "I honestly thought it was
a loose shutter squeaking in the wind.  I never meant to intrude."

                    "I know, Daddy," the girl replied, a fresh warmth to
her voice, that of a girl fully confident of an ultimate act and now happy
to linger over its mystical approach, "it was our fault for losing
control."
                    "Were you trying to cum with him?" the man whispered.
                    "Yes.  We should have put a blanket on the floor and a
pillow underneath me, then it might have happened."
                    "Was it the closest you ever were?"
                    "Yes," the girl said.
                    "You were so beautiful together, the way he was
sweating and your hair was all damp and lank, and his sureness with you,
the power of his lower back against your slim leg splayed out from
underneath his hips; it took me a whole minute to try and figure why there
was anything wrong with the picture of my baby mounted by her beautiful,
mature brother, then it occurred to me that any wrong was in the eye of the
beholder, and that the beauty should be universal, allowing for clinical
realities much as you obey the traffic lights on the way to an art museum."


                    A little art museum here, tonight.  Randy came at
sunset, alone, and stayed four hours.  Elsewhere, I've credited Steven as
the perfect lover, and when it came to raw carnality, he was mysterious,
intriguing, and awesome, but he had liabilities, too.  He was highly
neurotic, almost completely learning disabled, and he never wanted to kiss.
He didn't want to suck, either, but did once, or a few seconds, as a reward
for some treat within a treat.  Randy is not neurotic, doesn't charge after
one type of homosexual experience and reject others, he's calm, cool, and
quiet, and he loves to kiss.  I had him naked, and just the sight of him
against the north wall, in the classic stance, legs slightly spread, was
enough to remind me what a solid and enduring rational there is to
pedophilia.  How indoctrination can exist that would defile just his
appearance, soft belly blending into silky thighs with his hard, pinky-size
boner jutting up a quarter arc from his waist, to say nothing of his silky,
resilient warmth, simply demonstrates that the communists, with their
ideological hammers and counter-revolutionary sickles, are probably right.
To indoctrinate against something as natural, affectionate, and friendly as
attractive man and willing boy is to indoctrinate -- brainwash -- with the
germs of insanity, so imbuing a political franchise must be, relatively, a
walk in the park.  Look around.  The fat, the dysfunction and misery
amongst wealth and peace.  No one in human history has done less with more.
That's democracy.  Me the criminal, and the judge that sends me away will
cost the State two-hundred- thousand dollars before her massive body runs
up a big bill at the crematoria.

                    We played computer Hangman for an hour.  He lay back on
my chest and I molested him while he used the controller.  I had to get up
to clean the mouse, and when I lay back down, he lay on top of me, pulling
his jersey high, and I fondled his totally, extremely, soft, warm skin and
his beautifully sculpted belly and thighs for another ten minutes.  Then we
switched games, so he had to get up to use the keyboard.  He pulled the
chair right to the bed and lay half across me while I showed him the new
game.  Out of four hours, we had play for about half an hour, and this was
on our first extended time alone together.  The lesson is simple: don't
pester and demand nothing.  If I'd been younger and more responsive, I
could have cum on him, but that can wait until the weather's warmer and we
can be naked together.  Meantime, he's at least temporarily and answer to
the central dilemma of waiting for Samantha, who, if anything, seems to
grow more detached, or finding another girl who is more mature, cutting
Samantha out of the loop.  Randy kisses so avidly I think he will use his
mouth on my teen body, and that's a possibility whose fantasy is half
enough to rule the world.  When I had him naked and was kneeling in front
of him I asked him if he'd like to spend the night sometime, and he nodded
readily, so there's a fantasy for the other half of the world.  My idea of
a big tent.

                    I would like to experiment with Fidel and Randy.  He's
a tall, very handsome seventeen year old, and cums quite easily and very
heavily when he jerks off on my belly.  Randy should experience being with
a hot young adult, and Fidel comes with no diseases and no strings.

                    In all Dangriga, in all my years, I've only known one
twisted kid, a friend of Bev's named Jocelyn, a late-teen male.  That's
what can happen.  Jocelyn was prancing, mincing, lispingly effeminate, and
overtly miserable; gushing about a man an hour like an American stereotype.
He was well liked and hustled here and there like most boys his age (work,
not sex).  He's the only one I've known in my time here who died of aids,
although Malcolm also had a long-term friend who died of the disease.  The
chance of making Randy into a Jocelyn, then, mathematically, is one in
five-thousand.  Margaret Mead writes of how the boys who'd been to the
homes of the English overseers came back to their villages, and as I
recall, does so derisively.  Presumably, she found them lazy and dissolute.
Well, that's how all the kids are here, anyway, so I don't who's going to
notice.  Enervating young loins and punking young heads are probably
realities, but I can't speak from personal experience because I liked to
read before I coaxed Jon into molesting me repeatedly, and I liked curling
up with a good book, afterward.  As far as I can remember all the effect it
had was to teach me that there was a dramatic extra facet to life, and one
I hoped I'd learn more about when I got older.  I do remember a passage
from "Something of Value" wherein a young warrior mounts a female child of
the enemy, and picturing Jon's thick, heavy spurts of semen after I'd
stroked him a dozen or so times with my inexperienced hand.  Perhaps that's
when I began wondering if there might be an aesthetic side to deviance as
well as the organic, criminal, and emotional aspects occasionally
delineated in the media.  That it would one day make me a permanently
archived and widely read children's author never occurred to me at the
time, of course, and even Jose's heavy cumming on my chest didn't inspire
the muses to harness themselves and gallop toward the moon.  So who does
get the credit?  My fellow writers on the alternative Web sites.  I mean,
there were so few novellas and short stories based on algebra, a subject I
sorely missed in my school years, where else was I to turn?

                    Randy climbed in my lap and kissed me as he left, and
that was enough art for this essay.


                    "He was spraying in me the second time, Daddy," the
girl said, "that's why I couldn't focus when I saw you in the door."
                    "I guess we were two lost souls for a minute there,"
the handsome young man said as his naked child, half braced on the back of
the sofa, bucked her young hips confidently against him, her face soft and
confident though she was beginning to pant heavily.
                    "I'm just glad we found each other right away," the
girl whispered, glowing to the whiplash of approaching absolute womanhood
she felt rising as a sure tide radiating strongly from the base of her
spine.
                    "Darling," her father responded, "I've always been so
premature with you before, but you're different now."
                    "It's from being with Mex," the girl said, "watching a
strange male get huge just at the sight of me.  Maybe it's like wives going
wild with their husbands after having a second baby; they know, that's all;
they're not learning, anymore, just like I'm not learning with you.  Plus,"
she went on, "there's even a theoretical side which, and I made this up
myself, holds that the semen of the first male acts as an anesthetic on the
second male's penis, allowing him to mate with the female longer, and
release more sperm than he would if he didn't feel the heaviness of the
first male inside the girl."

                    "Sweetheart," the now shaking male whispered, "have you
seen it happen?  Did Kevin show you?"
                    "Yes, Daddy," the girl said.  "It was the night Janice
Kirk dumped him because he had an outbreak of acne.  I thought it made him
look so cute and masculine, like a boy, plus he's ever so nice, as the
English say, and I couldn't figure her out.  I thought I must be crazy, so
I had a long talk with Kev on the porch, and it happened out in the woods
about an hour later."
                    "Do you want to talk about it more?" the man whispered
to the slim beauty gazing down into his eyes, her eyes on fire as her body
began tensing.
                    "After it happens," she rasped, "oh, Daddy, be with me,
hold me, oh, oh, oh-my-god."  Then she was lost to a full seizure,
collapsing on the adult beneath her and mewing softly in his ear as she
pushed with all her strength against the arm rest of the sofa, driving her
thighs as hard as she could her fathers huge penis and spasming violently
on him, her body instinctively milking his hard and fast.  In one of those
neat little arcs that can make a good novel a great novel, it so happened
that Mex Helgendorf, anticipating his hike with Lessen Rudolph, had
remained celibate for the three days preceding their meeting the
thirteen-year-old fisherman.  Lisa, fresh from his mount, found her father
still hard and hot and fully inside her as she began sighing against his
panting chest.  "Oh, Daddy," she whispered, this time re-entering the world
she'd recently departed as her first orgasm stole from her bucking hips and
shook her like a terrier shakes its prey for a full, endless minute.  And
he was still with her.  He hadn't lost control in spite of her cries and
crushing spasms.  She regained enough strength to lift her head and smiled
softly at him, then slowly rose again, supporting herself on the back of
the sofa, and mewed to him in welcome as she felt the gentle confidence of
her shiny, shiny new lover.  His strong, greasy hands again returned gently
to her large breasts and they continued mating openly as the eleven year
old girl told her handsome, athletic father what had happened after she'd
taken her big brother's hand and led him from the porch.


                    "Janice's a pinworm disguised as a gnat," the girl said
to her brother, "a rodent in a reptile suit with cockroach breath and
rotten-egg eyes, you know, the kind the drip all gray and green and lumpy."
                    "Then how come she smells so nice?" Kevin, almost
fourteen, said to his sister who had just turned eleven.
                    "That's your nose, not her scent," the sister said,
"and it's sniffing something from a bottle, not the essence of moron the
rest of the world gets a whiff of when she walks by."
                    "You used to like her," the brother observed.
                    "I still do," the girl responded, "but I love you and I
think she's a nitwit not to go out with you over Dickie
Hold-The-Mirror-Still Durham.  Not to put too fine a point on it, you're
sexier in a week than he is in a year."

                    "I look dorky this way," the boy said.
                    "You look craggy, and rugged, and hawk-eyed, and
mature, and beautiful," Lisa whispered.  "You're not handsome, you're the
most beautiful person, male or female, I've ever seen in person or on
television, specifically including Ruthie's big brother, Simon, on "7th
Heaven"
                    "Phew," the teen remarked, "I thought you were going to
say Matt, CEO of Hairclub for Boys."
                    "As if," the girl responded, "but Simon is pretty
close."
                    "Thanks," the boy said, "it's weird, you know, she
always makes me feel worse, and you always make me feel better; most kids,
their sisters drive them nuts, and their girlfriend is the one who makes
them feel good."

                    "You don't need to feel good," the younger sibling
observed, "you are good, and nice, which is even better, you just have to
stop feeling bad.  Janice's okay, but she's nothing special; I don't think
she's read ten books in her life, and they were probably `Nancy Drews',
plus, she's tending towards largeness, and if those aren't two strikes
against her, then I don't know a baseball from a peanut.  Upshot, you have
nothing to feel bad about, in italics, about which you should feel very not
unhappy."
                    "I'm feeling unhappier talking to my kid sis," the boy
said, "who is, herself, the world's best brand-new eleven year old."
                    "Do you like it that I'm starting to grow up a little?"
Lisa whispered, her voice suddenly low and husky.
                    "I'm not meant to," the teen said, blushing.
                    "And I'm not meant to wonder if you like looking," the
female noted, "so we're both wrong, only I'm wronger, because I like
looking at you, plus wondering if you're noticing anything with me."
                    "You wear more clothes now," the boy allowed.
                    "Come on Kevin," Lisa whispered, "you can say it."
                    "You've started wearing a, you know..."
                    "Why?" the girl coaxed gently, her voice as petrifying
to her maturing brother as the awesomely embarrassing topic at hand.
                    "Because you're getting, you know..."
                    "It'll really make me feel like a girl if you say the
words," she went on, "won't it make you feel like a boy?"
                    "Yes," the shy, handsome teen admitted.
                    "Then just whisper it in my ear."
                    "I'll try," Kevin said, pausing as the pretty girl with
brown flyaway hair looked up into his eyes.
                    "Then go ahead," she encouraged.
                    "Okay," the boy whispered in a strangled adolescent
voice, "you're wearing a bra because your breasts are developing.  I
noticed it right away, then I spent so much time not thinking about it it
was hard to think about anything else.  You know, I like wondered if you
looked at yourself in the mirror, and if you thought they were pretty, or
they're like a nuisance, or something, and I guess I wondered more stuff,
like it you went out with Mark, if you'd let him see you or put his hand up
on your chest so he could feel you."

                    "Do you ever look at yourself in the mirror?" the girl
said, "I mean, you know, when you're alone in your bedroom with the door
locked, so you can really look."
                    "Sometimes, I guess," Kevin said.
                    "I do, too," the girl responded.  "I'll bet sometimes
we did it at the same time.  That I was looking at myself and wondering
what you would look like, while you were looking at how a boy gets and
wondering what I looked like.  Do you think?"
                    "More than that," the boy responded.
                    "You mean just before you go to sleep?"
                    "Yeah," Kevin murmured.
                    "Me, too," Lisa said, "I watch my bedroom door and wish
it would open really slowly and quietly.  I even take my nightie and
panties off and like on top of the covers so if you sneak into me you'll
know right away that I'm not mad and I want you to stay with me."
                    "I do what boys do on my covers, too," the thirteen
year old said, "and I think if you came in I wouldn't stop, I'd just let
you watch me in case you were inexperienced and wanted to, you know, learn
about it."

                    "Learn about what, Kevin?" the girl again coaxed.
                    "Just, you know, what happens when a boy gets really
excited," Kevin temporized, again blushing.
                    "What would I see," came her tiny voice, "whisper it in
my ear like you did before."
                    "What boys have," he said.
                    "What do boys have? and not the locker-room word, the
biology one," she continued, aroused until she was quaking by such
gentleness in her tall, coltish boy of boys.
                    "The same thing they call it in biology," he tried.
                    "You just have to say it once," the girl said, "so we
can share growing up, you know, more completely, be closer because you said
something private to me that you've never said to anyone else."
                    "I haven't even read it," Kevin admitted, "I skip over
it in the books."
                    "Why is it so embarrassing?" she asked.
                    "Because it's so intense," her brother explained, "it's
like what a boy is, but hidden away most of the time, then you start
finding out that it's not just you that's involved, but it has a lot to do
with girls.  Then you find out it gets girls pregnant, and that it's in
porn films, and sometimes boy show it to each other, and that a lot of men
want to see it, and, by that time, its bad enough, but then you find your
sister wants to talk to you about it, so, you know, it gets a little
confusing and uncomfortable, while at the same time it's more exciting than
three circuses in one tent."

                    "I don't think so," the girl said, "I mean the
excitement part.  Look at everyone going crazy when they watch a close ball
game or horse race.  Those are more exciting, or we'd hear yelling and
screaming from the houses when we walk around town after the movies.  I
think it's more feminine, more graceful and gentle; exciting in the
abstract, but when something happens it's not a first down and five."
                    "How about in soccer where they `scoooore'," the young
teen quipped nervously.
                    "I was going to let you whisper it in my ear, and you
could even have had your eyes closed," Lisa said, "but after that clever
little aside you, a, get to say it while you're looking into my eyes, and,
b, say it out loud, not whisper, and, c, put into the interrogatory case by
posing it as a question to which I can either nod or shake my head in
response."

                    "Olay," the boy finally whispered, "I agree.  Look up
at me and hold my hands."  The girl complied and the handsome teen gazed
into her pretty brown eyes from half a foot away.  "Ready?" he asked.  The
girl hesitated for a moment, then nodded, now shy herself.
                    "Love?" the boy said, in a little more than a whisper.
                    The pixie's eyes brightened suspiciously before she
sighed "Yes," in response, pulling her brother's slightly scarred face to
her neck and whispering softly, directly into his left ear: "but even if it
isn't as exciting as a three-three pennant race, I still think it would be
very, very nice to have the hot sperm of my teenage brother under my new
bra."
                    "Where do you want it to happen?" Kevin asked.
                    "Forgive the symbolism," the girl replied, "but there's
a big cherry tree, you know the one.  The last few times I've passed it
I've thought about my door opening slowly while Dad's asleep, and how my
bed squeaks when I pretend things the things girls do, and that I'm a
virgin, and that it's a pretty place, and very private, and other things."

                    "It's not far," Kevin said.
                    "But far enough that if it is, you know, at least a
little like football, we won't have to whisper what we're feeling so the
other will know and can share."  She stood and he followed, she crossed the
lawn and anyone could tell from the slight distance between them and their
shamed posture that taboo beat its insidious little drum and piped its
sickly flute.  In the woods, away from any possible eyes, they seemed to
shake off their disease as babies shake off fevers.  But appearances can be
deceiving and ye who think young innocents now wander, need but listen to
have your illusions founder.

                    "Kevin?" the girl said after minutes of silence, her
right hand in her brother's left squeezing tenderly.
                    "Yes?" the boy responded.
                    "I know you've got a lot to think about," the girl
said, "I mean, I do, too, so I don't want to add to it, but even more I
don't want to have any secrets from you.  For example, if something did
happen with Mark on a date someday, I'd tell you about it if you wanted me
too, even all the details, but there's something even more secret than
that, and I want to tell it to you before we get to the tree, okay?"
                    "What is it?" her brother asked.

                    "Dad," the girl whispered, squeezing the male's hand.
They walked another minute in silence.  "Do you understand?"  Another
minute passed as they walked, heads now bowed as hot surge of shame
radiated through their souls.  "Not just tell him," she went on, "be with
him.  Be with both of you, not together, but a lot, no secrets.  His door
opening some nights, your on other nights, and lots of nights everyone
behaves as if Grandma Prude is sitting in the hall all night with her
heaviest rolling pin."

                    Again they walked a minute, slowly, in silence.  Kevin
stopped and turned his sister to him.  He looked into her pretty but
troubled eyes.  "He is pretty cute."  They didn't skip from then on and
throw leaves and twigs at each other, but walked so normally they would
have been indistinguishable in a crowd milling toward an arena.

                    "Will it make you uptight if I come from his room to
yours once in awhile?" Lisa asked.
                    "Guys kind of accept that," Kevin said, "you know, they
have affairs with married women and date girls who have other boyfriends
and marry widows and divorcees.  You'd think it would be a bigger deal than
it is, you know, because basically it means one male may have to support
the child of another, but we're civilized enough to grin and bear it, and
since we often leave our seed in other females and someone might be out
there raising our child, it's not all that lopsided."
                    "How will you feel watching me leave your room, naked,
and turn right in the hallway, instead of going back to my own room?"
                    "I hope you'll stay with me all night once in awhile so
we can discuss it," the handsome boy said, "because, as you just mentioned,
there's also the issue of how I'll feel when you come naked from his room
to mine."
                    "If I open the door to Dad's room suddenly, would I
ever catch you listening?" the eleven year old waned to know.
                    "Yes," the boy had to admit.
                    "I knew you were sexy," his sister said.
                    "I thought you were, too," Kevin responded, "but you
keep getting more that way so I must have been wrong."

                    "I'm going to wait a few weeks before telling Dad," the
girl said as they approached the hidden tree, "I want it to be solid and
sure with you before the issue gets confused."
                    "You could keep it secret, if you want to," the boy
said, "I'd never ask you or spy or anything."
                    "My dream, at this point," the girl said, "is to live
with both of you forever, keeping house and having kids just like a married
lady.  No secrets. No tension.  No locked doors other than for physical
privacy, like in the bathroom."
                    "It might work," the boy allowed, "especially if you
had a couple of lovers so you'd know you weren't some weird family toy or
something."

                    "Most of the movies about incest show the male as fat,
hairy, and old," Lisa observed, "plus insidious, demanding and abusive.
That's where the weird comes in.  If they showed Roy Scheider off camping
with the girl in the bathing cap in the swimming-pool commercial playing
his daughter and tilted the camera up when the flap on the tent closed, it
wouldn't work, dramatically, because there'd be no conflict, and nothing to
resolve."
                    "It might work as a happy ending," Kevin said.
                    "I don't think so," his sister responded, "or at least
only in the context of a conventional love story, because everyone in the
audience would be thinking to themselves, `Hey, they belong together, so
why make a move about it?'  The point is, if I'm a family toy, it's not
weird, it's a beautiful family and I want to make it bigger, preferable
with two or three daughters so I could be sure my handsome buck and stag
were always home at night."

                    "We'd be home," the boy said.
                    "Kevin?" the girl asked.
                    "What?" the boy said.
                    "I know we haven't done anything physical except hold
hands, but I wondered if, you know, by talking about things if we've had
enough, you know, foreplay, for the first time.  I mean I'd like to
experiment with kissing and petting tonight when you come to my room, but
I'd like to try the sex part without anything else, you know, any kind of
strip tease or anything."

                    "I can try," Kevin said, "but I want to make love to
you so you may have to dodge and jump a little."  His affectionate tone,
even though he spoke in a hoarse whisper, made her feel safer than houses.
By accord they turned their backs to each other, stripping out of their
summer clothing.
                    "Kevin?" came her voice.
                    "What, sis?" he responded.
                    "I'm going to keep it on and let Dad be the first one
to take it off.  I know that probably sounds frivolous, under the
circumstances, but I want there to be some ritual, okay?"
                    "Yes," the boy said, learning a fast lesson in
relativity.  He spent a second reflecting on the subject of disappointment.
How he might have felt if Janice didn't want him to see and touch her on a
date, that would be pretty major, and his sister's wish for the same
privacy, as he skinned down his briefs and hung them on a branch, which was
an equal disappointment, under circumstances which seemed to reduce it to a
triviality of little consequence.  His amateur philosophizing did little
good.  He looked down at himself, monstrously huge and hard, half on fire
high between his long, coltish legs, needing any input but the soft rustle
of cloth behind him as his pretty little sister readied herself to welcome
a male for the first time.  It got worse.  There was the faintest
imaginable trace of silken sound.  She was stripping out of her panties.

                    "Kev," came the frightened whisper.  He turned and both
stood three feet apart, arms at their sides, each drinking hotly of their
first partner.  Lisa's nipples pushed hard and big against her training
bra, accenting her slim, boyish body like exclamation points wrought in
gold.  Kevin's big boner bent to his right.  It was almost six inches long,
circumcised, and probing up from his slender hips hard and hot.  "Hi," they
whispered simultaneously, then went back to staring each other up and down.
Kevin was feeling more masculine by the moment.  He turned and backed into
the tree, reaching above him for branches, then spreading his legs widely
and summoning the fawn with a gentle sway of his hip.  The female
approached slowly.  Hesitated, then reached for him with her tiny, feminine
hands.  He thrust gently to her and froze in blatant summons.  She found
him very low with her left hand, and wet his flaring glans with the fingers
of her right hand.  She looked hotly into his smoking eyes and began
stroking him with a rhythm both children had often seen on the farm.  They
said nothing, their breathing deteriorated rapidly to ragged panting.  She
wet him again with the now heavy spill of his seminal fluid, gripped him
more firmly with her left hand, and began to openly masturbate him, his
penis inches from her pretty, school-girl face.  The boy began trembling
wildly.  "Don't stop when it starts happening," he panted.

                    "Think of looking through the keyhole of Dad's bedroom
door," the girl whispered harshly, "you'll probably be able to see some of
the things we do."  The boy closed his eyes, trying to shut out the image
of his handsome father's athletic body responding rhythmically and
persistently with his pretty kid sister.  There was too much truth in the
image.  Too little fantasy.  And then her lips were on him, her pretty face
against him as his head sagged with the shock of her inexperienced tongue
and nibbling teeth.
                    "I'm cumming," he whispered to her.
                    She eased her mouth from him.  "Next time it will be in
my belly," she whispered, positioning herself in front of his shaking hips
so she could fit the tip of his hot shaft under the left cup of her new
bra.  Both gazed down for long moments until the teen boy stopped shaking
and panting and shaking, going rigid as stone.  That's when it started.
The hardness of her nipple against the most sensitive area on his wildly
swollen penis and the mystery of her hidden by the merest taunting silk
stripped him of his humanity, and his sister's urgent whisper rendered him
a beast.  "Get the bra really wet," the girl coaxed, "so I can show it to
Dad in case I have trouble getting him interested."

                    She gripped him hard and held him still, perfectly
against her school girl body.  He whispered, "Oh, baby," and began
ejaculating, his sperm soaking her immediately and gushing from under the
pink fabric so that the child mewed in shock.  Three times she squealed in
response to the hard jolting in her slick hands, then she was soaked and
burning with curiosity.  She eased him from under the silk cover her slick
left breast, holding his throbbing penis inches from her face, her eyes
crossed as the focused on the dark pink, swollen glans.  His hot semen
rushed from deep within him like stuttering bolts of lightening, like
fighter jets with rusty wings.  She squealed again at the shock of him
against her gripping hands, then gasped as a jet of thin white sperm gouted
two feet straight into the air.  Such erotic beauty was not to be wasted,
and by the time the male's huge spurt splattered on her naked body she had
her brother back under the silk and was watching, numb, as he soaked her
right nipple and breast as wantonly as he had started with her.  That he
was ebbing, the heavy flow from under her bra diminishing, was, for the
moment, unbearable, and she pulled the male free of her immature chest and
took him hard and full in the mouth, using everything she had and making up
the rest in hot panic as she went along, instinctively greedy for all his
male heat.  "I'm cumming," the boy rasped again as her tongue went wild and
she sucked fast and hard.  The reward was thick and salty, filling her
mouth as she mewed and hummed, urgently signaling her adoration in a way
the tall, coltish athlete understood.  Again, she sensed an ebb, but she
was not human, nor was he.  She pulled him roughly from the tree, rolling
back on the grass as he fell on top of her.  He broke his fall with his
strong arms, and she used her now experienced hands quickly, finding his
massive maleness, easing it against her, then spreading her legs widely and
thrusting hard and deliberately to him, hissing in passionate welcome.  He
penetrated her fully, high between her slim legs, with an involuntarily
thrust of his own.  He stared into her eyes as she went wide with the shock
of him, then they softened, sparkled happily, and widened again in shock as
he began taking her like a hot goat for minute after wild minute, then
easing to become gentle and tender with her.  "I'm cumming," he gasped for
the third time, she mewed his name, and he began spraying and kept hotly
on, mashed fully against her widely spread young thighs, until his arms
gave out and he collapsed against her chest, losing consciousness for a
moment with his final thought a picture of their handsome father slowly
removing his kid sister's silky, pink training bra.

                    "You didn't," he whispered gently as they regained the
path leading back to the farm.
                    "I know," she responded, squeezing his hand, "it's
meant to be harder for girls with their brothers or dads.  Something about
pheromones.  You know, by and large, it's best if brothers don't mate with
their sisters, so nature makes it less likely by favoring outside
partners."
                    "But it was okay?"
                    "It was probably more intense because I didn't climax,"
the girl said.  "I felt everything, all of you, every move you made,
especially when you became all soft and gentle on the outside but bigger
than ever inside me while you were pushing like a man between my legs.  It
was very private, very personal, and very intimate; you were so tender and
gentle, you held so still and held me so still against me.  It was almost
like we were looking through a microscope together, or threading a needle,
then it was almost mechanical, like a bridge of life between us, and your
seed was rushing into me again and again while the bridge jumped and
heaved.  I mean, that's kind of gross, because it was more alive feeling,
like religious, like everything there is and the reason for it all, and it
went on so long there were even moments for offshoot thoughts like why
doesn't every girl share this if she loves her brother or her dad?  You
know, that denying it even once would be a crime."


                    "You were so ashamed, sweetheart, when you followed me
from your brother's bed to mine.  I didn't want to quiz you.  I was
wondering why you were wearing your bra, and, you know, noticed that
something had happened, and I thought it might have been under your blouse.
I knew it was something very private, so when you stood by my bed with your
head hanging and your arms at your side I just turned you around and
unsnapped you, looked at your tomboy back, then turned you around while you
dropped it on my knees, but if I'd known how special it was I would have
molested you and quizzed you before you showed me.
                    "Of course," Griff added, Lisa again tensing as he
thrust hard and held himself deep, "if I'd known how he'd cum off on your
chest while you watched, it would have made me even more premature."
                    "I want you to be, sometimes, Daddy," the daughter
said, "it's exciting for a girl to know at least for awhile she's
unbearably attractive, sort of a love thing like the feeling at the end
when we're still together, something special like the shaky bridge that's
almost religious, plus, I loved watching Kev, so sometime you could let it
happen on my tummy or my legs and not try to stay in control."
                    "You are getting no less beautiful and no less wondrous
to me," the man whispered to his now urgently tensing child, "so it will,
love, just like your brother, or maybe all over your pretty hair and face
and neck and shoulders."  She was able to nod but not speak, her eyes grew
wide with shock, then he lost her to a second long, violent seizure,
holding her naked young body in his arms as she flailed her widely spread
thighs against him, her breath whistling as she shook against him, her
hands scratching and clawing, as she felt each hard pulse of his hugely
adult penis deep in her belly and for a full minute nothing else in the
whole world.

                    They lay panting and exhausted for half an hour, then
giggled at the greasy prints on the skin of the young girl.  It was a good
excuse for a shower, and they took a long one, knowing they could now face
death, itself, with equanimity, for they had missed absolutely nothing of
life.


                    "Way, way awesome, dude, but when did you find out all
the details?"
                    "Kevin invited us to have dinner and spend the night.
I asked Griff if he'd wash my hair in the shower.  Mex went into Lisa's
room and Kevin was tired so he went to sleep."
                    "Did you run the water in the shower?"
                    "No.  We took towels in."
                    "I'll bet you thought of something as soon as he had
you alone in the bathroom."
                    "We didn't stay long."
                    "You went and listened at the bedroom door of the
little girl, didn't you?"
                    "Yeah."
                    "And it was an old farmhouse, so it had keyholes in the
doors."
                    "You're not a kid, you're a psychic."
                    "I read, therefore I am."
                    "I read too much, therefore I'm not."
                    "That's another keyhole."
                    "Were you naked when you looked through Lisa's?"
                    "He'd never molested a boy before, so he still had me
in my underpants."
                    "Could you see a lot?"
                    "It was lighted with candles like a movie.  She went
out of view for a minute, then came back wearing just a pink bra.  Mex
stripped and sat on the bed.  His penis was even bigger than when he was
molesting Kevin and me in the pond and raped Lisa, like over six inches and
maybe even seven.  They whispered awhile, then he reached behind her and
took her bra off, licking her breasts and getting even bigger and harder
from the salty taste of her.  Then she knelt on the rug beside the bed,
laying across it with her arms stretched out as far as she could reach.
Mex put her up on a pillow, then knelt behind her.  At first he held her
hips, which meant I couldn't see quite everything that was happening with
their bodies, but then he suddenly put his hands behind his head, and I saw
it about ten feet away.  He went all the way inside her that way, then bent
over her so he could feel her up while he mated with her.  I couldn't tell
when it happened, but after awhile even in the candlelight I could see
sperm running down the inside of her left leg.  I told Griff that Mex had
sprayed in her, and he took me back into the bathroom and molested me in
the shower while I told him what I'd seen."

                    "I really like jerking off with you."
                    "I like it with you, too."
                    "Do you want to cum:?"
                    "How about what happened with Norry and Robert."
                    "Okay.  We were used to being with Robert in our
underpants.  He started touching us a lot in front of each other, and we'd
look into each other's eyes while he stood behind Norry or me.  He taught
us how to touch each other and put each of us against a tree so we could
experiment with the advanced way.  Then he got that way against the tree,
with his hands behind his head, and he spread his legs and let us
experiment with touching him through his briefs.  Then he put his legs
together so we could pull them down.  We looked at him naked for awhile,
then he got down on his knees and pulled me really close, and helped me get
Norry naked, then they did me the same way, and we went back in the tree
house for privacy, and Norry got in his lap and I got back on my sofa
cushion.  Robert taught Norry how to touch him and he let me reach over and
try, too.  We both like the feeling of his penis in our hands, and soon we
were sidle by side, kind of pushing each other while we experimented.
Norry was older so I let him lead, and pretty soon Robert was sweating and
shaking.  He told us to stop, and we really trusted him so we did.  He lay
me back on the floor, first, and told me to put my hands over my head.
Then he lay on the cushion between my legs and got me inside his mouth.
He'd done it with other little boys so he knew how to be really soft and
wet and just go up and down about an inch with his lips and tongue.  After
awhile I couldn't keep my hands stretched out, no matter how good it felt,
I had to sit up and hold his head in my hand while he kept doing it and
doing it.  Norry got behind me and whispered to me and molested me while my
hands were on Robert.  His hands were on my inner thighs, spreading my legs
as wide as he could without hurting.  After a few minutes I began to feel
all on fire way down under my stomach.  He kept doing it and making it
worse.  Norry could feel what was happening, so he let my lie back on my
back and knelt on my outstretched hands so I couldn't sit up again but had
to let Robert do exactly what he wanted between my legs.  That made the
fire worse than ever, then I started shaking like a fish on a dock, and all
the fire was in once place, and he wouldn't stop being soft and wet on me,
and going gently up and down, so I couldn't control what happened and I let
him have what he wanted and just relaxed almost like I wasn't even there
while it happened."

                    "Do you want to lie back on the bed?  I'll try to make
it happen."
                    "No.  That was all I want.  I like having you behind me
and feeling your boner between my legs, and your hands feel really nice on
me, especially the way you touch me, but that's all I want.  Once was
enough for cumming until I can spray like Norry did."
                    "Was he the next one?"
                    "No.  Robert was.  It sort of worked that he knew to
make me cum first, because I didn't have sperm and could stay excited after
it happened.  But Norry was mature, and after it happened with him, he'd
like lose interest and get cold for awhile, and he wouldn't want what
Robert did, so we got back the way we were, and Norry and I masturbated
Robert while Norry told us about what happened when his cousin Mace, who
was nineteen, and his sister, Sharon, who was nine, came to live with them
for awhile after there was an accident at his uncle's job.

                    "Do you want me to jerk you off while I tell you what
happened?"
                    "Yes."
                    "Do you tell your partner before you cum?"
                    "Yes."
                    "Just say `I'm', not `it's', that's my only hang-up."
                    "Okay."


                    I just read back through the last few pages and decided
to leave the inconsistencies in.  As great a lesson as I've had in writing
is reading some of the poorly written stories on alternative sites.  Most
of these, by the way, are on Nifty, because of their highly inclusive
access.  Badly written stories fall into two categories.  First, are
stories by very young writers and writers to whom English is a second
language.  These are often excellent, and, like the Creole dialect spoken
here in the Caribbean, far more interesting and expressive than the same
story would be narrated in academically correct language.  The second group
are harder to read, but they do teach how not to do it more precisely than
how TO do it can be taught.  I've actually winced aloud to see one of my
own shortcoming in someone else's story, and tried not to repeat.
Therefore, the inconsistencies stay, the student writer or editor is able
to evaluate their impact, and, if Jimmy Reardon loses his little underpants
twice, remember the Chinese tradition of including a flaw, a token of
humility, in every work of art.  (Of greatness flaws are sometimes made,
for without defect there is no perfect.  Mayo Tse-not.)


                    "Norris, who did all the laundry?" Mrs. Shillin asked.
                    "Mace did, Mom," the twelve year old said.
                    "I don't recognize my own basement.  It's like a
Proctor and Gamble ad down here."
                    "He just kind of likes to do stuff," the boy noted.
                    "Do you like having him here?" the woman asked, her
tone engaged.
                    "He's not as dumb as a father, and he's not as stupid
as a brother," the tall, slim boy with in impish expression and huge brown
eyes allowed.
                    "High praise," his mother laughed, "almost mighty
praise; you be careful or people will start teasing you."
                    "Someone has to be cool, or else how would we know who
the geeks are?"

                    "And your cousin Sharon?" the mother asked, same tone.
                    "Mom, she shoots clay pigeons from the hip.  She says
if she was a boy she'd use a double-barreled twelve-gauge."
                    "How many does she get?" Karen Shillin asked.
                    "I guess maybe half."
                    "And you?"
                    "Sometimes a box, I guess."
                    "Now who's hip?" she teased, adding: "Since we're down
here with nothing to do, we might as well talk, and I'm just in the mood to
make it plenty embarrassing, not because I want to make you squirm, but
because your cousin is, to put it mildly, rare; both of them are.  They
seem attracted to you, again, both of them.  Mothers don't clue boys in
very often, that's why god invented the world, but I did want to say that
you are one brown-eyed, brown-haired beauty of a boy, and you're nicer than
you are cute, and that if you feel the same attraction to Mace and Sharon
as they seem to feel for you, that's fine with me, and would be fine with a
lot of mothers, but not with others.  Keep that in mind.  I want you to
hang out with them all you want, no restrictions or advice other than
keeping your eyes and ears open.  You're way smart enough to make your own
decisions and draw your own limits, and, since you have to do it for the
rest of your life, anyhow, starting with your cousins as a good option for
lots of kids, and should be better for my number one and only
quality-student, nice-kid, twelve year old."

                    "Mace, I had a talk with mom down in the laundry room,"
Norry said after knocking on the door of his cousin's bedroom.
                    "Do you want to stay for awhile and tell me about it?"
the tall, athletic teen asked, putting his book aside and sitting up,
offering his visitor a choice by waving at a chair and patting the side of
his bed.  Norry chose the bed and sat at the older male's right hip.  "A
long talk?" he prompted, seeing hesitation in his handsome young cousin's
eyes.

                    "You know Mom," the boy said, "not too much in the way
of words or time, but she said in not so many words that I have a crush on
you, and you like me, you know, as a boy as well as a cousin, at least that
was my interpretation, and I know she was right about the way I feel, and I
thought maybe it would be real embarrassing, or maybe, you know, she was
right and you did like me, sort-of really."
                    "From the first minute," the older cousin said.
"Sharon, too.  I mean we do a lot of the same kind of stuff at home you do;
which is mostly read, but once in awhile she talks me into something a
little different, a special project; not to put too fine a point on it, a
pipe bomb, so I won't lose my childhood prematurely, and then I'd build her
another doll house with more rooms and better furniture, and we'd take
pictures of it with the video camera, so it wouldn't be lost forever."

                    "Trendy people call that `quality time'," the boy
noted.
                    "If you tape the bomb going off at three hundred frames
per second, and view it a thirty, the quality is surprising," the older boy
deadpanned.
                    "How do you avoid shrapnel wounds?" Norry asked.
                    "Luck, and a double thickness of Plexiglas," the boy
explained, "plus being reasonable about how close we get."
                    "Are we going to build one while you guys are here?"
the younger boy wanted to know.
                    "Ah," the older boy said, "the doll house comes first.
It's beyond Zen.  Hundreds of hours of meticulous planning and work, first
the drawings, then the house, then a shining star of a bomb, culminating in
an ending fit to break the eardrums of a rocker, then start all over again
with a bigger house, and, again, not to put to fine a point on it, edgier
chemistry -- learning as we go, but not just retaining, building,
advancing."

                    "If it was a club," the younger boy noted, "the champ
would head SAC before he was thirty years old."
                    "Or build exquisite one-family homes," his cousin said.
                    "When do we start?" the boy asked.
                    "As soon as most of the distractions are harnessed,"
Mace said, "it's no good trying to eliminate them, so we pick a few,
exercise them to the fullest, in lieu of all others, and get back to work.
Houses and bombs, bombs and houses, ying and yang, with a bang which
metaphysically cleanses us of all the sins we omitted during our patient
and methodical undertaking.  The bang is the spiritual, a chemical Christ,
if you will, not absolving sin but rewarding lack of sin.  You have to have
an elastic brain to get around the whole of it, and, at the highest level,
you find it doesn't make much sense, thereby fulfilling any desire for
wisdom part and parcel of your search, because of the close parallel to be
found in the life which begins anew with each flash of fire and clap of
thunder, which reduces all to entertainment, with the obtuse, the
theoretical, abstract, conjectural, spiritual, and the mystical joining
omitted-sin in a way that makes your ears ring and your head ache from
nitrate fumes.  It's not exactly a Happy Meal philosophy, but is pretty
trite and pre-packaged, nonetheless, and, frankly, if it wasn't for the
bombs I don't think Sharon and I would spend two hundred hours building and
furnishing a house that could barely fit in the back of a Subaru."

                    "It's different than school," Norry said.
                    "But not half as weird, you'll have to admit that," the
older boy responded, "and we don't ditch or anything, we have our little
world with each other and our sophisticated toys, so we march in step
everywhere else, and, besides, if we couldn't trade for stuff at school,
we'd have to spend a lot more time on each house."

                    "I guess I didn't think of that," the younger boy on
the bed admitted.
                    "You don't have a sister like Sharon," the older boy
said, "it was all her idea, in the first place.  All the girls in
kindergarten were trading dolls and doll stuff, and, the way she figured
it, if there wasn't some kind of end to the trading, no one would buy new
dolls and accessories, and the companies would go out of business, and
there'd be no more dolls to trade.  I was fifteen at the time, and she kind
of looked up to me, I guess, so she explained the problem.  I was reading
the Greeks and their followers and looking for a doctrine free of any hint
of religion or superstition, but the Oriental wasn't probably worth the
time to study it, so she came to me, I guess you'd say, at the right
moment, and we started on our first house using Popsicle sticks for joists
and balsa and cardboard for everything else.  It was crude, and we blew it
up with a shamefully retarded device, but it was a start.  If you want to
build one with us, it'll be the seventh."

                    "How did you keep it secret from your father?" the
younger male wanted to know.
                    "He's the one who made us use the Plexiglas," Mace
said, "but otherwise he was cool about it.  We weren't watching television
and we weren't getting fat and he made us put our hands flat on the
breakfast table every morning so he could count our fingers, but I think
that was just teasing to make Sharon giggle."

                    "Now I know why Mom said `no restrictions' on hanging
out with you guys," Norry noted.
                    "She must really trust you," Mace responded.
                    "She said I'd know where to set limits and draw lines,
stuff like that," the younger cousin explained.
                    "There ARE limits to what we can do," the teen agreed,
nodding, "how wide is your back door, for example; how far to we have to
carry it to a safe place, all kinds of them, but they're just challenges
and they help make our play useful by instilling life lessons as well as
providing a philosophical end-game."

                    "It's sort of ultimate," Norry said.
                    "And then some," his cousin again agreed, "we miss
television, I missed dating, we miss pizza and most of what's known as
hanging out; we miss video games and the Net, chatting, downloading music,
we miss attending concerts and events, theme parks, included; we go to few
movies, fewer barbecues, and on no vacations, so the cathartic effect, as
pieces fly fifty feet in the air, is important, but, there's something
that's a lot more important, something that provides rewards along the way
basing the nonsense of what we do in what is real and important, even
enduring, and enough similar adjectives to supply the un-missed Miss Cleo
for half an entire commercial."

                    "You're doing a manual?" Norry guessed.  Liking the
thought, he went on:. "It could even be a video, you know, take the dog by
the collar and shake it.  Instead of acting all girly and Jewish about
bombing, show kids in livid detail.  `The hills are alive with the smell of
nitrates.'  I'll bet no one would get hurt and suddenly everybody would
have an outlet, just like you guys, for all the things they miss out on.
Then they wouldn't miss them, because every boy would have the kind of
alternative kids understand, so, not missing, they'd do just what you guys
did, concentrate on something and do it over and over until they became
wicked at it.
                    "It makes huge sense."

                    "We live in a democracy," the older boy said,. " If one
party promoted it, and everyone thought, at the outset, it was worth a
solid try, the opposing party would send urban lawyers in with graphic
photos of the occasional accident victim, and the psychological value,
since it doesn't photograph well in color, would be swept aside as
immaterial.  It's just fun for us.  Entertainment with underpinnings,
imaginary or otherwise.  Most kids would rather eat than play with doll
houses."

                    "I -- don't -- think -- so," Norry intoned.

                    "It is kind of weird," his cousin said, "to think,
`What if he's right?' meaning you.  We do have killer video.  From Number
Five on, the houses were I guess sort of masterpieces.  The last one had
over twenty rooms on three floors, weighed a hundred and two pounds, and
splintered and flew apart so realistically we spent a week trying to figure
out a way we could do a tornado instead of a bomb, but we couldn't even get
a realistic hurricane or flood do to budgetary restraints, though, through
a bit of luck, we were able to borrow a high-definition camera."

                    "It might not be commercial, but..."
                    "Not so fast," Mace interjected, holding up a hand. "
There might actually be a way."  He paused a moment, gathering his
thoughts.  "Security guards will soon amount to a swing vote in the
hamlets.  A venture such as Sharon's would amount to a full-employment
guarantee, police and the major agencies, too.  They could mandate it if
they knew, and they hang out together sometimes, so it would be easy to
spread the word."

                    "Blow one sky-high in a Winchell's parking lot," the
twelve year old noted, "and you'd have to restrain the word."
                    "Bless my soul," quoth Mace.

                    Dave had seated himself on the carpet outside the
cracked door of Lessen's room.  Jimmy was a good story teller, so the
master leaned against the wall, and indulged in an occasional smile at the
lively interplay of his gang of two.  He knew he'd end up right if he
thought of it as a respite, so he tried not to, tried to just listen and
not even let the most massive and extended erection of his life distract
him.  They were naked, Jimmy was jerking the older child off, and it was
all happening hardly six feet away.


                    Might as well reprise Randy here, and perhaps even
begin to fade Samantha out.  He was over for a couple of hours.  Fidel
dropped by, then Elston and Tonton arrived for dinner before I chanced an
opportunity with the twelve year old.  My instinct tells me if Fidel and I
had gone into the bathroom, he would have been happy to join us, and Fidel
would have accepted his presence.  Practicing what I preach; even over
ninety-percent sure, I didn't suggest it and we had a nominal get-together.
My plan is to let Randy come and go without play, unless he instigates it,
then take him into one of the spare bedrooms, after he's stripped in the
bathroom, turn out the lights, then lie him back and suck him for ten or
fifteen minutes while I spread his thighs with my hands and molest him.
When that happens, I'll bring up the subject of Fidel, and, if he's
responsive, at a future time we'll use a candle so the boy can watch the
teen ejaculate.

                    Meantime, as Samantha grows she begins to follow a
common pattern of become more physically reserved, finding herself a big
girl, and, for fifty-six good reasons, not wanting me.  If she were
developing positively in other ways; becoming more responsible and engaged
in relationships with others, there'd be a heartache it watching her pull
back and drift off.  As it is, it's natural.  I have to leave my fortune to
someone, so it was worth a try.

                    An interesting thought passed through what passes for
my mind the other day.  What if Randy were a female?  My immediate answer
was so positive it made me wonder if I'm "bi", in the least.  Cool.
Preferable.  Makes me very glad he's such an awesome and willing boy.  And
being a boy counts.  Boys are better; freer, livelier, more fun, and better
lovers.  If my counselor, Jon, had been bi (maybe he was), I'll bet the
sleekest actress in Hollywood couldn't make him cum in under a minute, four
or five different times.  If Jon and I had chanced to spend the night
together, in private, experience tells me I could have brought him to a
(possibly dry) climax as many as a dozen times, before we got some sleep.
I guess it would be redundant to say "cool", again, but maybe the book is
long enough to let it stand.  So, I'd choose a boy, I'm glad he's a boy,
yet being with him as a female would be the ultimate experience.  If
additional research proves such a dichotomy is the basis of schizophrenia,
then I'll have made a comforting contribution to the science of psychiatry
and not just wasted the day cranking out yet another novel.  And, not to
gild the lily, or anything, but what, on the other hand, if Samantha were a
boy?  This hits home hard enough that my only response is: "No way, Jose."

                    I think I'm being honest at pegging R.'s influence on
my relationship with S. at zero.  If she was developing in mundane ways and
becoming more affectionate and receptive, she'd be my live-in choice, with
Randy as a special friend.  This is not happening, of and by its own
accord, no outside influences one way or the other.  As she changes from
girl to woman, she's taking on an adult's interest in the negative, and
even muted by the fact she's retarded, this is nothing for an artist to
take lightly.  Should I say This artist?  I think it's more general; any
man has to stomp and get his feet wet to excel creatively, and women,
having not a philosopher amongst themselves in two-thousand years, instead
find their identity by musing over muddy boots.

                    Randy's a good b-ball-handler, he's avid and attentive
with my poor set of computer games, finishing one and improving his score
before trying the next.  He seems to do things deliberately, with
completing them in mind, not sort of batting at them and expecting
miracles, as a female tends to do.  He has an instinct to take care, not be
taken care of, and has twice volunteered to clean up for the cats.  He's a
bit young for Hell, to say nothing of the fact it's good for a god to visit
the place on a daily basis, so I still go to the extreme when it comes to
the dirty work.

                    Well, I was raving about Samantha as little as a few
days ago, so it's Mrs. Gump's box of chocolates.  I like to think I haven't
changed, she has, distancing herself for whatever reason.  The issue is
complicated by the backhanded demands I place on her.  If she doesn't want
me, then I'm going to find (and may have already found, without looking an
inch) someone else, and my money goes to that person, not her.  This isn't
prejudicial or punitive, but just how it is: free will, in both our cases.

                    My consistent issue is coming to grips with the fact
I'm over a third of the way into a massive and miraculous novel, and
simultaneously, day-by-day, and hour-by-hour, living a personal life
parallel to and occasionally exceeding the fictitious accounts in the
narrative.  It amounts to writing the greatest novel while, simply by
coincidence, living the greatest life.  (I could write the novel without
the harem, and would enjoy the harem if I were back driving the bus in
South Central.)  Again, the refrain is: Why me?  The royal lineage, the
staggering IQ, the limitless talent, the ability to work incessantly, the
domestic pussy cat, all in one?  My only redeeming human quality is
arrogance. Without it, people would sniffle at my grave, and what kind of a
gift is that for posterity?  Of course, being arrogant when one is
unarguably the greatest artist to ever live isn't being anything but
honest, and this would presuppose a limited role for conceit in such a
case.  It gets a little Zen, but since it has to do with the psyche of a
great player, maybe it should be included under the heading: "Thoughts
Without Tracks".  A maximum competence and enduring, virtuoso creativity
leaving no room for conceit, or, no need for it?  That is the question.
Further, it could be pointed out that the thorny nature of the conceited
blowhard protects his time in the studio, allowing the practitioner to
humble himself by responding, with diligence, to the sighs and applause of
generations yet unborn.  And all this hoopla is related merely to the
career.  It doesn't even touch on what conceit and vanity might be
excusable in a direct descendent of the grass-roots founder not only of The
Minutemen, but the country and the entire revolutionary/democratic
experience since 1775, as well as a world-class poet and philosopher, and,
in significant addition, the most important man who ever lived, the
developer and enabler of Bell Labs.  The IQ was tested by mensa at
four-hundred, but I took the test cold and could probably do better next
time.  And all backed up by a million published word.  Nothing phony,
nothing hyped, no cereal in the beef, no sawdust in the transmission.  Why
me?  Why ALL the talent?  Sure, in film there's some, but on the printed or
electronic page?  I mean to tell you.  On top of it all is the speed, ten
and fifteen thousand words a day; five times that of D.H. Lawrence, and he
had editors.  I've spent the whole day in one domestic retrace or another,
and will still probably exceed five-thousand words before it's safe to shut
off Sloggo.  Of curse, I could cheat by getting back to the novel, but that
would be a glaring inconsistency, because we're not in the novel, but
rather an essay with narrative and dialogue off of some comment some
character made about moving pictures; specifically, bunkered down in "Man
Without a Face".

                    Would it be cheating to go back?  Is it honor that
keeps us one-on-one; a dedication to the well-being of the reader?
Fatigue?  Essays are a break in the pace, if no easier.  Is that the
rationalization?  Any reluctance on my part to re-emerge in the story at
hand could be attributed to any of the above, or it may be I'm just a
coward with no love of kids with bombs.


                    "Before," Norry said after a pause, "you were alluding
to some motivating force paralleling the pull of the bomb."
                    "Tell me, again, what your mom said," Mace responded,
his voice thickening..
                    "That there are no restrictions on hanging out with you
if you want me to," the boy responded.

                    "And she didn't know about our hobby, right?" the older
male asked the boy seated at his right hip.
                    "I don't think so," Norry replied.
                    "But there was something, right?  She sort of
emphasized it, as if to say: `they're not perfect, but they're good
enough.'"

                    "Yeah," the younger male responded, "it was like that.
That there might be different things, but there were enough regular things
so that, in sum, it would be cool, not a bummer."

                    "Okay," the older boy went on, "eliminate the doll
houses and sophomoric drama connected with them, and add in the fact we do
well in school, that we, in spite of our focus, have always had friends and
done a small number of conventional things, so there's nothing odd; there
is no alcohol, drugs, shoplifting, tagging, or other mischief going on in
our lives and, with a little thought, you might come up with the Parallel
Motivating Force, for lack of a better title."


                    Remember the urban legend of Babe Ruth calling a homer?
I want to try it, too.  I want to point to the bleachers and say: "Here it
comes, duck.", and do it with a single line of dialogue; a screaming,
five-hundred-foot whack.  The line goes to Norry and reads as follows:
                    "I'd guess that it was Sharon, if she wasn't your kid
sister."

Posted by Thomas@btl.net

xxx