The following is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons or places is entirely coincidental. The author in no way advocates the reality of the events depicted. If you enjoy stories involving Man/boy consensual love and the idea and look of young boys in short pants, please refer to "Ian, One Man's Prince," also archived at this site. Arcadia Academy for Boys by Short Boys-Pants ARCADIA ACADEMY FOR BOYS Chapter One "Arrivals" The black limousine cruised along a winding forest road, the early autumn day sunny and mild. The trees made for a magnificent display of burgundy and amber leaves, and the northern Michigan landscape was a quilt of hills and color, but I could see none of it. I touched the black silk blindfold wrapped around my head. "I understand these measures but I'm quite uncomfortable," I said. The ride was approaching three hours in length and my brown suit was growing wrinkled. "My apologies, sir," the driver answered. "We're almost there. Do not remove the blindfold as that would corrupt school security." The limousine turned onto what I would later learn was an unpaved, abandoned logging road pitted with holes. My head hit the top of the limousine as I bounced like a child in the plush seat. "Surely students aren't forced to endure this carnival ride!" "No, sir!" the driver called. "Each boy is flown in or out by helicopter. Most boys, most people, have never been in a helicopter. It keeps them disoriented. Should your interview prove successful the helicopter will be at your disposal." "I look forward to that," I huffed. "Watch your step, sir," said the driver, guiding me by the elbow and leading me from the limousine. I walked clumsily, my movements made more awkward by my nervousness. I had no idea what to expect and I hadn't slept well the night before. "Good, sir. Now the stairs. There's three of them." I stumbled, my shoes scraping the stone, then I was led across the threshold and through the door of the registration building. My heart raced; I struggled not to hyperventilate. "It's been a pleasure, sir. Good luck." I stood very still until I heard the door close, then I tore away the blindfold. Blinking hard, I found myself in a spacious office tastefully decorated with turn-of-the century furniture. Directly across from me sat a blonde boy of 15 behind a desk doing keyboard entry at a computer. The boy was well-groomed and wore a navy-blue suit jacket, a blue and red striped necktie, and a light blue shirt. I cleared my throat. "Oh, hello," said the blonde teen, glancing up and swiveling around in his chair, blue eyes magnified behind round glasses. "May I help you?" I was taken aback by the normal, business-like operations of the school. A brief panic filled me. Could I be at the wrong school? Lord! "Yes. Mr. Daniel Wilson to see Headmaster Arcadia. I've a 2:30 appointment." The boy-secretary flipped open an appointment book, long fingers nimbly turning the pages. He looked cute, as if he was playing a game of make-believe, but there was no doubting his professional manner. Someone had trained him well. "Yes, sir. I've you right here," he said pleasantly, smiling and standing. My briefcase fell to the floor. The boy secretary was dressed in a lovely, elegant pair of charcoal gray short pants, the tops of his gold thighs visible above the edge of the desk. "Sir?" The teen blinked, watching me swoon, then hurried over to a water cooler in the corner. The lanky boy bent at his task, taking a paper cup from the dispenser and pouring the water. His jacket pulled up to reveal his lean buttocks. The flat backs of his thighs tapered down from his shorts into a pair of cuffed, navy-blue knee stockings. He hurried toward the me and offered the cup, blonde bangs flopping. I took the cup and drank deeply, the boy watching me with concern. "Are you all right, sir?" "Yes, thank you. The blindfold made me dizzy," I stammered. "Of course. We all have that reaction," the boy said, nodding. I handed him the empty cup. He picked up my briefcase and gave it to me. "I'll announce you." The boy sat on the edge of the desk and leaned over it to work an intercom. I stared at his thighs, the smooth gold flesh gleaming. "Mr. Arcadia, sir? A Mr. Daniel Wilson to see you." "Send him in," came the reply from the speaker. "Follow me?" the boy gestured, hopping off the desk. Still uncertain, I looked about the office as if I were being "set-up" and perhaps arrested for criminal intentions I could not ever commit. Such worries are a part of life in an unenlightened world. But the boy and I were alone, and my gaze rested upon him once more. "What's your name?" "Oh, forgive me! My name's Gerald, sir." "Do you shave?" "Shave?" Gerald gasped, thin hands flying to his soft, unblemished face. "I meant your legs," I said, pointing. The boy's distress was curious. "Oh! No, sir!" Gerald exhaled with relief, stooping to run his hands over his thighs in an appreciative manner. Puberty tends to make boys self-conscious but not this one, apparently, who seemed quite comfortable in his short pants suit. "I didn't have to shave when I was your age, either," I said, patting the teen's head. His hair was fine and silky. He smiled, letting me pet him like a puppy. I was 26 years old at that time, 6'5" and 230 pounds, the boy 5'7" and a slender 130 pounds. "And you're as blonde as myself. Shall we?" "Yes, sir," said Gerald, leading me to the headmaster's door. I sat in a high-backed leather chair and tried not to fidget. Headmaster Arcadia sat behind a large desk, studying me silently. The headmaster was an imposing older man in his late 60s with a full head of authoritative white hair. He projected enormous confidence and the power of inestimable wealth. "You read of the position in the newspaper?" he asked finally. I laughed politely at the joke. "A friend made me aware of the position. You'll notice his and other letters of recommendation?" I gestured to a manila folder on the desk. "Yes. You seem qualified. Arcadia Academy seeks only the best men." "Of course. Negative elements can be so disruptive to a school's mission statement," I answered, secure in my History PhD and my good looks, having preserved the swimmer's build I'd developed in college. I'd taken my degree that summer, and this was my first and only job interview. The headmaster nodded, bathed in a rainbow of sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows behind him. "I've put my life into this Academy." "And it shows." I said quickly. "You have a wonderful institution." A gentle knock at the door halted the interview. "Come," called the headmaster. A beautiful, wispy little boy of 9 entered, carrying a silver tea set. The auburn-haired lad moved quietly as a mouse. Dainty and subservient, he set the tray on the desk then stood at attention facing Mr. Arcadia, feet together and back straightened with perfect posture. He, too, wore a short pants suit, the required school uniform. His twiggy thighs were caramel brown, knees curving inwards slightly and touching above the wide cuffs of his stockings. "How are you this day, Benjamin?" "Fine, sir. And you?" the child chirped. "Introduce yourself to Mr. Wilson, a prospective history instructor." The little boy turned smartly. He wore large, red framed eyeglasses that leant him an owlish appearance. "Good afternoon, sir. My name's Benjamin Cleary. It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, performing a deep, formal bow. "Aren't you a proper boy!" I called, squirming in my chair. Awed, I ran my eyes over the tiny, whispy lad, who merely returned my gaze with an owlish, quizzical look. "Benji's been with us since he was 5," said Mr. Arcadia proudly. "He has beautiful manners." "You may go, Benjamin." The boy bowed to me, to Mr. Arcadia, then exited as quietly as he'd entered. I sighed, watching him go, my face glowing with wonder. "Yes. A boy can have that effect," said Mr. Arcadia approvingly, guaging my reaction. "I believe we can welcome you to our community." The elderly man offered his hand. I jumped up and shook hands warmly. Then I settled back in the leather chair as the headmaster poured the tea. I strolled across the main quad, led on a tour by little Benji. The campus was on a par with the most posh private schools, elms and willows and oaks dotting the manicured landscape. The academy's resources were vast. What was a magnificent environment for a boy to grow up in and an edenic environment for teaching. A bell rang, signaling the end of classes. Moments later waves of schoolboys poured out from the doors of ivy covered stone buildings, backpacks and book belts slung over their shoulders. Big boys and little boys, kindergarten through high school. "Hi, Benji!" A cute 8 year old with crayon-red hair ambled towards us, hands in his pockets, naked thighs tinted strawberries-and-cream. He was short and stout, with emerald-green eyes and freckled, chipmunk cheeks, the straps of his backpack fitted over his shoulders. "Hi, Patty! This is Mr. Wilson. The new history teacher," Benji said, tugging at the redhead's right arm, caring for him the way older boys will care for younger boys at boarding schools. Patty yanked his hands from his pockets, gray shorts sliding up and down. "Pleased to meet you," he said shyly, shaking hands with me but staring at his friend for approval. He was a falsetto. "Patty's my roommate," Benji explained. "He's in the choir. Mr. Orson says Patty is the most talented boy he's ever taught." "Is that right?" I fussed. "Benji!" The redhead yelped, blushing modestly. He pawed at the grass with his tiny blue shoes, then yanked his hand from mine and scampered away, coat tails flouncing over his bubble butt. "He's shy," said Benji. "He's cute," I answered. "Yes, sir. He is," Benji agreed, watching Patty race across the quad. Surprised, I studied my tour guide, but the little boy was merely proud of his roommate. A natural bond. I took a deep breath, the late September air cool and refreshing. With a giddy burst of energy, I kicked at a large, burgundy maple leaf on the grass like a punter, following through with athletic grace. "Do you play sports, sir?" Benji asked. Impuslively, I grabbed the tiny boy around the waist and draped him over my shoulder. It was effortless. He weighed nothing at all. "Yes. Do you?" "N-n-no, sir," Benji gasped, startled, writhing. "So what do you do?" I gave the child's thighs a friendly tap and spun, then set him gently on his feet. "I like to draw," Benji said, craning his neck back to stare at me, pushing his owl-glasses up his pert nose. His thin face registered quick calculations. "You're nice," he declared. "You're nice, too." The child took my right hand and smiled, making friends. "Here. Let me show you something," he chirped, tugging. I did not budge. The child giggled as he leaned back at an angle, blue shoes sliding across the grass. "It is so nice to finally meet you, young Benji!" l said warmly. "All those 'Yes, sirs' and 'No, sirs.' I thought you were a 40 year old midget and not a little boy." Benji giggled harder, dainty legs pumping as he backpedaled, all tendons and kneecaps. I let him lead me. At the top of a hill overlooking expansive playing fields, we watched soccer teams play against a picturesque backdrop of autumn woods. The galloping boys wore vibrant uniforms, white shorts and red or green jerseys and knee socks, their long, pumping, sweat-moist legs gleaming with the elasticity of adolesence. "See? You can be a coach!" Benji chirped. "Who's that fellow?" I pointed to a balding man in his fifties. The man was dressed in an umpire's black shorts uniform and sat on a folding chair behind a goal, head down and hands crossed over his pot-bellied stomach. The man was asleep and made a sharp contrast to the active youths on the field. Benji tugged at my sleeve. I squatted and the child whispered cutely in my ear. "That's Mr. Johnson. He's kind of old." "The boys need a younger coach?" I asked, quivering as Benji's baby breath tickled my ear. "Mr. Johnson teaches math. He's been here forever. He's an aluminum." l laughed. "You mean he's an alumnus?" "Alumnus," Benji repeated, committing the new word to memory. I gazed at the boy's little gray pants so neat and trim beneath his jacket, then I took hold of the hems and pulled them straight. "Are you happy, son?" "With you? I always give tours." I patted the sides of Benji's thighs while he watched, clearly used to adult, male affection. "I meant your parents, dear. Do you miss them?" "I'm an orphan. We're all orphans." "Poor baby!" I gushed, squeezing Benji's thighs tight. "I'm not poor!" the child cried earnestly. "Mr. Arcadia takes care of us." "Can I give you a hug?" I asked, overwhelmed with sympathy for the orphan. "Well, O.K.," Benji shrugged. I scooped him up, the child wrapping his legs around my waist. He stared at me closely, brown eyes wide behind his glasses. "What?" "You're nice," he said simply. "You're nice, too," I sighed, bowing my head to watch my hands demurely stroke the little boy's narrow thighs from pants to socks. Benji bowed his head to watch, too, our faces almost touching. We stood on the crest of the hill in silence, watching my large hands caress the child's thighs endlessly. I had never touched a boy so openly before, with so much respect and adoration, and without fear of reproach. Beni sensed that the moment was important to me and kept still, letting me hold him. A breeze blew, and a flurry of leaves fell around us like maroon and amber seconds in a timeless hourglass. At dinner, I sat at the staff table with my new colleagues. The table was placed at one end of a large cafeteria overlooking several hundred boys aged 5 to 17. The boys were animated, happy and healthy, their voices echoing in the high-vaulted cafeteria. It was intoxicating. I could barely eat watching their bright faces and naked knees bumping and touching under the tables. "This is your first teaching position, then?" asked Frank, a beefy red-faced man seated across from me, picking up a serving plate piled high with lemon chicken. "Yes. I'm a little nervous." "It's not like the public schools. Thank God you won't have to deal with parents." "Quite a spunky bunch, eh?" asked a thin, gray haired man with an English accent on my left. "There's so many of them," I said dreamily, sipping my coffee. Arcadia Academy was fully accredited and registered as a non-profit organization for wayward boys. Each holiday season state officials and politicians were sent greeting cards of the boys celebrating Hanukkah or Christmas, decorating, opening presents, or kneeling penitently in prayer. The photographs of the well-attended boys lifted the school above question. Most of the state officials were alumni, and those who were not found nothing amiss when they visited the school. A strategy of "hiding-in-plain-sight" worked flawlessly. "Yes, they're cute now, but try teaching them Latin," said the Englishman. "Harrison is such an academic," said Frank, a science teacher. "But then Harrison comes from that culture of boarding schools common to his little country. He wants to make the world England." "I'd find that remark insulting," said Harrison, eyes twinkling, "If I thought for a moment that you yanks didn't enjoy the way we limeys dress our sons." I ignored the reparte and cast my gaze about the cafeteria. Then I gasped audibly. Harrison followed my line of sight and smiled. "Oh, yes. His name's Ethan." "Ethan," I repeated, rolling the boy's name on my tongue as it were a dollop of sweetest honey. Standing next to a stainless steel serving cart was the most stunningly beautiful 12 year old boy. Pre-pubescent and coltish, 5'3" and 95 pounds. He was dressed like a waiter: a black waist-high jacket, a white shirt and black bow tie, crisp black short pants, cuffed black knee socks and black patent leather shoes. The boy's hair was light-brown, feathered and parted down the middle. He stood with his feet shoulder-width, hands clasped behind his back. Each table had a similarly assigned boy-waiter, but while the others joked with their classmates this one took his job seriously. "Coffee?" I mouthed, catching Ethan's eye. The boy-waiter picked up a coffee pot from the serving cart and hurried over, thin, olive thighs shimmering. "Freshen your drink, sir?" "Thank you," I said breathlessly, heart pounding. The boy-waiter stretched across me, his crotch almost bumping my elbow. "You could do this for a living," I gasped, mesmerized by the lad's beauty. "I do do this for a living," the boy said playfully, concentrating on filling the white cup so as not to spill. I watched the steaming arc of black coffee. Ethan's proximity was intimidating; that is, my every fibre ached for the lad. What happened then was instantenous: I was annointed and purified by the boy-waiter's beauty. I was in love. "Do you need more cream?" Ethan asked, his voice a musical lilt, his beauty heightened by his desire to serve me. "No, son. Thank you," I said breathlessly. I wanted to brush Ethan's feathered bangs back from his eyes. Instead, I reached down and around him to give the side of his springy right thigh a friendly pat. Oh, heaven! Such immaculate, naturally moistured flesh! And, like Benji, the boy-waiter let it happen without question. "Warm me, Ethan?" asked a teacher at the far end of the table. The boy's silky thigh slipped through my fingers. I watched him go with adoration. "Ethan is a looker," said Harrison. "But watch out. He likes a good prank." "I'll handle him," I said as the boy walked back to the serving cart. The students began to shuffle out, carrying their plates and utensils to a service window by the kitchen. Looking efficient and hansome, Ethan pushed his cart to the service window and leaned over the stainless steel counter to unload coffee pots and tins of sugar and creamer. He rose up on tippy toes, right leg extended and hovering behind him, glazed with the ceiling lights. "Staff doesn't have to carry their plates to the kitchen," said Harrison as I stood. "I'd like to get a feel for the school." "I'm sure. Join us for a nightcap? We've planned a welcoming session in my quarters. It's tradition." "Fine," I answered impatiently. "I'll send for you." I strode across the cafeteria in a daze, students nodding respectfully as I passed. Then suddenly, impossibly, I stood behind Ethan, gazing upon his upturned bottom. Balancing my plate and utensils in my left hand, I extended my right and let it float above the back of Ethan's hovering thigh. My hand trembled. The young boy's leg was a spiritual object which I knew, once touched, would consume me. My hand dropped. Filaments of boy-holiness pierced my every cell and left them glowing with bio-luminescence. "Wait your turn!" Ethan snapped, glancing over his left shoulder, brown eyes widening when he saw me. "Oh, excuse me!" "No harm done," I grinned, patting the boy's thigh, thrilled that he did not move but remained stretched over the counter. "Teachers don't have to bring up their things," said Ethan. "I just want to help." Vibrating with a burst of endorphins, I leaned over the boy-waiter, my broad chest pressing against his frail back, his tiny rump fitting into the curve of my lower abdomen like the missing piece of a puzzle that gave us both completion. Ethan stiffened, head twitching against my breast. Through the service window I saw several boys dressed in cook's whites and aprons hurrying about. "Is something wrong?" asked a fat man, the kitchen supervisor, hurrying over and wiping his hands on his apron.. He was dressed in similar cook's whites except that his pants, of course, were long. "Not at all. I just wanted to say that dinner was wonderful." "Thank you!" the fat man beamed. "Have we met?" We exchanged pleasantries, Ethan motionless beneath me, doing his best to be unobtrusive and not disturb us grown-ups. My hand went up and down his thigh. "All you boys help out?" I asked Ethan afterwards, climbing off him and taking his shoulders to turn him around. Ethan snapped to attention, bringing his long legs together, fine hands smacking against the sides of his thighs. "I was about to come back and take your dishes," he said, brown bangs fluttering with a nervous twitch of his head. "You're a fine waiter. Your name's Ethan." The boy nodded, thin face drawn with anxiety. He curled his fingers under the hems of his black shorts and yanked so that they formed a triangle in his crotch, pink crescents of flesh showing above his tan lines. "Yes, sir. Um, what do you want?" he chirped, confused by my approach and ready to do my bidding. "I only want to say hello. My name is Mr. Wilson. I'm the new history teacher. I'll see you in class on Monday. Don't be late," I teased, winking, then walked away backwards, the beautiful boy-waiter standing like a statue, tugging his shorts hard, watching me. "Ethan?" I called. "No, sir! I won't be late!" he answered, thin body jerking. I turned and walked away quickly. I believe I walked erratically, as if drunk, which, as it turned out, I soon would be. A chill wind blew, rustling the leaves of the trees like papery chimes. The darkened buildings rose like mountains against the night sky. The clock tower struck 10:00, its orange dial glowing. Crickets chirped, and the air hinted at the change of seasons. Hands in my pockets, I strolled along the quad, dressed in a beige turtle neck tucked into matching short pants and knee socks: I'd been inspired by the boy's uniforms. I gazed at the 11 year old walking beside me, a cute black kid named Ronald. The boy's dark skin was almost invisible in the night air, naked thighs sparkling in the moonlight as if sprinkled with glitter. "Are you cold, son?" "No, sir," the schoolboy whispered, tugging at his dark blue cardigan sweater. "What's it like wearing those short pants in winter?" "It's colder." "You boys never wear long pants, do you?" "Of course not," Ronald answered, small face puzzled. "Why'd you ask that?" "Just kidding." I ran my hand over the boy's trim head and paused to gaze back at the darkened windows of my two-story dormitory. I was in charge of a group of middle school students, Ethan and Ronald among them. "Mr. Wilson?" "Yes?" "What's wrong?" "Just worried about my boys." "We're O.K. None of us want any demerits," Ronald whispered. "Why are you whispering?" "I don't know," Ronald giggled. "I guess because it's so late. It's neat being out so late." The child closed his eyes and tilted his face up to the sky, inhaling deeply, head turning left to right. Enchanted by the night. I sighed and picked him up. Surprised but docile, Ronald wrapped his legs around my torso. "Why are you holding me?" he asked curiously. "Just because," I smiled. "I'm supposed to take you to Mr. Harrison's." "We can still get there if I carry you, can't we?" Ronald nodded soberly, then yelped and laughed as I playfully smacked his tender thighs. He shot his right arm out, pointing. I began to run. Ronald squealed with delight, hugging me tight, wriggling and squirming. The dewed grass shined beneath us. "Are we here?" I asked, stepping onto a porch in a circle of light. We'd reached Harrison's chateau, one of several such dwellings set far apart from main campus down a long, winding road. The school's resources were vast. "Yep!" Ronald hopped down and craned his neck to look up at me, smiling. "Well, have fun!" Ronald he called, backing away. "Where are you going?" I caught the boy by his bony biceps. "To bed, of course." Now I was confused. I'd assumed that Ronald would be a kind of valet for the evening. "I don't understand." "I'm not in puberty yet, Mr. Wilson," the child explained. "What's that got to do with anything?" "I don't know," the boy shrugged. "That's just the rule. Unless a boy 'presents'." "And when do you reach puberty? When do boys 'present'?" "I don't know," Ronald shrugged. "They just do." My respect for Headmaster Arcadia was profound. Every aspect of the boy's lives at the school was completely regulated: they were innocent even of their own sexuality. In such a closed environment, their natural, loving, homoerotic tendencies could only be directed on other boys and men. "Mr. Wilson? Can I go now?" Ronald closed his dainty hands around my naturally hairless, gold, muscular thighs. I clenched my teeth. Ronald was the first boy to ever touch my legs. "Go straight to bed," I said my voice unsteady. "Yes, sir," Ronald promised. I flexed my thighs, quads bulging. "Wow! You're legs are strong!" the child gasped appreciatevly, tiny black fingers trying to burrow into my steely muscle. "Scoot!" I laughed, turning the boy around and giving his bubble butt a gentle slap. Ronald giggled and scampered away, quickly disappearing into the night. The road back was so long. "Ronald!" "Sir?" "Will you be all right? It's so late," I said. Young goys need to be protected, after all, and I felt I should escort him back. "Yes." "You're not afraid?" I heard a stifled laugh. "No. There's security guards. Don't worry." "Good night, son." "Good night!" I heard Ronald begin to whistle. Then I rang the doorbell. "Oh, say! Nice outfit!" Harrison said as he ushered me inside. "Yes, well, it's after hours. You look comfortable yourself." Harrison nodded and adjusted a white silk scarf around his neck. The Englishman wore a red satin smoking jacket and black trousers, a cherry-wood pipe in the crook of his mouth. I was led to a cozy living room where I shook hands with several teachers seated on money-green leather couches and chairs. The men ran their eyes over me, my thighs, their expressions a mix of admiration and jealousy. By far, I was the youngest man in the room and the only one wearing shorts. "It's getting harder to tell the boys from the men," said an elderly, coffee-colored black teacher named Stephen, eyes radiating mirth behind tiny square glasses, his hair a stately gray. "Surely, you shave those big strong legs of yours." "No, sir," I laughed, flattered. "I'm a natural." "Jeremy, honey?"Harrison called. "Will you bring Mr. Wilson a drink?" A platinum blonde boy of 10 popped up from behind a bar. "Amaretto, please," I said, and the boy began to fix my drink, tiny hands fluttering among crystal decanters. "Jeremy Michael Shillington," said Harrison. "My personal boy." The child stepped around the bar and walked toward me. Jeremy was very small, dressed in an outfit to match Harrison's, a white silk scarf around his throat, a red satin coat, black short pants and knee socks and shoes. The boy's thin legs were butter-yellow. "Your drink, sir?" he said, offering a large crystal snifter. "Say hello to your new history instructor, Jeremy." "Hello," said the child. l took the snifter and watched in amazement as the child lifted the hems of his jacket and curtsied, skinny right leg swooping behind his left. "Harrison likes them prissy," said the science teacher, Frank. "If you like that sort of thing." "I do," said Stephen, sipping a martini. "When they're young. Don't care for it at all on an older boy, however." "Jeremy performs much better in a dress," Harrison grinned. I lifted the snifter and drained it in one draught, the amaretto warm and soothing all the way down. Without my having to ask, Jeremy took the snifter and walked back to the bar. "Ronald said he couldn't be here because he wasn't in puberty," I said, confused. "Jeremy isn't pubescent." Harrison laughed. "Oh, no. I wouldn't have it. But Jeremy is a homosexual. Ronald and other boys who haven't presented yet are given time to imprint naturally on a man." "As it should be," I said, again respectful of Headmaster Arcadia. "But what if they imprint on another student?" Jeremy served me a fresh drink, curtsied daintily once more, then went about seeing to the other teachers. "It happens, but they're taught that men and boys are more natural couples. So it's Ronald?" Harrison cooed. "I'd have thought Ethan. He'd be such a treat in a dress. Fabulous legs." "Oh, yes. Well, for Ethan that might be interesting," said Frank. "Apparently there's a little priss in all of us," said the Englishman smugly, puffing on his pipe. "Young Ethan would be smashing in a white baby-doll dress, layered petticoats and a blue satin sash?" "I've never considered it," I said, throwing tossing down my drink. Jeremy stood before me as if by magic, taking the glass and scurrying back to the bar. "Think about it," said Harrison suggestively. "Ethan's all boy." "I don't think he'd be very keen on a dress." "All the better. He's not yet pubescent and he's needful for a man. For a role model, I mean. Plus, he isn't gay." "So why would he go for me?" "Silly goose! You're very athletic, aren't you?" "I suppose." "Hmm, indeed," the English dandy sniffed, sizing me up, squeezing my biceps. "Ethan needs the rugged type. He'll be so in want of your affections, and will probably be very confused once he begins to respond. A ripe peach for picking. How you'll stir his emotions." "Do you and Jeremy...?" I asked as the platinum-blonde child approached. "Yes. One year now. I can't tell you how sweet, but then you'd know?" Conversation stopped as the men turned to me. I blushed deep crimson and dug my toes into the rug. The men gasped, jaws dropping, then laughed. "Good lord, son, you're a virgin!" cried Stephen. "Why have you waited?" Frank asked, aghast. "Look at you! So strong and handsome!" "Unbelievable!" said a Japanese man, Mr. Tomita, the P.E. instructor. "I think you've grown up wearing short pants...nd to have never...with those legs?" I took the snifter from tiny Jeremy, who also stared at me in disbelief. Growing up, I had noticed men gazing at me, watching me play in my shorts -- neighbors, friend's fathers, the church pastor who led our Scout troop and who always heard my confessions in his tent during overnight campouts, kneeling behind me and slipping his hands around my thighs while leading me though prayers -- but while it all made me tingle with a strange excitement I was innocent. I did not understand. And once I did, I was never able to discuss my thoughts with anyone until I met Jeff, my dissertation professor, who had steered me to Arcadia. Life is strange, isn't it? For there I was, a newly hired teacher at a secretive, carefully guarded school dedicated to the ineradicable reality of Man-boy love. "Young Mr. Wilson should have been one of our students," said Stephen gently. "I...I wish that, too," I smiled at the refined black man. I fidgeted with my shirt and shorts, like a boy. I felt like a boy. I'd only recently coming to view myself as an adult, my stature and developed physique notwithstanding. "Now now," said Harrison. "Daniel will find his way." I sat in a chair apart from the other teachers, but they were supportive and included me in their converstaon. The evening passed pleasantly as we conversed about the demands of our jobs. First and foremost, Arcadia Academy was an academic institution. We discussed the ever-important matter of maintaining accreditation and eligibility for state funding. We discussed remediation strategies for our slower students and special needs students. In turn, Jeremy saw to our needs, carrying trays of snacks, freshening our drinks, playing the role of an excellent little host. We all reached out to tousle his hair or pinch his cheeks often. Then it was late, and the conversation was winding down. Jeremy sat on a bar stool, yawning, blue, round, story-book eyes blinking heavily with sleep. Harrison knelt beside the child and stroked his skinny thighs, the child mewing and snuggling against the man. It was time to leave. We said our goodbyes. I walked back to my dormitory alone, the others heading down seperate paths leading to their private chateaus -- reserved for senior faculty -- and to their special boys. Drunk, euphoric, and as enchanted by the night as Ronald had been, I walked to my dormitory. Hands in my pockets. Whistling. The cool wind washed over my thighs.