Date: Sat, 26 May 2001 10:16:01 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: Creative Camp - 20

By customary measurement, these are pages 314 -- 354, and size 10 type,
at that.  This is to say you've missed the early part of the story.  The
good stuff starts at the stick of asterisks, thoughtfully provided as an
allowance to feverish readers.  I do tend to mosey a bit, though never to
far from an ass to kick, I hope.  The reader is responsible for the title
page.


Creative Camp -- 20
(m/f.  Variations.  Rom.  No s/m, beast., etc.)
By Feather Touch.



Chapt. 20

	I spend time trying to figure out how old I am.  Gran lived to be
102, and we spent many thousands of hours together.  I remember seeing the
first stereo in the world.  A demonstration at summer camp, circa 1958.
For a few hours, I was the northernmost troop in Vietnam, taking pictures
and doing stories on C Battery, exactly on the DMZ.  When I was writing
"The Pirates of Rickety Pier" I used to have to shim the cassettes in the
Commodore's drive, so they'd load.  "Speedscript"?  Anyone remember that
beauty?  I completed an 1,103-page draft on it.  Even made a hard copy.
Ten minutes and ten minutes to save, if it saved, and if it loaded.
Twenty-some pages per file.  This manuscript now reads 157 pages, single
spaced, and I can zip to any page I want in two or three seconds, or search
from a command line, just as fast.  I cut and pasted the letter to Harvard,
in seconds.  The other day I was downloading two games, listening to
WinAmp, playing Lionel's train game, and working on this, for ten hours,
flawlessly.  It even shut down in under a minute.  It seems about a
thousand years from our 19" Dumont television to my 15" monitors.
	I'm beginning to think Leo is a stooge.  He's doing some gyrine
schtick to promo his Boot Camp.  Unpleasant, if one has worn any uniform
under fire, or otherwise.  TechTV is doing a substantive disservice to you
guys by panning ME and XP.  Both are absolutely brilliant, and beautiful,
to boot.  I have another gripe, too.  They put out too much.  "TechLive" is
nine semi-organized hours of live programming, with many packages, which
run again and again.  This makes it very difficult to simply watch.
	At the very least, they need to develop a Tech-Overnight concept.
This would be time slots dedicated to various interests, always the same,
so viewers could tape them automatically, over night and over the weekend
and on holidays.  During the day programming they should have an index to
the overnight schedule mixed in with their stock data, which, by the way,
is only interesting under dramatic market conditions; otherwise, it's like
watching paint dry.
	They do an excellent job with open captioning, and are flat out the
best thing on daytime television.  Too much information, too fast, with no
solid way to connect.  I'm glad I'm a writer.  My words go on the stone of
thousands of hard drives, then thousands more.  It would be difficult not
to find what is written.  As to putting out too much material, it's
writing, guy, read slowly.  I don't want urgent encouraging letters because
you disobeyed me and read to fast.  As always, trying to toy with me seems
the surest route to toying with yourselves.
	I'm Tiger.  I'm chipping, not even thinking about laying up.  It's
a practice round, I'm even allowing myself a Mulligan if I need one.
You're getting to ride on my shoulder.  Like TechTV.  A lot of you don't
know what it is.  But to build skill at ball striking, the player needs to
chip and chip; short game, and more short game.  I talk about how old I
must be, then get sidetracked by ME and XP.  It's fun.  That's why Tiger
openly confesses to preferring practice to tournament play.
	I found a joke this morning.  MP3 music at 64.  Tchaikovsky.  It
sounds like a transistor in a teapot.  Fast, though.  Maybe that's the
whole solution to the Napster debacle.  Let them exchange free music at 94,
just good enough.  The 128 sound is pretty good.  I'm listening to
"Diamonds and Rust," and it sounds great.  (Remember how I heard the first
stereo in the world at summer camp?)
	Oh, I like the unwashed phenomenon, the original vagabond.  Guess I
always will.
	Back to Napster, because it is crucial.  I taped music in the
sixties.  As an adult, I made thousands of dollars of personal profit,
selling Stephen King.  I ran a used bookstore.  Libraries let dozens and
even hundreds read a work, for a single royalty payment.  I cannot conceive
of being an artist who would not be happy that his work was appreciated,
and maybe, once in awhile, give a thought to some money coming his way.
The Dead are a good example.  I attended their lightning strike concert in
Las Vegas, 1993, and there were dozens of fans taping with very high-end
equipment.  I do not believe Jerry starved.
	What we've got now is a bunch of rank and file getting rubber faced
lawyers to cover up the fact that there music is not of interest.  Look, my
first full-time job was working for a medium-market a/m --f/m-television
station.  Part of my job was to listen to the slush pile; unsolicited
submissions.  The groups probably sounded fine after three Manhattans at
the local bistro.  On records they sounded all but identical.  I listened
to hundred, possibly a thousand, and never found one.  Year?  1966.
	If I was up to it, I'd do a Print Screen of my Napster playlist,
and transfer it into this document.  Don't worry, David, the gods of FTP
and I are just getting along, without any stunts.  "Me and Bobby McGee,"
Duane Eddy's "Night Train," and so on.  Lenny the Stick didn't completely
kill show tunes for me, so I have a couple from "Porgy and Bess."  "Achy
Breaky Heart."  Ah, right on cue.  I was going to puzzle over my favorite,
then I was reminded of what it wall always be.  The music brings up
thoughts of dear old mom.  She never had a Suspicious Mind.  (Yankee
readers will recognize the irony, which is part of why it's fun to be a
Yank.)

       I wonder if it would be appropriate to revise a line from "Old Man
River."  "Them that picks it is soon forgotten," to, "Them that picks it is
never forgotten/"

       See, that's what it's like to have a king.  I can remember for all
of you.  Hold in ceaseless regard the millions of black backs bent for
hundreds of millions of hours under hundreds of thousands of noon-day suns.
Building the industrial revolution.  Making it necessary, in the first
place, and financing it, in the second.

       Bringing us to contemporary American racial relations, on which
subject, I am the world's leading expert by dint of having read widely on
the subject, all my life, of living in Black and Mexican communities for
fifteen delightful years, and of having driven a metro bus in Los Angles,
for almost four years, stationed in Carson.  No one is even in this
ballpark.

       The short version is that African Americans saved us white boys a
passel of hassle in them thar cotton fields.  We owe them, but, at the same
time, there is not much point in their sinking the ship they're riding on
in order to spite the crew.  Also, it should be kept in mind by all
parties, at all times, that the white man did not invent slavery.  It is
vastly chronicled in times my ancestors are known to have been grunting in
caves along the Elbe.  Most slaves never saw a white face until they
actually reached their plantations.  Virtually all handlers were fellow
blacks, village, to ships' crews, to the market in the square.  In addition
to this, the black landed in New Orleans was worth about fifty-thousand
dollars in today's money.  The Europeans were worth whatever hadn't been
stolen from them on the ride over.  How would you choose between an Irish
twelve year old chained to a knitting machine in freezing Lawrence, and a
child of the same age working with his or her family in the fields?  Six of
one, half a dozen of the other, except the child in the field was worth
fifty grand, to somebody, or soon would be.

       Life was tough then, kids.  Now screens for the windows, no
wear-like-iron synthetic fabrics, nor Tide to was them in.

	Not only did we not start slavery, we were the first to get dead
serious about stopping it.  The English Anglo way.  Gunpowder and
sixty-pound lead balls.  In England way back when, in the northern states,
in the 1700s.

	My first experience with blacks was at the same camp I heard the
stereo.  We exchanged with a black camp, Atwater, probably in
Massachusetts.  It struck me, as about an eight year old, how hard these
people were on each other.  Brittle, rigid and callous, in a passive and
insensitive way, rather than lots of noise and violence.  The atmosphere
was very different; humorless and very inferior to my home camp.  I was
very glad to get back.  Living in the Caribbean, I see it every day.  The
mother of my adopted family did not marry the mayor of a nearby tourist
town because he's Carib and she's Creole.  This is how it is, every day and
in almost every way.  I can solve it, but, duh'uh, not by myself.

	First, is a change in attitude.  It is a human impossibility to
cruise around in a car playing the radio and cuss whitey.  That's living in
two worlds.  No one does it well.  It is a fabulous and intriguing white
man's world and the only thing you have to concern yourself with is a daily
prayer of thanksgiving that you were somehow chosen to live in our time.
Either that, or kill us and walk back to you bush.  Follow Haiti.  They
killed off the white man before 1800.  The biggest F in the history of
human planning.

	Essentially, it boils down to reason versus emotion.  The jurors in
Compton got so emotional about seeing a black man on trial, there would
never be a conviction if there were a single African American on the jury.
Never.  So they bus jurors in from Palos Verde Estates, twenty miles away.
It's the law.  The Duluth project.  Everyone agreed on a full dissection,
but when they found out a white man was over one thousand times more likely
to be mugged by a black man than a black man was likely to be mugged by a
white man they buried the study.  Not quite deep enough, I guess.

	Alex Hailey traced his roots, and the ended in a place so squalid
it would be deemed unfit for prisoners.  We can do this now.  With DNA;
practically, on a small scale, and, theoretically, on a large scale.  We
can have American blacks trace right back to their third and fourth
cousins, two or three times removed.  See how they're doing.  It sounds
like a joke, but it's not.  Not one of mine, anyway.

	American Indians are in exactly the same monotonous rut.  None of
them, whatsoever, want to go live in a tepee, even in June.  Not a single
woman among millions would chew raw hide until it was soft enough for the
skin of her man.  Yet Indian graves show women with teeth worn to the gums.
Imagine chewing sandy, raw leather on half worn teeth, as a twenty year
old, before you lay any curses on our brow.

	The total shock miracle of the human race is a small tribe from the
Elbe River in Germany.  Sort of known as the Anglo Saxons, we moved to
England a long, long time ago.  There, we invented the chronograph and the
steam engine.  Put them to good use.  Tried to set a standard of reason
over emotion in endeavors such as ridding India of thugee and suttee while
providing a railroad and a language, both still in common use.  Bermuda and
the Caymans are English colonies to this very day, and I happen to live in
a former colony that has not done very well on its own, and would be out of
business in a week, if it were really on its own.

       We hold all the cards worth holding and probably will for another
century.  We're inclusive, by nature, but that's all.  Color and creed are
the trash of emotion, focus and friendliness are the twins of reason.  Keep
trashing the richest one percent, and Anglos, in general, at your own risk.
We don't have a holocaust to scuttle behind, we'll come out and chop you
up.

	Ain't chipping fun?  I like about a thirty-foot hook at the end of
a 120-yard iron from the ruff.  When it jumps back ten feet, and ends up
three feet from the pin.  Let's try another ball.

	I think the offensively small nature of the Jewish mind is plainly
to be seen in the WW-II memorial, passed today by, well, the guys that pass
stuff.  Imagine trying to distill the war to some bumps of granite.
Inspired by a movie actor.  The Jewish smallness of it all.  I lived with a
Jewish family once, and the lady of the house used to talk about having a
festive occasion, future tense.  That's the arrogance.  They think because
they want it to be festive, it will be.  Another example is Lieberman.
Early in the butterfly miracle he criticized lazy poll workers for not
working on Thanksgiving.  It is with the greatest humility that we
acknowledge our little holiday is a piss ant compared to Passover or
Chanukah, but, gee, Al, can't we enjoy it without the voice of a Hebrew
calling us lazy?  Like we care.

         All these are examples of putting things in boxes.  Festive
occasions.  Sitting Shiva for the dead.  Dietary laws far beyond the
bizarre.  A granite display for W-II, A little ritual, some pat ceremony;
boxes, baskets, urns and jugs.  Anglos suck at fitting into them, though,
the fundamental horror of the whole situation is just how many people who
were brought up to know better are falling for the rubbish of political
correctness.  Ignore the massive and ugly history of this tribe, and such a
deal they can make for you.

       The Cranes visited Belize.  The fuse is getting short on my little
rocket.  Hurricane Mitch put it on the map in '99, then "Temptation
Island," now strongly featured on "Frazier."  It's the last one there is,
folks.  English speaking, African/English-colonial heritage and manners
away from the usual places (where Americans, like Frasier and his pepper
steak, abrade).  Try it, you'll like it, but don't buy shorefront because
your towels will take forever to dry and the locals have it rough enough
without your buying their little homesteads away.

       The banana trees are in.  Six of them.  I thought they'd be slips,
but they turned out to be logs.  Snakes favor them, which is a good thing;
may lessen the pucker factor when using the outhouse at night.  Now if I
can think of something to attract the scorpions the royal butt will rest
more easily on the throne.  It's funny to think of my little home as a
museum.  Concordians will be shocked at the Thoreauovianism of it all.  I
mean, my bedroom is bigger than his cabin, but, by American standards the
scale is minute.  I think of it as a superb cabin on an ocean liner that
doesn't rock.  The television set is mounted on the wall just at the end of
my bed, about seven feet to the top of the set.  There are boxes beside and
on top of the Samsung.  The reason they are there, for you historians, is
that one of my cats has epilepsy.  She lies on top of the Samsung.  When
she has a seizure, she plummets four feet onto my printer.  She also pees
when she's having an attack.  So the boxes are there to keep her from
jumping up in the first place.

       No animals were harmed in the compilation of this epic.  Ooops, I
lied.  The snake and the cats.  The boys sold the snake to the Chinese for
$35.00, including the cats.  Are there more?  My poor white beauty, my
first cat ever.  She died of leukemia at just over a year.  At the time
there was a six-foot alligator living in the pond across the street.
Meaning well, I threw her body into the pond.  The stupid gator didn't eat
her for three days.  There may be a thousand things to do with a dead cat,
but your majesty knows one not to do.

       I'm vamping a little.  I was going to weave all the inventions,
business models, and intellectual property into the Creative Camp
framework.  A few per chapter.  The letter to Harvard was a much more
elegant solution, but it does leave me suddenly near the end of our route,
and needing to get the housekeeping done to begin our letdown.  You'll want
you seats in the full reclining position from now until the trip is over.
There will be no further commercial interruptions.

       Brad and his uncle, Brad are on a plane, too.  Headed for Florida.
Fairly obvious it would be a night flight, light passenger load; tired
cabin crew more than happy to doze in their own places.

       To complete the housekeeping, these are a mixture of stories being
told by Charles.  Brad was a friend of his, years previously, (as far as I
can remember, anyway), and Brad is telling John, who is kind of an alter
ego of Charles, about things that happened to him, see previous chapters,
and now they are flying south for their first night together.  Brad and the
biker, John, thirty, that is.  Being a king is not all its cracked up to
be, you know all this stuff, just like you can read ahead and know what I
don't.  Of course, I could re-read the whole story.  That would take time
from this part that I'm writing, now.  Besides, my vanity leads me to
believe I might find out how good I really am, if I re-read, and get
wrapped in my prose like Narcissus did in his reflecting pool.  All of
which takes time, and time can be a frustrating thing for a reader to waste
when he knows he's about to read the most erotic climax ever written.

       *
       *
       *
       *
       *
       *
       *
       *
       *
       *


       I remember reading a book many years ago.  I believe it was called
"The Word."  The premise was the discovery of new writings, either by or
about Christ; I don't remember.  In the opening chapters the possibility
they might be forgeries is scoffed at, and we ride along for hundreds of
pages on what these writings will mean to the world, to the church; to
mankind; so on and so on.  In the end, they turn out to be plain vanilla
forgeries.  Most highly experienced writers are quite adept at conning
readers; promising loads of stuff in the middle acts, and coming up with a
bromide ending.  I'm rambling on about this because I've put myself on the
spot.  I've already published brag after brag about Brad's back pack and
the ultimately erotic nature of a series of scenes I haven't even written.
       Well, I'm going to write them now.

       John is thirty, a tall craggy biker, pony tail; owns a bookstore.
The location is not Dubuque.  Brad and John are parked under a tree, lying
on a sheet-blanket near a cold Yamaha.  Brad, now eleven, has been telling
John about things that happened with Rusty, his swimming instructor at the
municipal pool, which conveniently closes for a couple of hours in the
middle of the afternoon.  At another level, this entire story is being told
by Charles, director of Creative Camp, to Blissy and Timmy, along with two
other boys whose names I forget.  If you think it's complicated, try a few
chapters of "War and Peace."  Tolstoy couldn't write for Nifty, so he had
to think up tremendous plots and portfolios full of characters.  So, you'll
forgive me my six or eight, won't you!

       Two of them are on the quiet, dark jet.  Brad, eight, and his future
navy pilot uncle, Brad, who is nineteen.

       "Uncle Brad," the eight year old whispered..
       "What, bucko? the nineteen year old engineering student asked.
       "That boy keeps looking at me.  At us."

       Brad Sr. looked in the direction of his nephew's nod.  The boy
looked about thirteen years old.  His full mouth seemed friendly, not
smart.  The whole A-list, on a boy was between his nose and his chin.  No
exceptions.  He had a thin face, a trace of an overbite, wore glasses, and
was dressed in a white shirt and tie.  His curly black hair, a wisp of
mustache, and a pallid complexion completed a library look that made the
young uncle take another look.  He was delicious.
       In young Brad's life there usually wasn't much mysterious about
boys.  Pool.  Gym.  Big deal.  But this dude was wearing a shirt and tie.
Looked plain, not tricked.  What would he look like...
       Uncle and nephew stared at each other for a moment, then the eight
year old looked to where the boy across the isle was holding up a game with
a trailing wire.  Brad Jr. recognized it as a two player model Figure out
what this sign says, and obey it.  How had that come into those eyes across
the isle?  Brad Sr. gave his nephew's shoulder a squeeze and gentle push.
The boy unbuckled and crossed the isle.  The thirteen year old moved over a
seat, and Brad sat beside him and picked up on the game without saying a
word.  The two played for half an hour, neither steel was found wanting,
and the games ended up it the kangaroo pouches where the magazines rode.
       "I'm Kevin," said the curly haired boy.
       "Me Brad and that's me uncle, Brad," the eight year old responded,
sounding a bit silly but looking cute enough to eat without a bun..
       "He's handsome.  Cute," Kevin pointed out.
       "More than that," little Brad responded.
       "Really>"
       Brad didn't add anything more for the moment.  At eight, suggestive
repartee was not in his deck of cards.  He was sincerely a happy kid,
thrilled to be off, alone, with his uncle.  It could have been off to
Timbuktu, but Florida was nice.
       "I'm being thrown out," Kevin said after a few minutes of just
riding along.
       "It's pressurized.  No one would dare throw you out," Brad
responded.  He knew he was being silly, but sometimes it was fun.  He was
rewarded with a grin from his new friend.  "You're a dope," the bigger boy
said.
       "Yeah, crack-ed," Brad said, and both boys dissolved in giggles.
Brad senior looked on with some thoughts along an atomic line.  What hath
god wrought?  Two magnets, a single click.  He didn't ogle all that much,
but kept two eyes crossed, as well as numerous fingers and toes.  But it
seemed supplications for luck were either not going to be needed, or, were
actually working.  The magnets were now whispering to each other, with
glances in his direction, and more whispering.  Brad senior did not feel a
bit left out, but rather settled himself into a mode of vast anticipation.
       The boys had now shifted from moronic babble to more serious talk.
       "Why?" asked Brad.
       "Doin stuff." the older boy replied "Wrong stuff.  Wrong person.
They're sending me to military school, all by myself.  No doubt you and
your uncle are heading to some exotic kingdom to live out the dreams in the
brochures."
       "Doesn't you school have a brochure?" Brad quizzed, eyes sparkling
disingenuously. .
       "You are a funny little creep," Kevin laughed.  Yes, he sighed to
himself, he was going to live a pamphlet life, also.  Ten' hut, right face,
double-time, march!  It could be spelled out on an index card.
       "What did you do?" Brad asked.
       "Do?" the older boy responded, "Nothing.  I mean my homework, and
build my models, that's what I used to do.  And all I used to do.  I never
even thought about anything else in any particular way.  Then she came
along.
       "Well, that's not exactly right.  She was there all the time.  But
about six months ago she came on the radar.  My goofy little sister.  Go
figure."
       "How old is she?" Brad asked.
       "Ten now.  She was nine when it happened."
       "What happened," Brad asked, memories of two years ago and his
summer experience with Rusty and Polly added an extra inch to his perked
ears."
       "She thought she was plain.  Ugly.  She looks like the girl in the
black and white television ad.  The kid whose dad makes paper boxes for
oranges.  She isn't plain, she's cute; pretty even.  But all the girls at
school were dishing in their mothers paints and powders, and Nancy just got
soap and water.  Plus, she's tall and in her mind, skinny.  In mine, slim.
       "I mean it wasn't a huge issue," Kevin continued, "she got grades,
played basketball, and had friends.  But she didn't get twittered over like
Susie Radcliff and Angie Usher and those of the princess class.  One call a
week, instead of five or six a night.
       "So, what happened?" Brad queried.
       "How old are you, kid?" Kevin asked, in return.
       "Well," Brad responded, giving his name because they'd started
playing before he'd introduced himself, "there are ages and there are ages.
The short answer is eight, uncle Brad's nineteen, but I had a really big
affair a couple of years ago, so eight is a relative number.  Arbitrary.
       "I mean I haven't been around-the-world with J-Lo, or anything
really grown up, but I'm hanging tougher than most second graders."
       "Do you have a sister?" Kevin asked.
       "I wish," said the boy.  "There's just me and my mom, and uncle
Brad, but he doesn't live with us.  He's mostly at school.  College.  He's
a junior."
       "What, does he have rare blood to sell?  Or are you guys rich?"
       "He invented a thing called the Handi-Door," Brad explained.  "It's
totally simple.  A plastic collar with a two inch lever molded into it.
You heat it in hot water, or with a hair dryer, and press it over a round
doorknob; presto, the doorknob has a handle, and a handicapped person or a
kid can open it, or pull it closed."
       "That's better than rich blood," Kevin pointed out.
       "Tell me about it.  He's awesome."
       "And cute, too."
       "Tell me about it."
       "Have you guys like tried anything?"
       "Only in our minds, so far," Brad replied "That's what Florida is
for, unless I miss my guess.  We're staying with the Plunkett organization,
in one of their Whispering Delight suites.  According to their brochure,
the wallpaper is applied directly to the studs."
       "Do you like to whisper?" Kevin whispered.
       Brad returned the favor.  "Rusty whispered to me a lot, he was my
special friend when I was six.  Did you whisper with Nancy?"
       "Yes," came the simple answer.
       "Can you tell me about it?" Brad asked.
       "Only if you promise to tell you uncle, when the time is right," the
older boy said.
       Brad raised in his seat and looked around.  He didn't do it in an
ostentatious manner, but Kevin still got the point.  There were almost no
heads to be seen, and both boys knew there were no passengers within six
rows.  The stewards were nowhere to be seen.  Brad guessed it would take at
least a cherry bomb to raise much interest in what was happening at the
rear of the slumbering jet.
       The time was right.
       "Want to go and get in the middle seat with him?" Brad asked.
       "Yeah," the boy responded eagerly.  "Like in the Sony computer ad.
The guy sits in the middle seat, because he knows everyone is going to want
to see his Viao."
       Brad had seen the ad and giggled at the analogy.  Show and tell was
a little eight for him, but sitting with Kevin on the other side of Uncle
Brad, that would be more mature.
       With a quiet scramble, the eight year old crossed over big Brad's
lap, coming to rest on his uncle's right, and Kevin settled in on the
nineteen-year-old's left.  Kevin had retrieved a pair of blankets from the
overhead before he crossed the isle, and both Brads looked at him in
appreciation added to an existing store off of Kevin being tall and perhaps
one percent rangy.  A whole lot of appreciation.  A big hard penis worth,
for the thirteen year old's slacks bulged very obviously, and appreciated,
dramatically, the value of the coach tickets Brad Sr. had purchased for the
trip.  Philosophically, some had to fly first class on lightly-booked
flights, otherwise the plane wouldn't balance.  Well, in the race of morons
they'd be first to the finish line.  Hell, they balanced the plane.  Leave
them alone.
       The three young males sat in the middle of the plane, two rows in
front of the rear bulkhead.  They adjusted their seat backs and blankets.
Out of deference to their fellow passengers, they kept their voices very
low as they spoke.  Kevin congratulated Brad Sr. on his invention and
listened intently as the older male told about college and his Navy
scholarship.  The boy was thrilled to hear that the two Brads were going to
hang out at Pensacola where the elder was going to joy ride with the brats;
a hard sell for his brains and bod that would include several low altitude
runs to Puerto Rico with dummy bombs.
       Brad had been taught by Polly what he didn't want to be, but Kevin
hadn't had the benefit.  His eyes got bright at thoughts of the Gulf
Stream, studded by the whitest white on earth, which was whitecaps on
crystal clear, bottomless blue deep water, streaking ten feet below at five
hundred miles an hour.  Brad wanted, if anything, to be a miller at a mill
wheel grinding; Kevin had loftier goals.  Whatever their futures would
hold, each had identical goals at the moment, and were thankful their
objective in life was so conveniently at hand.  [Author's Note: example of
the spell checker.  I mistyped `conveniently.' `conviently' and it
suggested only the following choices: `confidently:' `continently' and
`covalently.'  I'm not complaining, mind you, just having fun.  And
learning.  How else would I have realized there was a covalent signature to
the relationship of Brad and Kevin to Brad, Sr.?]
       The whispering began with Brad who introduced Nancy.  Brad got out
of his seat for a moment so his uncle could retrieve a carryon from the
luggage compartment.  It was a good time for a safety check, and the future
pilot was happy to see no reaction to his rummaging.  He soon pulled a
Mag-Lite from his day bag, and the pair regained their seats.  Kevin wanted
to hear about Rusty and little Brad wanted to hear about Nancy.  Both
stories could not be told at once, much less whispered, so Brad, Sr., had
fetched the flashlight so they could flip a coin under the blankets.  (Do
not always believe what you read.)  Neither boy could tell who won or lost
as each wanted to hear the other's story just as much as they wanted to
tell their own.  Whether he won or lost, Kevin and his ten-year-old sister
came first.
       "It was a dark and stormy night," he began, letting a bit of the
fighter plane romantic show.

       The power was off when the kids got home from school.

       Sorry, I promised no interruptions, but this yip-yip is just
announcing as a traitor to the Republican Party.  Yale and Harvard and his
giant lawyer brain is so full of what Jews have pumped into it he's
throwing the entire congressional balance out of kilter with his defection.
He is from Vermont.  He is big on education.  The three nephews I mentioned
as candidates for the Ritalin hall of fame have lived near Woodstock all
their lives.  They visited when the middle boy was fifteen.  He could not
read nor sound out the word `pulverize ` Try and imagine a fifteen year old
hockey fanatic that can't read pulverize.  His father is a college
graduate, his mother, a full-time librarian, and his senator is getting
massive national coverage for treason in several major senses of the word.
Go America, go.  To hell with Yale and Harvard because this giant brain of
his own got his papers.  He wants more feddy mon-mon for the little
spellers of rich southern Vermont (the part the Jews can reach on their
jittery searches for quaint.  And this would be a good time to tell you
kikes a story.  My maternal great grandmother had a suitor she did not
like.  She notice that every evening he'd conclude his visit by thrusting
his hands into his overcoat pockets as he walked to the street.  She
excused herself, one evening, and went to put oatmeal on the stove.  Just
as their visit concluded, she excused herself for a moment, went to the
kitchen, and retrieved for herself a big spoon of boiling hot oatmeal,
which she deposited in his coat pockets, before wishing him a pleasant
evening.  If you want to fuck with us, try to remember just who it is you
are pissing on.  If you were rural in nature, I'd bring up the image of an
electric fence, but Seinfeld wouldn't know an electric fence from a
ghehfeltafish.  We all remember the line, Be Very Afraid.  Whether I live
or die, not to put to fine a point on it, "Creative Camp" is going on
thousands of hard drives, two percent of them Jewish.  Your bet is that one
hundred percent of them are operated by pud-stroking morons.  See, that's
how it is with the truth.  Abraham created god in his image, but was too
clever to reveal it, so he used a mirror, an early adapter, and created
himself in god's image.  A talking point.  If you really believe this is
the truth, you are safe for all of time to come.  If there is a single
phrase of distortion in this story, by your own logic my story will crush
the life out of you, which is a stretch, seeing as how you pretty well
define death with every breath you take.  I won't always do this as my
beloved senility creeps in, but I think I can correct this ms by saying
that I told the story of Murray, my nephew, in the Harvard letter.  I don't
believe the story is diminished by retelling, but it is imperfect editing.
Let me make up for the defect by saying this: Jews, read.  Compare, fair
mindedly, and with the Zuckers and the Cohens of Airplane/Police Squad/
Fargo as my ombudsmen, my work and your own.  Identify me clearly as your
messiah.  I will inflict no more pain than Moses, and it is the only chance
for any of you to survive.  Somehow figure out a way to be both early and
prompt in your response.).

       The power was off when the kids got home for school.  Winder storm,
early gloom, cold but for the wood stove; dark, but for candles, windy;
nothing to do against that but cuddle next to the stove and listen.
       "Do you think they'll get home?" Nancy asked.
       "I hope they don't try," Kevin answered.
       The phone rang and solved the problem with a standard admonishment
about being good.  It clicked as dead as the electric wires, and Kevin and
Nancy were alone for the dark, stormy night.  They dined on French toast
and cold cling peaches, and silently brought their sleeping bags from the
attic to the living room floor, by the stove.
       Bellies full, toes toasty, a glow of the fire transmitted through
the mica lens on the door, the twelve-year-old male and nine-year-old
female lay to the he dark and stormy night.  They giggled at the cliché.
So trite a situation, it could simply not be written.  A dark and stormy
night.  Even Snoopy had used it.  No reader would last a paragraph, and
this pleased them because they were in no mood to be intruded upon by any
readers.
       Nancy started the conversation, as the lay inches from each other on
top of the sleeping bags.  Because of the strange weather, neither had
changed from their school clothes so Kevin was dressed in a school shirt
and slacks while Nancy still wore a light blouse and plaid skirt.  Before
lying down, both children removed their shoes and socks.
       "Have you heard any stuff about Vicki Abbott?" Nancy asked.
       "Gregg's sister?" Kevin asked, in return.
       "More than," the nine year old responded, with a half-giggle that
jolted the maturing male to his spinal cord.
       "What do you mean?"  He'd wanted to whisper with his sis for a long
time, and here she was half whispering a giggle right in his ear.  And
about the lithe carrot top, Vicki.  Her brother, Gregg, a light and
slightly craggy boy, ever so quiet, always near Glenn.  Glenn, in turn, was
as big and powerful as Gregg and Vicki were petite.  A crew cut and glasses
did nothing to ameliorate his simple presence, which he never enhanced
beyond playing horseshoes with the dean of the school the three attended.
Plus Kevin and Nancy.
       Nancy was silent for several long moments.  The stove gave off a
hint of burning pine and the smell was delicious.
       "You're older than I am.  You should know," Nancy whispered.
       "I like Gregg," was all the twelve year old could think of to say.
       "And I like Vicki.  She's the kind of girl who'd never win
homecoming, but would come in second for twenty years in a row."
       Kevin was playing a little dumb.  He'd read V.C. Andrews; gulped
them, more accurately.  Even before nine the rug rat had sprouted into a
lanky, slim cutie he had to force himself to remember was his kid sister.
In a summer dress, as late as September, just her bare shoulders had made
him giddy.  Other girls her age did things with sweaters.  Nancy didn't
need one.  She whispered to him.
       "Can I tell you something personal, or will you get all
embarrassed?" she asked.
       Could this kid whisper, or what?
       "I'll get embarrassed," Kevin said.
       "Ah, the pains of puberty," the girl sighed with a touch of drama in
her voice.
       "Just wait," the boy retorted, with a giggle.
       "No way," said Nancy.  "I didn't bring up Vicki to tell you she had
a new pair of shoes.  Capeche?"
       Kevin lay on his sleeping bag with his fingers knit for a pillow,
staring at the soft light playing off the rustic ceiling.  The female was
inches away.
       "If we grew up in a big tribe," the nine year old said to her big
brother, "we wouldn't be attracted to each other.  That's pheromones.  They
act to separate brother and sister, in a tribe.  No tribe in the house.,
which is very strange, because I feel a hundred drums beating right in the
middle of my heart."
       She'd never prattled; just been a pretty rosebud with a crinkle
around her nose when she smiled.  She did not seem to be prattling, now.
Something about the heart.  And Vicki and Gregg and Glen.  Plus, didn't she
have something to tell him?  As for being embarrassed, his fingers were
laced behind his neck and a huge boner pumped his pants, proudly, because
he was not wearing cargos.  If that wasn't embarrassing, nothing could be.
       Nancy made a point of rising slightly and looking at him, like you'd
hold a kitten, for a few seconds.  When she returned to her bower, she lay
on her right side with her pretty face close to his ear.  "How about you,"
she whispered.
       The boy was dealing with his own drums, but he responded.  "Are you
friends with Vicki, now" he asked.
       "That's my secret," Nancy whispered back, very close to him.  "She
gave me something really, really special to wear for you.  Of love it
sings; it circles, but is not a ring; to wear it for you is my heart's
desire, but to yield it to you is even higher.
       "Any guesses?"
       "It is charm you speak of, for it is all around, and yielding
anything else would land us chop, chop at the cop shop."
       There was a lot of charm around.  They were beguiling each other,
throttles wired wide open, and covering themselves with a delicious cloak
of taboo.  Nancy raised again to look at Kevin's boner.  She lay back
beside her three-year-older brother.  Twelve.  Did he or didn't he.  A tiny
black down accented his curly hair, bringing a trace of manhood to his
upper lip.  That was a very powerful signifier.  He raised now, and lowered
his head so he could look at her.  She'd seen his penis, so he could like
on his side and look into her pretty country girl eyes.
       "I don't care if this isn't Seattle," Kevin whispered, "I'm still
listening."
       "We ditched this afternoon.  First time for me, third for her.  We
told some friends a girl's story, so no one would get up tight.  We walked
two miles down the tracks, then off on a trail.  We spent three hours
together, and when I got home, there was not a wrinkle in my skirt, do you
want to know why?"
       Kevin looked into his sisters eyes and decided on the spot to fall
hopelessly in love with her.  Why the hell not?  The paper carton girl on
television had probably been picked from thousands, and even in black and
white she was an image of the slim creature inches away, her pretty eyes
buried in his and reflecting two side-by-side candles, to boot.  He knew
she was talking about Vicki, so he whispered her name.
       "It was pretty, up where we went.  There was a big old pine to climb
on.  It was my first time cutting classes, as even though we'd been cool
about it, it was exciting.  But the setting was just the appetizer, she had
something to show me.  A thing one mature nine-year-old female might show
another.
       "Is your little brain still completely empty?"
       Rather a bit full, Kevin thought to himself, which was a wonder,
since it simply must be starved of blood.
       Nancy went on with her hints.
       "It was full when we arrived, was empty after awhile, and is empty
now, but I can fill it in a minute or two, and if you even think bladder
I'll slit your throat like the buckin' bronc's inamorato, real slow.
       A good way to stay on course is to know what constitutes off course,
so Kevin let any wise thoughts melt away.  He seriously doubted he had any
in the first place.
       "I'm going now, and it's cold, so I hope you appreciate the effort.
I shall return with my secret at my heart and leave you with a final hint
and that is that I need it more than Vicki does, but not much more."
       With that Nancy was on her long legs and up the stairs.  Kevin lay
on his back so she'd return to something more than a toasty warm wood stove
with its glowing orange window.  Since the kid was about her mysterious
business, the lad did allow himself a salacious thought that he thought was
funny.  He wondered if, at any time before his parents returned on the
scene, the cry of Timber! would ever be appropriate to him.  Her legs were
just so long.  No cry for falling wood, not in a week with her.  He giggled
and by the time he'd cleaned up his act, the young female was back beside
him.  She held out her hands to show no ring, and pulled down the collar of
her blouse to show no necklace.  As if that swan's neck and pretty face
could be improved by a keg of jewels.
       For a few moments they lay just within focus of each other.
       "You looked beautiful when I came down the stairs," Nancy whispered.
Her voice was certainly different.  Circled through his half-shut brain
like a brass ring and pulled like a horse with a harness made of pure
breeze.  Well, it was a dark and stormy night.  And that was his last
thought on the weather.
       He lay on his back again.  The female brought her lips right his
left ear.  "I did tell you my secret was close to my heart, didn't I?"
       Kevin loved showing his little sister his big penis, but he couldn't
resist those eyes of no particular color, but of a soft friendliness that
had come to stay when she was a toddler.  She'd shifted slightly and the
dual candles were no longer highlighting her pupils.  Didn't seem to
matter.
       "Kev," she whispered in a way that sounded almost like a big sister,
"Vicki gave me her bra."
       They lay looking at each other for whole minutes.
       "That's the first secret.  But there's another one.  Like a
detective story."
       "What?"  Kevin eked out the question.
       "Boy stuff," she answered.  "From Glenn, even some from Gregg.  From
two other boys at school, and one teacher.  Mr. William.  English.  It's
been passed from girl to girl, and now I'm wearing it.  I can feel dry
semen on my nipples.  It's a little scratchy.  Otherwise I wouldn't ask."
       Shit, he'd deliberately eschew pointless wit, now she was at it.  At
this rate, no one was going to need to warn of his falling cock for fifty
years.  He'd had several wet dreams and he looked at his little sister and
could not imagine having those feelings with her close to him.  He lay on
his back again.  He didn't know if Nancy would notice the difference, but
his penis felt bigger.  He felt more inside him.  He rolled again on his
side when she'd whipered: "You're beautiful."  Did girls have wet dreams.
       "If it happens accidentally, tell me so I can get it on the bra, or
at least wipe up," she whispered, again sounding like a big sis.
       "I don't know." he whispered back to her.
       "About sperm?" she asked, her voice even again dropping.
       "Just from, you know..."
       "That's way cool," the pretty girl interrupted, "from books.  At
school.  Just like me.  And it's cool because I get to tell you, because
nothing else would be cool, this close to the stove, way or no way."
       "Okay," Kevin said.
       "Vicki learned with Glenn.  Gregg hinted and she let him walk down
the tracks with, and up where we went this afternoon when we ditched
classes.  But they didn't make it.  Glenn told her to stop just when they
got away from the tracks, and she didn't have time to do anything but pull
up her blouse.  She said he stood there sperming all over her tummy and her
bra for almost a whole minute.  Every time she went to hug him, so she
could feel it against her, he'd grunt and spray more on her.  When she
placed the tip of his big boner underneath the left cup of her bra he'd
kissed her tenderly on her bent pixie head and cum again and again,
soaking, in the end, both her nipples that he'd never seen.
       "I think it's romantic and Vicki has had like a total crush on him
ever since.
       "That's two secrets.  The bra and how it got like it is.  There's
another one.  Glenn is molesting Gregg.  Almost every night in the dorm.
They fold their blankets on the floor between the beds so there won't be
too much noice, and they wrestle a lot during the day, so that helps with
their secret, too, although everybody sort of knows after they've been
around for awhile.  You would have found out.
       "How did they get started?" Kevin asked.  He figured he was about
ten percent surprised and ninety percent happy.
       "Mr. Williams had night check.  He came in and they got talking
about Greece.  He had a couple of candles with him, and lit them.  He
stripped completely naked and stood in the middle of the room like you were
lying when you let me see your boner.  Gregg and Glenn both got out of bed
and took their pajamas off.  Then they stood close together and he molested
both of them at the same time.  He sprayed his sperm all over them, then
took Gregg's hand and showed him what to do with Glenn, then Glenn's sperm
started going all over him and they both molested him and dragged him down
on the floor and took turns making him cum with their tongues.  Since then
they've become such an item you could spell it with a single I."
       Tolerance was a wonderful thing, Kevin mused.  It sure seemed to
have made his friends happy.
       "What did you and Vicki do up by the pine tree?" Kevin asked.
       "We didn't do anything.  She wants to experiment with me, but later.
I just watched from the bushes on the south side of the pine.  >From about
ten feet away."
       "What?" Kevin allowed, no trusting his voice with the follow-up Did
you see.
       "All three of them.  They had a backpack with wine and a blanket;
all kinds of stuff.  It was Gregg's first time with a female, and Vicki's
first time with a male."
       "And you didn't want to, like, you know..."
       "Only with you.  I was glad to see Glenn, so I'll know what's
happening when you're biting my shoulder -- because we're not meant to
kiss, off of your being my brother.  Vicki says she's cheated with Gregg,
already, when the went off to talk and be by themselves after it had
happened.  But not when you're ejaculating in me.  Right shoulder, only,
until you're my boyfriend which will only take not acting like the clod of
the universe for six months.  Gregg and Vicki will be one day ahead of us,
but even if she tells me everything, I still think it will be exciting when
the time comes.
       "She says that's when a girl really stops being a virgin, when she
kisses a male while he's trying to get her pregnant.  Romantic, isn't she?"
       To Kevin it sounded like the second most romantic thing in the whole
world.  He raised on his right elbow to look at the clock, but he couldn't
see it in the dim storm lighting.  Dead serious about not having his six
months probation extended by even minute the youth got to his feet and went
to his parents bedroom where a wind-up clock did storm duty.  It was five
minutes to six p.m.  He heard his little sister giggle outside the door to
his parents room.  She poked her pretty freckled face around the corner and
winked at him.
       "What's wrong with that clock?" she asked, brightly.
       "Nothing, I don't think, " said Kevin, feeling it was silly to hold
it to his ear to see if a gear works was actually driving the second hand
which was plodding on, normally, held it up, anyway."
       "You've got to look at it," she explained, and then said, "the
front," when he held the back close to his candle.  The front.  The alarm.
It was set for 7:30.  The knob was out.  He looked at his sister.
       "Vicki's is set for the same time," Nancy said.  "That's for our
girl talk; gives it focus.  We leave it in here; her's won't be in the
room, either.  When they go off, we compare notes, as soon as the storm is
over, that is."
       "You don't think it will be exciting to drive you through the
blizzard with the news?"
       "I can't imagine ever being away from you.  She may never get to
know our little secret."
       Kevin put the clock back in it's place and the brother and sister
returned to the sleeping bags by the hot stove.
       "Are you counting the minutes?" Kevin asked.
       "And the seconds," the pretty little girl replied.
       "Me, too.  Do you think it's much to early to cheat?"
       "I didn't make the rule," Nancy replied, "so I can't know much about
unless we at least try, but we should at least wait for the clock."  That
sounded like about a hundred years.  Might as well spend them happily.
       Nancy cuddled to her brother.  "Glenn didn't do anything with Gregg
for three nights before he went down the tracks with Vicki.
       "How long has it been since you did anything?"
       "I don't know how to do anything," Kevin said.
       "Well, what happens to boys at night.  How long since the last
time?"
       "Six or seven days," Kevin said.
       "That's worth a kiss, so now you've got something specific to look
forward to."
       "Oh, goody," Kevin replied.  Her words had stopped the clock and he
giggled slightly to himself in spite of his promise to himself to can the
levity.  Some girls had faces that would stop a clock, but not his sis.
She needed nothing of the sort, just a whisper that he was soon to die and
go to heaven, and that just from kissing her.
       "I love you, big time," he whispered to her.  She cuddled closer and
brought his right hand to the top button of her blouse.
       "I know you're only twelve," she cooed, "but still, I want you to
try to be a big, bad wolf."

       "Not into puppy love, eh?" he whispered softly as he began to bare
her chest.  She purred like a cat, while practically radiating a sweet
ambience of irresistible kitten.  His kitten.  He tried not to let a
stupidness about ways to skin a cat zip through his mind, and was
successful.  He didn't giggle, but went for Nancy's second button as he
swung his right leg over her waist, and kneeled to his task as she lay
beneath him, her eyes shining up into his.

       The third button revealed her dirty secret, and the last several her
slim girlish waist as it disappeared into the plaid of her skirt.  Nor were
Kevin's the only busy fingers.  Nancy reached to him and became, dreadfully
sorry about this, a copy cat.  Indeed, she pawed her strong brother with
feline fingertips that wandered, button to button down his slim chest, not
following any straight lines but wandering as his boy fingers were
wondering all around her chest and bra and shoulders and long, slim neck.
She felt of his shoulders and biceps as she peeled his shirt away.  He
allowed her play, being very much engaged in his own.  A little wriggling
and both the children were bare chested, with Nancy still covered by
Vicki's gift.  It didn't last long.  What had happened between his sister
and Glenn was exciting, and he wanted to play the game, someday.  Now, he
wanted to see his sisters breasts.  More than anything in the world.
Wicked bad.  He double over and seeing what he needed in his eyes, the girl
half rose so her brother's hands could go to her back.  "Do you know how?"
she whispered.  His fingers went to her back, and tampered with what they
found. "Damn", he thought to himself, "how many secrets does this girl
have?"

       "They're kind of hooky things," she assisted.
       "How do they work?"
       "I don't know," she said, unable to keep a flash of amusement from
her eyes.  "I've never taken one off, before, and Vicki put it on.  She
can't come over because of the snow, and we can't even call, probably for a
couple of days."

       She was just so cute.  So adorable.  So sweet and funny.  What on
earth would it be like to be inside her?  Married to her?  That way.

       He solved the mystery.  He'd teach her later.  He rose back to a
position to look down on her as he feed her shoulders from the straps.  She
lay with her arms at her sides, deliberately making it easy for him.  He
stared down at her pretty face as he removed the stained fabric and dropped
it to the side.  This kid was pretty through and through.  Top to bottom.
Front and back.  How'd he gotten lucky enough to have her?  This, if fact,
was not the crux of the matter.  He'd been nice enough to deserve her, and
she know it, and that made it super for both of them.

       Her pink nipples were totally cute.  Standing out distinctly more
than a boy's, yet hardly much bigger than his own.  Nancy, for her part,
having never seen her big brother even shirtless in a year or more, thought
his naked chest looked excellent, too.  He was not massive like the
six-foot Glen, but rather lithe and all boy, where the other male was
closer to young man.  Perfect for her, she could see it, and, as he lowered
his bare chest to her naked breasts, feel it.

       They lay for minutes, linking hands and slowly moving their arms as
if the were making snow angles on their sleeping bags.  The image was
stark.  Snow angels on a dark and stormy night.  Better make some more, so
god would be sure to see.  On the other hand, maybe it would be better to
hide her from His view.  Perhaps the big dog spelled backwards had slaked
his passion for wrath against humanity with his sand flies and cystic
fibrosis, but why take chances?  He'd cover her well.  Take great care to
protect her from the moron of morons as sell as the wacky moon-beamers
shopping their way out of hell. in a liturgy of coin and cross.
       Well, he wasn't cross.  He was in seventh heaven feeling her supple
body wriggle happily against him as they slowly fanned their from their
waists to above their shoulders again and again for the pure sensual
pleasure of getting to know each other physically, lovingly, while slowly
giving themselves over to the total want of lust.  Total?  That meant there
must be -- more.
       "Come up higher on me," Nancy whispered.
       Kevin hitched forward, what a road to travel, until instead of being
nose to nose he had his little sister's forehead at his chin.  "Like that?"
he whispered.
       "You're being modest," she replied, "lie down on me."
       He knew he shouldn't be embarrassed, but he couldn't help a tinge of
a blush as he did her bidding, his hot penis settling, as the girl spread
her legs, right against her vagina.

       "Oh, babe," the little girl whispered at the first feeling of a male
against her.  He didn't feel as big as Glenn had looked, more like just
perfect.  She wanted to be naked with him, and said so.  "All night long,"
she added.  "Can you imagine it?"  She'd put his thoughts into words, and,
responsive children that they were, it was not to be long before the deed
followed the thought.  With a tender kiss to her brow, Kevin left his child
lover, standing, stripped to the waist now, and extended his hand to help
her to stand on the soft sleeping bags.  The kitten rose demurely, and for
a few moments they stood, holding both hands in each other's, shyly, until
the slowly melted their bare chests to each other and slow danced to now
music because the power was off.

       Then her tiny female hands were at his belt.  Kevin froze.  Strange
verb, considering the wood stove and another significant source of heat.
Kevin stood stock still.  Since a belt was pretty much a belt, she wasn't
challenged as he had been with Vicki's bra.  Since they children had been
brought up to have no use for a god who seemed adamant in his demand of
wealth for worship, they made do worshiping each other, and never the more
so as they worked at each others' belts, the single great act in what was
to happen between them; the transition from kids experimenting to a big
brother having incest with his nine-year-old sister.

       As Kevin messed with her, she whispered, "Would you like to be doing
this with Vicki?"  Somehow the suggestion made his fingers more nimble, and
soon their work was done and the belt and snap on her skirt were rent
asunder. as were their opposites on his slacks.  As one their fabric
dropped and was shuffled aside with their bare feet.  "We're really
different," Nancy whispered, looking down at their nakedness and the huge
bulge in her brother white underpants, where her lacey panties were trim
and neat.  For Kevin, looking at the pretty girl in just her pink panties
was almost a religious experience.  In the age of the Hubble telescope, man
knew god had assigned Planet Earth a humdrum and mundane place in the
galaxy.  Nancy made up for it.  The kid would be pretty in her grave.

       Again they danced, cheek to cheek, hands gently on each others
waist.

       "Is it okay if there are five of us?" she asked.  "You and me, Gregg
and Vicki, and Glenn and Mr. Williams?
       "That can be our sub-group in the club.  I almost think it's a bad
idea, because that will mean we're the best sub club, and this isn't
something to be best about."
       "I don't think we can help that," Kevin whispered.  "You'd make any
club the best so we'll just have to grin and bear it."
       "You wouldn't mind if I went to another club, once in awhile, would
you?" Nancy asked.
       "Not if it's what you want, and you tell me all the spicy details,
unless something private happens with a boy.  That would be your business."
       "Well," the girl whispered against his chest, "it was just a
thought.  Between you and Gregg and Glenn and Mr. Williams I doubt I'll
develop much of a roving eye.  Where would I find the time?"
       "If you fall in love, you will," Kevin said.
       "Knucklehead," she said back, "I've been in love with the world's
most beautiful and the world's nicest big brother since I was seven.  Maybe
six.  How old were we when we tried to shoot my Barbie over the house in a
toy rocket, and it caught the pine needles on fire, and you had to borrow
my dress and go like super-boy to beat the flames out before the shingles
caught?
       "I was nine and you were seven."
       "Sure," she said.  "It was the summer we tipped the cow; that was
just after my birthday.  I think I fell in love with you that night, too,
while I was watching you sneak around for half an hour piling up hay so
Bessie would have a soft landing.  Everything after that has been kind of a
haze."
       "With you," Kevin said, "it was when we used the tractor winch to
haul grandpa's old television way up in the oak tree.  That was way cool."
       "But you stood closer.  You had more confidence.  I was a scardy
cat."
       "Three feet wasn't bad.  I was only a little bit closer.  It was
your idea.  That's the main thing.  The idea.."
       "I've got another one," Nancy whispered, and settled to her knees.
Her hands went to the boys hips, and pulled his underpants down.  Kevin
steadied himself against the uneven footing provided by the sleeping bag
with a finger in her head.  He lifted his feet, first the right, then the
left, so she could get him totally naked.  She reached for his hand and he
pulled her back to her feet.
       The stood looking at each other, up and down and all over, and
especially, in the eyes.
       "I thought that might be a good one," Nancy whispered, staring now
at his big boner.  Then, she added, "this is more exciting than any old
console television falling eighty feet.
       "You're almost as big as Glenn.
       "Can I touch you?"
       "The footing isn't very good," he whispered to her, "I might fall."
       "I'll try to keep that from happening," the nine year old said as
she rested her curl festooned head against his chest and took his penis
gently in both her hands, exploring, then cupping him with her left and
experimenting with his foreskin with the fingers of her right.
       "This was what Vicki wanted to do with Glenn on their first secret
date, but she never got the chance.  I'm glad you've got more control."

       He hadn't the vaguest idea what the girl was talking about.  His
brain was as empty as a wino's bottle.  There was nothing in the world,
never had been, never would be, other than her soft loving hands gently
learning to masturbate him.  Kevin stood, shaking all over, arms down at
his sides while his kid sister had her way with him.  She took whole
minuets about it, and seemed to like best holding him to her soft girl
belly as she stroked and played with varying rhythms and patterns, almost
seeming to make them up as she went along.

       "Kevin," Nancy asked in her softest whisper, "can I ask you
something personal?"

       She didn't use his full name very often.  The television had landed
with an absolutely tremendous crash, she'd yelped it, then, but this was
different.

       "What?" he asked, adding.  "Sure."
       "What I'm doing to you, would you like to do this to Glenn or
Mr. Williams; I mean, you know, if you were alone with them, and everything
was cool.  Do you think you'd try it?"
       "What if we weren't alone.  What if you were there.  Would you want
to watch me do what your doing?"
       "Only if I could stand this close," she answered.

       How he held of ejaculating at the very image he did not know.
Perhaps it was the pretty tummy and a heterosexual need to plant his seed
deep inside her, rather than spunk his thin boy semen all over, that gave
him a tiny edge of control.  He swoll in her hand, and she whispered Oh,
Kev, but he did not quite cum on her.  This was doubly miraculous, because
thoughts of Glenn did stir him.  And he wanted to see sperm.  Glenn's,
Mr. Williams's.  At least once in awhile.  To be like he was with his
little sis, but to be manhandled by a trim adult and an athletic teen.  To
let nature surge its course with them, in private, so the little girl
wouldn't be upset at the mature male things they might want to do with his
tall, slim boy body, now that they owned his childish soul, or at least
hormones.

       By accord, they sank to their comfy nest.  Nancy lay with her
fingers laced behind her long slim neck as her big brother molested her all
over.  His touching and gentle licking kisses were at her throat and on her
swollen nipples, under her belly.  Then his hands were and she lifted
instantly.

       Kevin pulled her panties slowly for the first moments, discovering
her inch by inch as he alternated kissing, fondling and ogling.  Her
thrusting hips intruded on his reverie, and he got her naked, with the
panties joining Vicki's bra beside their sleeping bags.

       "Just be a Tarzan for a minute, will you?" Nancy asked.

       Kevin got the message, and rose quickly to his feet.  He imitated
her pose, hand behind the neck, and as she displayed herself to him by
arching he mirrored.  They both needed four eyes each to take in what they
saw.  How could anyone call that beautiful big boy penis by any other name;
what she displayed to him between her widely spread long slim girl legs
anything but a vagina.  Cum on, they're just kids.  Appreciate the moment.

       He knelt to her, lay to her, found her right shoulder in very close
to her neck and bit her.

       "There?" he asked.
       "Yes," she panted, feeling him long and naked against her, knowing
he was inches from her.
       "I'll be back," he concluded.

       Nancy stretched her arms high above her head.  Kevin rose on his
arms.  The both watched as he came gently against her.  Vicki raised her
hips very gently, and Kevin found her.  With a gentle surge of his hips he
explored her, checking in her eyes.  He felt a yielding softness and the
pretty eyes smiled yes.  He thrust, and she met him, held him, and he
thrust once again.  Again, the eyes said yes.  With his third gentle thrust
he entered her, then he did it again.  Her eyes glowed in the candle light.
Somewhere a million miles away was a scent of pine.  He was truly inside
his sister's tall, slim body.  He leaned to her, watching what he was
feeling as he found his complete entrance to her quick clench of pain.  He
raised higher on his arms and the little girl took a last look down at what
her big brother was doing to her.  Then he was fully against her, his hands
stretched above from his powerful male shoulder to caress her own little
paws.  The female child liked the lay part of getting laid.  Flat on her
back, arms stretched high, beautiful brother not only on her, but every
moment slowly thrusting himself gently to her, he legs almost hurting at
her pelvis as she spread herself for his hot boy sperm.

       He was so gently the way he did it to her.  His powerful hips could
have ripped him into her, but it wasn't that way; the tender, loving
thrusts went on and on, and every once in awhile one thrust would take her
a little more fully.  For minutes and minutes it went on until he was fully
with her.  She could feel his hot blaze and even fondle it with her female
muscles.  They were both covered in sweat.  Kevin almost giggled.  Who'd
turned up the heat, but, it was a wood stove.  He as glad it was lame.  He
was inside Nancy.  All of him.  Their bodies stretched together in the soft
gold light, him thinking a Unich wouldn't half mind this pretty little
girl.  He grunted with envy for Glenn and Mr. Williams.  They were going to
feel her, too.  Just as he was.  Tight, pulling, sweet, and warm and hot at
the same time.  He held her thus for minutes, then he thought of her, doing
what he was doing to her, when she was fresh from a mature male.  It made
him fuck her.  He rose again on his arms, over her, and began a series of
quick, strong strokes.  Dozens, hard and fast.  Then Kevin felt every wet
dream in the world rise fast in him.  He slowed, tender and gentle, just
for a few moments, as he lowered himself and took her by the neck.

       Nancy had loved being fucked, but this was a pure feral madness.
Lying against her, his bare chest to her swollen breasts, his arms now
around her, his wet sucking mouth at the base of her neck, and his big
penis throbbing its sperm impossibly deep inside her.  God, was she ever
his kid sis now.  For freaking life.  He kept up his spraying.  Again and
again.  He must be very excited, she even had time to think, and glow with
pleasure and pride at the amazing things he was doing to try to get her
pregnant.  Boys will be boys.

       And, I'm afraid, writers will be writers.  For example, we have to
keep in mind that editors are humans, and it affords one no good to abuse
them.  It is unique being a writer who thanks his editor for stopping him,
usually the formulae is worked the other way around.

       You know, I was a little nervous there.  I am not without human
characteristics.  I'd set myself a pretty high bar with a lot of chatter
about the best erotic story ever written, but I'll have to admit, though
we've just begun, and it's too early to tell for sure, I've outdone even my
rather fussy standards for myself.  Of course, I know what actually is in
Brad's backpack, so that breeds the confidence to write protein rich copy
to set the mood, knowing I'll not spoil your dinner, not with my cooking,
boss.

       If I weren't supporting a family of five, plus myself, I'd, by god,
set up a little contest and award a prize to any reader who can guess what
Brad's invention is.  If you want to try, I'll post your name or handle (is
that what you guys call a Net name?).in the next chapter or two.  In the
meantime, I'm going to get back to Andrew and Ruby, in "Ropeyarn," before
someone gets killed and I miss all the fun.  (Readers may be wondering
about the name, just like you are about Brad, so you're all kind of in the
same boat. ) Cheers.  Thanks for reading.

       Posted by: Thomas@btl.net

       xxx