ARCADIA ACADEMY FOR BOYS Chapter Three "Walkabout" I skipped lunch and napped, then I ventured out to explore. The day was mild, and the autumn sun and cooling breeze felt positively delicious on my thighs. I'd dressed casually in a white polo shirt, white short pants, white knee socks and sneakers. I have always had a fetish for short pants, and I admit that it was a thrill to have my legs exposed around the boys. Since their legs were on display, it seemed only fair. The campus was a wonderland of boys. I moved among them as if I was in a museum, and I drew hardly a second glance. In the center of the main quad, a group of teenagers played touch-football. Most of them went without shirts and wore quite tight gym shorts of many different colors. The budding pecs and flat stomachs rippled wiry muscle, bodies pink and glowing with exercise. They galloped into each other, arms and legs tangling, rolling in the grass. Their vigourous play brought a smile to my lips, reminding me of gym classes and how all us students used to strain and struggle against one another unthinkingly, unaware of the smooth softness of our bodies and how many of us would never feel such soft skin again in our lives. Younger boys rode up and down the sidewalks on heavy, old-fashioned bicycles with wide fenders and baskets on the handlebars, ringing their bells. Racing nowhere and everywhere in carefree exhuberance, radiant legs pumping lean and tan, bony bottoms weaving above hard triangle seats. On the steps of the library a lovely blonde boy of perhaps 12 sat holding a very small, dark boy on his lap, face to face. The blonde wore an elfish green-felt hat, black leather leiderhosen, a white shirt intricately embroidered with multi-colored flowers, black knee socks and black leather boots. He was playing "patty-cake" with the child, who was dressed in red short-alls. "Patty cake patty cake baker's man! Bake me a cake as fast as you can!" sang the blonde. "R-o-l-l it! Sssss-tir it! Mark it with T! Hurry!" he encouraged, guiding the fascinated child's arm movements. "And put it in the over for Daddy and me!" I approached as the blonde began to tickle the tiny child, who giggled and wriggled uncontrollably. "Spencer! Spencer, stop!" "Hello, children." "Hello, sir," the blonde answered, bouncing the child on his knees. I gazed in rapture upon Spencer's slim, peachy thighs, sweet skin so smooth as to reflect the sunlight like a mirror. He had a beautiful smile, pert nose and rosy cheeks. I studied the felt hat on his head. It occured to me that the boy did not dress himself. "My name's Mr. Wilson. I'm your new history teacher." Spencer's attention was focused on his ittle friend. "Say hi, Timmy." "Hi!" sang Timmy, who was 5, black, bowl-cut hair flopping. "Timmy's new, too! Tell him he's going to be happy here," said Spencer. "Timmy's lucky to be with us," I said, folllowing the blonde's lead. "See, silly? Didn't I say you were lucky?" Spencer chided playfully. "Bounce me more, Spencer!" Timmy begged, leaning back at an angle, laughing and weaving left to right. Fat cumulous clouds rolled overhead, casting waves of differing light over the school grounds. "Ride the horsey, Timmy! Giddyup!" the blonde sang. How gentle he was! I waited but he never glanced up, deliberately avoiding eye contact. I felt rebuffed. I wasn't being invited to play. "Daniel!" I turned and saw Frank walking toward me, his eyes filled with mirth. "Play nice, children," he said, wrapping his arm around my waist to lead me away. As I said, I am not gay -- boy-lovers are not gay by definition -- but I let Frank touch me. It was nice to be with another boy-lover, allowing a comraderie I'd never known. "That's Spencer. Our welcome wagon," Frank explained. "He takes it upon himself to befried our new orphans. Timmy only arrived a few days before you did and was so lonely and tearful. But Spencer does a wonderful job." "Is he with a teacher?" "No," Frank sighed. "How we wish. But Spencer is so shy, and puberty hasn't come for him yet. He's fourteen." "Go on!" I gasped, stunned. "He barely looks twelve." "I know, but there it is. He keeps to himself and plays mostly with the little ones. He seems to be a boy-lover himself but doesn't understand that yet." "You mean he hasn't presented?" I asked, glancing at a little black boy dressed in all white like myself, sitting quietly beneath a tree, reading a book. Leaves of shadow and light dappled his thighs, and his full, kissable lips moved as he read. "Exactly. By the way, us men don't usually short pants," Frank smiled. "We emphasize those as boy-specific and keep to long trousers." "Should I not wear shorts?" "We just don't want the boys to question what they've been told." "Then I won't wear them anymore," I offered. "Now don't be hasty!" Frank laughed. I watched him stare at my legs and shorts. "I don't believe it will be a problem. Us teachers are all a bit older than you." "So?" "So you're not much older than the kids. You're just an over grown boy yourself. And don't take this wrong -- I'm not coming on to you -- but you have very handsome legs." "Thanks," I blushed, flattered. "You're young and that's your strength. The students need a young man, what with all us old coots hanging around." Then Frank filled me in on Arcadia's history. Returning from occupied France after World War II, Headmaster Arcadia built the school and dedicated it to the care of war-orphaned boys. In France, he seen many grieving boys and been profoundly affected. He'd loved many boys during the war, healing them with his touch, and his first students were orphans flown to the academy. Since the fashion for French schoolboys at that time (and currently) was to wear short pants suits, Dwight -- Dwight Arcadia Robinson was the Headmaster's full name, and he called his school "Arcadia Academy" for the musical ring -- made short pants suits the regulation uniform. Independently wealthy from his father's glass factory which supplied ball-turrets during the war, and the sole heir of the family fortune, Dwight poured his resources into the Academy. "Reel Time News" movie crews regularly documented scenes of Academy life and his humanitarian enterprise. Moviegoers and politicians supported the Academy without question. Who wouldn't be charmed by pretty orphan boys in short pants suits, smiling into the camera and thanking America in lilting, accented voices for the war effort and the kindly veteran for giving them a new home? State and Federal assistance poured in. The glass factory thrived, contracting out to the U.S. military and companies where alumni in executive positions maintained a fiercely loyal business. The academy was thoroughly networked. "What about Spencer's outfit? Surely, he doesn't dress himself." "None of the boys do, really. Heinrich, the limo driver, bought that leiderhosen for Spencer last year. But Spencer didn't respond, if you know what mean." "We can dress the students in anything we want?" How wonderful! "Oh, yes! A boy feels special when one of us takes an interest in their appearance. We show the boys catalogues and let them choose what they want -- only short pants outfits, of course -- but mostly we place the orders ourselves." "And they're all orphans? They all arrive so young?" I gasped, watching the teens holler and huddle and play football. Intriguing. They had never once worn long pants in over a decade. Had never left the Academy for the outside world. Had grown up in carefully orchestrated isolation. "Every one," Frank answered. "Every single one."