Date: Sun, 19 May 2002 22:20:27 -0700 (PDT) From: Fisher Boy Subject: A Father's Love, part VII A Father's Love By Fisher Boy (c) 2002 boyfisher69@yahoo.com Permission is granted to link to this story, or to quote or forward the story in its entirety without alterations as long as no fees are charged for sharing. Individuals may download and print one copy for personal use only. Don't read this if your mind or your weenie are too small to handle it. Includes some really unpleasant ideas involving men, boys, sex and abuse. But you knew that already, and made up your mind already. Please post comments, criticism, suggestions, interesting propositions, irrelevant thoughts, and your own journey, real or imagined, to me at boyfisher69@yahoo.com. I'll try to respond to any intelligent comments. Be patient. The story is fiction, though the character Will is strongly based on someone I knew, and the outline of his life is fairly real. Much of this is based on real events, but this is, again, fiction. Part Seven Duprass A-dam was the turning point for my life. I know that now, I didn't know it then, of course. It was very cool, though it had its drawbacks. It was cold and wet a lot of time, and I couldn't really make as much whoring, but enough, mostly to American tourists who liked boys. I cleaned up my act so I could look 16 again, wore clothes too big for me, got my hair cut so my head looked bigger, shaved real often though that wasn't so important since I still couldn't grow a beard, used eyedrops to get rid of toker's red. Then the demand soared, though you wouldn't believe how many of them were disappointed I wasn't Dutch. I thought about dying my hair blond, and talking with an accent. And a lot of them wanted me to set them up with Dutch boys or do three ways with one. I guess it was a let down to come all that way and have to have sex with an American hustler, but it didn't stop them. The drugs and places to crash were everywhere. Mostly it was pot, hash, killer hash, sometimes it was laced with opium, and the H was fine, easy to get, clean. The junkies there were a lot better off than anyplace else I'd ever seen. I think the government gave it to them for discount, or something. I'm not a junkie, never have been, I chipped a little but never got really into that stuff, still it was nice once in a while. You know the worst addiction I had is cigarettes, and the Spanish stuff was like smoking cow turds, I'd always swiped packs from the Americans when I slept with them if they smoked. Now when I could get there I'd go to the NATO commissary using my dependent ID if they were real busy so they didn't have time to check to see it had expired, and I'd buy cartons of them there and sell them on the streets, I made like $2 a pack that way. Can't do that in the states, dependents can't buy cigarettes, but at 16 in the Netherlands you can and the commissary would sell them to me. Anyhow, you just go into these coffee shops and drink this incredible coffee, so strong it wired you so much you needed some hash just to keep from shaking. And somebody was always buying, I didn't even have to put out for it most of the time. It was warm and steamy and friendly and quiet, you could overlook the gloomy streets and you didn't have to feel lonely. Funny thing was I met a lot of other young guys there and they'd pay me or feed me or give me a place to sleep, I couldn't figure why though, they could get some older guy to do it for free or even pay them. Anyway, like I was saying, A-dam changed things for me. I was doing this stuff, it was easy, but it's not like I am a lazy person. I mean, I whored because it was fun and paid well other places, and I needed to do it to survive, and of course I liked dick. But if I could have made a living some other way, I'd have done it and just done guys to get the sex I wanted. I never wanted a lot of stuff, just a place to sleep and a dick up my ass, some clean clothes, food, and good drugs. And sometimes a good book, but that was harder to get since I couldn't read Dutch too well. So this guy told me that I could get jobs in Amsterdam if I wanted to make some extra money, and he was right. First of all, everybody there speaks English, so you don't need to know much Dutch at all, and I'd picked up a little I'm good with languages. If you were undocumented, they didn't care, you couldn't get real jobs, like being a teacher or some shit, but you could work in a restaurant or coffee shop, they were always looking for people. So I did that some, it worked out pretty good; I like working. It also meant I had less time to party and all, and I sort of thought that might be a good thing for me. So I started to work in this Chinese restaurant (yeh, that's funny, right! Chinese restaurants in Amsterdam with American busboys!) and after a while somebody there turned me on to a job in a little grocery. It was a family business, the owner's son had gone off to college and he needed some help a few hours a day, it didn't pay much but with a little whoring on the side I was doing fine. I liked working there, they were nice people and treated me real well. It was warm, crowded place, it smelled great from all the food and fresh baked stuff and they often gave me lunch or a hot meal for dinner, sometimes they'd have me stay after closing and take me upstairs and feed me at their dinner table. The deKuyks there were called, I told my friends they were "a bunch of dykes" but that was just a joke. Mrs. deKuyk liked me a lot, I think and she set out to fatten me up and did. I didn't tell them a lot about me, just my folks were military in Europe and I was just checking things out a little before I decided to go off to college. Well, it might have been true. So I had been working there a while and I turned nineteen and then I met Matteus. That's Dutch for Matthew, or Matthias, same thing, but I will always think of him as Matteus, it's not the same if you translate it. He came into the store one afternoon shopping for his family and I took one look and WHAM! Something happened inside, I got hard just looking at him. Dunno why, really, he was not the sort of thing that I got all hot for. Most of the tourists who wanted me were much more my type. I mean, given a choice between a guy who is thirty-eight and a little paunchy but hairy, and a guy who is nineteen and smooth and tight, I'm probably for thirty-eight to be honest. Well, thirty-two anyway. Paul would say I was fucked up about that, but it worked for me. But Matteus was my age, and he was good looking but not what most guys thought of as incredibly hot. But suddenly I did think he was, I looked into those blue eyes and just WHAM! His hair was long, blonde-brown, he was not a little bit chubby like Dutch boys usually are in the winter, he was quite slender, had very pale skin. When I came to my senses, about a day later, I realized he had the finest bones in his hands, they were slender and delicate, and that I had really flashed on them. Long fingers, like a diamond cutter I had met, one of my rare Dutch tricks. And he knew it too, he looked at me, did a double take, and laughed. I figured he was straight and I'd been too obvious. So I went into the back room and stacked some cans up so I wouldn't have to look at him, but I kept peeking out into the store to see if he was still there. And then he left, but he seemed to be looking over his shoulder back at the store and I sort of hoped he was. So he came in again the next day and just loitered around looking at stock and I knew then. So I asked him if I could help him, I used my best Dutch to do it. I figured that would make it perfectly clear to him that I was an American, because my Dutch was pretty bad. He laughed and told me stick to English. Mr. deKuyk was watching this and I figured he had figured me out a long time ago, but the Dutch didn't get too uptight about homos, and he thought this was amusing, and he finally said to me "Villem," that's what he called me because they are formal. He wouldn't call me Will, and he couldn't quite say William. "Take your friend out for coffee after your work is done, don't waste my time." But I could tell he wasn't mad. So we made a date. * * * He had been gone almost two years, and I decided it was time to make some changes in my life. I was in this apartment in Twentynine Palms and it wasn't where I wanted to be, and even though I wanted to be where Will could find me, I couldn't let that run my life. And I decided I was pretty tired of my job anyway. I considered looking for a transfer to another military facility, but decided to change altogether, and after a lot of soul searching, I decided to look for work in Chicago, and stayed with my parents for quite a while. About three months after I moved, I got a postcard, forwarded from California, from Will. He was in Amsterdam and included a return address. All it said was "Miss you sometimes. Love, Will." I called Eleanor, and she was surprised to hear it, they had received one letter, a single page, with not much information, postmarked from Brussels. I gave her the address, then wrote to him immediately, telling him I'd moved, asking him to call me or his mother some time. It was good to know he was alive. * * * Matteus was early, he was waiting impatiently for me when I got to our date. We sat and had coffee but he asked all the questions, I was sitting there staring into those blue eyes, trying to get inside and fuck his eyeballs out with my stare. He smelled so good. I was hard as a rock every minute, couldn't even think while we talked about anything but pulling him on top of me, wrapping my legs around him, having him fuck my brains out. But he wanted to talk, and I told him whatever he wanted to know. And a funny thing happened, two funny things, maybe three. One thing that happened was I heard the story myself. I mean, I know the story, I've told it a few times, one guy PAID me to tell him this shit, he was a sick fuck, but it was easy money and he got off on it. I made it more sexy for him. But it was so different this time, I told the story and for the first time I can think of I heard it myself. It was so sick and sad and pathetic, and I thought "why I am I saying this? Now?" I thought, "Fuck, you idiot shut up you'll scare him away." And I thought, "What the fuck have you been doing with your life?" And inside me a scream was welling up and I was afraid I'd let it out. And his eyes did get big and round. But he just kept asking questions and listening, and I could see tears rolling down his cheeks. That was the second thing. The third thing was he suddenly said "I can't tell you anything about me right now, it's not a good time. We need to take care of you first." And he did. We went to my place, it was a crummy little hole, but it was clean and neither of my roommates was around, they were just students passing through who flopped for a month or two and helped with the rent, we were paying almost nothing, almost squatting anyway. And he held me and his touch was electric and I could feel his energy, his slim, slim body was pressed up against me and the power came flushing through me from him, washing me clean, washing all my sins away, baptizing me in our mingled semen, making me feel right for the first time in such a long time, in since forever, in since never. * * * Eleanor said they had gone to Amsterdam to look for him, but had no luck. He was not at the address I'd given, it was some small apartment building with a lot of very transient kids hanging around, a few of whom seemed to recall Will, but none knew where he was. After a few days they gave up and went back to Spain. I had a new job with Motorola, and finally a lover, one of my brother Danny's friends had become a gay matchmaker, brought Brandt to Danny one day and Danny called and said "You need to meet this guy, Paul." I did and I can't say it was love at first sight. But we had a good time, met again and in time it became clear to me that this was a good match for me. He was a lawyer, brainy and I thought rather good looking in his peculiar way. Older than me, about thirty-five. We moved in together after about six months; had a nice apartment in the city and I endured a commute out to the suburbs. I told him all about Will, in time. He was fascinated by the story. One day he said "why don't we go to Amsterdam this summer and see if we can find him?" I thought that was a little crazy, but we wanted a vacation anyway and I'd never been to Amsterdam. On the other hand, I told him we'd see Paris first, and not obsess, this was a vacation, and we'd consider looking for the boy a side trip. Summer came, we made our plans, and another postcard arrived, this time directed to my parent's home. * * * He left, said he'd look for me in the shop in a few days. He'd opened up some gate inside me. It wasn't because he left, but I cried for hours. Every now and then, I'd start again, deep wrenching, wracking sobs, almost screaming until I was exhausted, and then I'd start again, until I shot up some H just so I could sleep. Get away from the pain. I was in kind of a daze after that, not drugs, I didn't shoot again, I was just broken inside, not bad broken, but I needed to heal up after whatever had happened. Two days later Matteus came by work and I thought I'd die just having to keep my hands off of him. I looked in his eyes and was lost immediately, couldn't even understand what he was saying to me most of the time, but we met again after work again in a coffee shop, and then to my place again, and when we were done I fell into a deep sleep and he was gone when I woke. I thought this was crazy, but it was so wonderful, when I was in his presence, I was just powerless to even think. We met every few days, I knew nothing about him, I'd try to ask he'd just say "not yet, not now, you need something else now." He was right, he was so aware of me, I had not to speak anything to him and he understood. And he teased my story out of me in even more detail as we lay on my little pallette, bringing out all the horrors and fears and pain and shit and washing them away with a touch of his lips against my nipple, a stroke of my ribs. Shivers coursed through me every time he touched me. He traced the scar on my arm so very gently with his fingertips, his warm sweet breath on the back of my neck. Then he would disappear again. After three weeks of such wrenching emotional encounters, I finally began to shoot up before I met him, or smoked some hash with him in the coffee shop, though he seemed very nervous about doing that, strange since it was so commonplace. He wouldn't do much, said I should not do so much either, and I complied as well as I was able. Finally, I insisted he had to tell me about himself, I knew nothing about him after all. He was, he said, a conservatory student, studying to be a concert pianist, lived with his parents, didn't think it was "feasible" for us to meet "just yet." He told me after a lot of prodding that he hadn't a lot of sexual experience, just one or two short affairs in the past six months, but was so reluctant to even impart that information. He was hiding something from me, but I didn't care. I had finally found someone who made me feel safe. Made me real. I sent Paul a postcard, Matteus told me Paul sounded like someone to keep in touch with. I told Paul I was in love. * * * So it seemed it was to be pretty easy to find him, after all. I told Eleanor she might as well let me check things out instead of going there, he hadn't sent his new address to her. Remembering how I had seen him that last time, I figured it would be better for me to see him than her. All he had told me was "I am in love. Miss you. Write. Will." God knows who - or what - he was in love with, but it sounded better than a lot of the things I could hear. We determined to enjoy our time in Paris and it was wonderful. If you've never been, it is really the place to start a visit to Europe. Yes, all the bad things you've heard are probably true, but the people are friendly if you try to speak a little French, the food is glorious, the museums beyond description. I sat at the Rodin museum and looked at The Thinker, in the garden, for two solid hours, while Brandt patiently waited. Mostly I was thinking about Will, this perplexing creature to whom I was tied. For tied I was, I had never escaped the bonds of fate, even when he was gone and I absolved myself of responsibility. Even after two years apart, I knew I would never rest until his story was done. I just hoped the ending would be happy. But I didn't have a lot of illusions. * * * Matteus showed me the city through Dutch eyes, showed me things I had never seen before, some of which were not in our bed. He steadfastly refused to show me his home, his school, anything of his personal life, saying patiently "not now, it's not the right time." "What are you hiding from me?" I asked him one day, suddenly suspicious. "Yes, something, you are right." He pierced me with those eyes. "But it's not a bad thing, just something I can't tell just yet." "I've told you EVERYTHING about me, can't you tell me what this is." Right there, out on the street, a busy summer day, he kissed me on the lips and a shiver ran up my spine. I saw some shocked looks out the corners of my eyes. Dutch people don't kiss in public. "No, not yet, I am sorry, you must trust me." So I did. I was always trusting people, sometimes good people like Paul, sometimes bad ones like Gary. I think it was one of my problems, I never knew who not to trust. Well, I had learned some of the bad ones, that guy who raped me taught me some of that, to be more wary, but I trusted people. Paul had said it was an attractive but dangerous habit. "Trust is fine," he'd told me. "Trust demands judgment, though." In moments apart I ached for Matteus, and sometimes I'd think of Paul too, I'd get confused, I'd want to crawl into Paul's big warm safe bed sometimes. Have him fuck me. I thought I should call him some time, but overseas calls are very expensive and I didn't have his phone number anyway. I wished I could talk to him, to get him to tell me if I should trust Matteus, but then I figured it didn't make any difference. Matteus might screw me royally, might turn out not to be trustworthy, but I didn't have any choice, I was going to trust him, I had to. If he betrayed me, I'd probably kill myself. But given the choice of not trusting him or dying, I was going to trust him. I had never needed anyone so badly. He was better than a thousand dicks.