Date: Fri, 12 May 2017 18:34:30 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Beaux Thibodaux 16

Please see original story
(www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/) for warnings and
copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex
between adult and young-adult men, some of them related to one another. Go
away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my
characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of
future stories. Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html
to keep the cum coming.

*****

I sighed, voice dropping, "Oh, God, Beaux. There's nothing to fix. Fear
hurts, and facing it hurts more. It's what really differentiates the brave
form the cowardly. Both, Beaux, both are scared and hurting and want to run
or hide. The cowards do that; the heroes, heroes like you Beaux, they do it
anyways."

*****

Beaux Thibodaux 16: Bowled Over

By Bear Pup

*****

I calmed him, at least some, and turned my thoughts to logistics. What the
fuck did I know about social stuff? I had loathed all that crap as a kid
and avoided it like a plague, and only socialized now because business
demanded it.  Add to that the complication of Beaux's unique mix of
brilliance and ignorance. I would cut off an arm before I put Beaux in a
situation that would have him mocked for things he had never been given a
chance to learn.

I shook myself. This was beyond me and I knew it. I'd ask Eloise and Dr
Silvers, and probably others, but that would wait for Monday. Right now, I
needed Beaux to open up and relax a little.

"I'm curious, Beaux. When you and B-Barry," I kicked myself. Was I *ever*
going to get over that? "were playing with touch, what did you think of his
body art?"

Beaux smiled and straightened, and I returned to my chair. "Those tattoos?
My, oh my! They're beautiful. I asked about how they got done but he smiled
and told me that was for later. Do you know, Oncle?"

"Yes, but you won't like it, Beaux." His eye narrowed. "I know this because
how much you enjoyed the shots at Dr Martin's." He scowled at
that. "Tattooing is done by injecting ink, with a *needle* just under the
skin."

"Dieu et tous les saints! You be joking, you! No one would do such! Mon
Dieu!"

I laughed. "No, I'm not joking. And no, it's not fun. A tattoo can take
thousands of tiny injections of ink, Beaux, even tens of thousands. They
use a 'gun' that has a number of needles and goes very fast. It doesn't
hurt as much as shots, but it isn't comfortable, and it can take weeks to
heal."

Beaux's eyes were large and his mouth open as he thought that through. I
knew immediately, though, which tattoo had sprung to mind when his eyes
SPROINGed out on cartoon stalks and steam erupted from his ears -- the
life-spiral that Kokopelli played into being from Barry's hip.

"Yep. You got it, Beaux. It really does mean that Barry had thousands of
little needle-pricks right up his--"

"NO! Oh, God, I be begging. Don't even make me think about that!" There was
probably not an ounce of blood above Beaux's neck and I think this was
likely the first time I'd ever seen that boy all the way soft. "WHY?" It
was almost a wail.

"A good question. For some guys, not Barry I think, it's about proving
their manliness by taking pain. For Barry and a lot of others, I think it's
just the art itself. The ultimate adornment, wearable art. If you mean why
on his rather large--" Beaux's fingers were in his ears and his eyes
clenched. I waited for him to peek and see I'd stopped talking and
gradually pulled his hands down.

"Kokopelli, the humpbacked man/god with the flute on Barry's hip, is a
teller of stories for a number of tribes in the American Southwest. He is a
powerful and potent figure. He is also the embodiment of masculinity, like
Priapus we saw at the Nelson. The life spiral is a separate symbol from
half a world away, one meaning the constant renewal of the universe. I
think that Barry and TJ, the artist, put them together to make a
point. Kokopelli is playing the life-spiral into being, funneling his
masculine energy straight to the part of Barry that would make the most
sense."

I'd captured the imagination of Beaux, now, and pushed past the visceral
horror of the tattooing itself. I could see him clicking pieces together
and seeing the artistry inherent in that particular piece of body art. His
brow uncreased and he almost smiled. "So why not complete the spiral,
Oncle?"

Okay, sometimes the Evil Me has to pop out. "Well, Beaux, you have to
stretch the skin out to get a tattoo, and it's probably difficult to keep a
hardon with thousands and thousands of nee--"

"AAGGH!!" I couldn't resist. I doubled over with a belly-laugh. To be
honest, I'd always wondered how Barry had gotten that far with it. He
couldn't be drunk; to be THAT drunk I can't imagine a hardon would be
possible. I resolved to... oh fuck no. I could never Barry ask that!
.... but maybe I could get Beaux to?

"You should ask Barry sometime. I could be wrong. And maybe he'll tell you
how--"

"AAGGH!!" He stared at me murderously for a long time, making damned sure
I'd shut up before lowering his hands this time. "How about a different
topic, now, Oncle?"

"I think that might be a good..." At that moment, the doorbell rang. This
was an uncommon occurrence to say the least. As with any smart home nudist,
I had long adopted Heinlein's solution from the entryway to the Church of
All Worlds. The inside of the doors to the closet by the front of my home
were studded with hooks on which hung a variety of clothes. I tossed Beaux
a pair of short and pulled on one myself, then answered the door.

Oh.

My.

God.

Hans stood there is his Nordic glory, flowers in hand and smiling
shyly. The low sun blazed through his yellow hair and made his teeth
gleam. I gawped for a moment and then invited him in. He gave me a hug,
then did the same for Beaux. He handed us each a ribbon-tied half-dozen
flowers. Tiger Lilies for Beau and Blue Irises (my all-time favorite) for
me. I was shocked and it showed.

"I just came by to check on my favorite patient and his guardian. How are
you, Beaux?"

Beaux was a speechless as I was. Now that those glowing eyes were pointed
elsewhere, I was able to shake myself and speak. "Hans! It is so great to
see you again. Come in. Have a seat." I directed him to the couch in front
of the bay windows. "And I'll get water for these." I took the flowers from
Beaux's unresisting hands and ran for the kitchen, snipping the ends and
putting each bunch into a separate tulip vase of water. I'd add some
aspirin later. I gave the beef a quick stir. Perfect.

When I came back holding the two vases, Beaux was perched on the edge of a
chair as Hans stretched his long arms across the back of the sofa and they
were chatting. I set the flowers on the coffee table and sat across from
Beaux.

"I hope I'm not intruding," Hans said to me, "I just wanted to see how you
were doing. He dropped one large hand to Beaux's knee. "I worried about
you, Beaux." I could see Beaux get all fluttery. "And you too, Kevin, you
were so upset." Okay, so I got fluttery, too; sue me.

"J-Join us for dinner, Hans? There's plenty." He smiled again.

"It smells amazing, Kevin. Really, but I just wanted to drop by and say
hello. You don't mind, do you?"

"No!" was the unified chorus from both of us, and we both blushed.

"Maybe we could go out to dinner sometime?"

"Sure!" was another chorus.

We chatted about fuck only knows what for perhaps twenty minutes, both
Beaux and I clearly dazzled by the ferocious beauty of the Norse Nurse.

"Well, Like I said, I didn't want to interrupt. I'm on shift tonight and
your place was on my way in." That was an unabashed lie. There was NO PLACE
that my house was 'on the way' to or from. Hans made his goodbyes and Beaux
and I stood staring at the door.

"Um, Oncle? What was that about?" he asked quietly.

"Hell if I know, Beaux," I responded in a similar voice.

"So who was he flirting with?"

"Same answer. I dunno. Maybe neither? Maybe he's just a really
nice... guy?" Beaux HAD to have learned that eyebrow-pop from Barry. It
very clearly expressed his opinion (and my own) that it was serious
flirting.

"So, um, Oncle? How do we find out?"

"I know this is getting repetitive, Beaux, but I'll be damned if I know."

He made a sound that I can't duplicate, a sort of 'awhwu' that I assumed
was the Bayou equivalent of, "Uh huh." I couldn't argue with that summary.

We ended up back in the library, not-quite-brooding as we stared at the
flowers, each deep in thought.

"Kevin," Beaux began slowly. "You mentioned some guys are tops and others
are bottoms. Are there guys who like both?"

"Actually, Beaux, probably more than there are at either extreme. Most lean
toward one or the other, and separately toward either pursuer or pursued,
for lack of better terms. But for a lot of guys, it's situational. They
want to chase some and be chased by others, to top or to bottom or both,
depending on the mood or the guy."

"So, um, Kevin?" Beaux took a long time phrasing his questions and I
frantically thought of ways to avoid answering it. I was to option eleven,
faking a heart attack, when he dropped the bomb. "So, uh, what if Hans
wants, well, wants us both?" he said in a slow, contemplative voice.

I just couldn't resist. "Oh, then we arm-wrestle for him!" Beaux face was
priceless and I laughed. "First, the situation would be as new to me as it
would be to you, Beaux. Second, it really would be his choice." He was
watching me with clear speculation in his narrowed eyes.

"{awhwu}, and if he wants..." BOING! The eyes popped and I knew that he'd
just hit the very question I had prayed fervently to avoid at least until
he was, oh, ninety. "...wants both of us? Can three guys, Kevin, well,
oooohhhhh..." Beaux's voice faded and he stared into the middle distance.

I coughed. "You have no idea, Beaux, how much I did NOT want you to ask
that questions, especially with the fucking 'no lying' thing. Yes. More
than two people at a time can have sex. In fact, as many as you can
imagine." My ward's eyes were as round as his mouth.

"B-b-b-but, um, er, well, HOW?"

"You mean the mechanics of it or the emotional part?" Since he was sitting
there frozen with mind reeling, I decided for him. "Any of a dozen ways,
Beaux. We talked about touch. Can you see any reason that you can't touch a
couple people at once? Or that you can't touch one person while another
person entirely touches you?"

He shook his head like his hearing had gone again, like Hans had delivered
a medical flashback.

"And the same is true with most other sexual actions, Beaux. Touching,
kissing, licking, anything.

"Beaux? Beaux? You still with me?" I asked the statue in front of me with a
smile in my voice. "Oh, God, I think I broke him!" I patted his shoulder as
I moved past and headed to the kitchen.

I built a quick salad of greens with a simple vinegar/salt/pepper dressing
and set it aside to wilt a little. I popped some small flat rolls (what
we'd now call ciabatta or maybe mini-focaccia but we then called, well,
small flat rolls) into the oven to crisp.

The beef was nearing perfection, so I set about the rest of the prep. I
pulled a handful of chives from the water-glass in the fridge (Barry always
put chives in a glass with a tiny sip of water and they stayed fresh nearly
forever) and diced them, then shaved a fresh shallot. I prepared a pasta
boiler with plenty of salt for the fresh cappelletti that Barry gets me at
the store down by the farmer's market run by an amazing (and utterly
"connected") Italian family. Unlike the cappelletti that is filled like
tortellini, these were circular, dimpled little hats of pasta, perfect for
creamy sauces.

I dropped the pasta as I stirred in two tubs of rich sour cream to the
beef. The sauce began to bubble luxuriantly, turning into a Midwest version
of stroganoff just as the cappelletti began to float. The pasta was the
perfect choice as the wide 'hats' captured and embraced the thick, creamy,
beefy sauce.

Beaux had teleported from the library about the time the steam from the
sour cream started to leak into the air and was already halfway through the
pile of leafy greens. I noted that Hans' flowers were there as well, the
orange explosion of color next the Beaux's milk glass and the sensuous
indigo with pops of brilliant yellow next to my beer. I plated a generous
helping of the pasta and topped it with sauce, then the shallots and chives
as a garnish.

"Blow on it first!" My warning was, naturally, ignored and Beaux began
doing the Seared Mouth Dance. One of the best things about stroganoff is a
quirk of nature. If you get the simmer right, forgetting about it
completely for even hours at a time just makes it better. Sure, you had to
lovingly scrape the 'goo' that the flour mixture becomes in the bottom of
the pan and re-incorporate it into the sauce, but the flavor was
divine. Between the Tattoo Torture and Hans Hoopla distractions, this batch
was perhaps one of the best I'd ever made.

Since I'd started with a metric ton of mushrooms and enough beef to feed a
battalion, I actually had leftovers. Stroganoff if virtually perfect for
lunches and late-night snacks. It was as if this concoction had been
invented for the world of microwaves. I portioned them into Kevin- (pint)
and Beaux- (quart) sized containers and put a note on the fridge about how
to reheat.

I'd barely gotten the stuff sealed when Beaux wanted to 'test' the
instructions. He got two apples instead and I got a stuck-out tongue in
response. I went to write out the instructions for reheating the ribs from
Jack Stack as well when I realized -- what ribs? I cornered Beaux and he
sheepishly admitted that he "got hungry, me" in the middle of the night and
he "forgot" I'd told him not to eat them because he "wasn't really
awake". BOLLOCKS!

Do you KNOW how hard it is to threaten a kid who is (1) stuck in the house
anyway; (2) has no social engagements; (3) has no electronic toys; and (4)
is fucking smarter than you and knows all that? Beaux summed it up earlier:
'AAGGHH!' I gave up and decided to suffice with "One and ONLY one container
per night AND I MEAN IT!" which apparently was about as ominous as your
average rainbow. 'AAGGHH!'

Monday dawned unseasonably windy. Just as well because I was about as
scattered as those winds. I made some holes-in-one. My Mama made them for
me and they always seemed so... perfect. Beaux was up as well as I prepped
the food. Roman Meal multi-grain bread with a small biscuit-cutter made the
main item. A dozen rounds and a dozen 'holes' readied the meal.  I put a
generous glob of butter into the large, square griddle. It was one my Mama
had passed to me and was ideally-sized. Exactly four pieces of bread fit.

Four slices of Canadian bacon went down, each with a slice of holed-bread
on top. As that bubbled and popped with the butter, an egg dropped into the
hole, easily overrunning the receptacle of the prepared hole. I watched
carefully until the edges of the egg began to jump a little and whiten,
then lifted each bread/bacon/egg and put a small pat of butter down. I
flipped the whole thing and the egg sizzled and spat and the toast tried to
suck in as much butter as possible, crisping quickly in the process. A
double-slice of American Cheese and a lid completed the prep.  I waited
until the yolk started to push the bacon/melty-cheese up and knew that
meant the whites and the edges of the yolk were done.

I scooped them onto a plate and gave the first four (with a huge glass of
milk) to Beaux.  They lasted about a long as a snowball in a blast
furnace. The next set, he got two and I kept two for me. Beaux looked like
he was ready to wrestle me for them. The luscious yolk was the perfect
complement to the cheese.

Beaux ate, not kidding, ten eggs. I got four and considered myself
fortunate. I only stopped cooking because I ran out of Canadian Bacon. It
was clear that Beaux could have kept eating unto the final trump.

The phone rang as I cleaned the kitchen and I noticed it was the business
line. I answered and it was Dr Perez. They had their results and the little
man sounded so excited I was afraid he'd wet himself. We arranged to spend
the next day (Tuesday) with him and his staff. Beaux was basically shaking
with nerves at the thought. He desperately wanted to start learning but it
was clear he also didn't want to find out just how far he had to go. He
jittered off downstairs to shower and I called Eloise.

"Eloise, I need Beaux to meet people, some at least his own age, but I
don't want him eaten alive. What do I do?"

"Bowling."

"What?"

"Fancy shoes? Enormous balls? Long fashion-runway-like things? Knocking
down phallic symbols?" Eloise could be a bitch when she wanted and a really
funny one at that. "Surely that's right up your 'alley'?" I groaned at the
terrible puns.

She could hear my eye-roll. "I mean, why bowling?"

She sighed. "Simple. It's something that pretty much everyone is terrible
at, and you have lots of time between frames to chat with perfect strangers
with no possible chance of getting trapped in an awkward situation. Call
around and find one that has a Youth Night."

"Eloise, you are a treasure!" We made a few minutes small talk until I
heard Beaux end his shower.

"Beaux," I called down over the railing and saw his head pop out the door,
"we're going out in a bit. Wear jeans and socks, please." He vanished and I
made my way down to shower and dress as well. When I came out, Beaux was
sitting and reading but looked up at me.

"Where we going, Oncle?"

So, to make a long story short, bowling started as an unmitigated
disaster. We drove over to Main Lanes near Metro North, named for Main
Street (a deceptively-named sleepy residential street). The exterior did
not exactly inspire confidence as the beige siding had clearly seen better
eons and the lot was cracked and pitted.

Inside did not get better. The idea of putting on what looked for the world
like clown shoes did little to impress Beaux. Neither did having to
interact with the only thing on earth creepier than a clown, the shoe guy
at a bowling alley. The kid had a rat-like face, stringy, lank, straggly
hair, long, creepy fingers, Halloween-style teeth and a nose and Adam's
Apple that could be used as weathercocks. Seriously? I could almost hear
the banjos playing between his ears.

The physical act of bowling did little improve Beaux's mood. I showed him
how to grip the ball, step forward while swinging and then release. I then
explained that, no, my target had NOT been the gutter about six feet down
the lane. Then I was struck with inspiration. I left him to practice and
ran up to the concession stand, as expected manned by Mrs Deliverance, a
massive woman with the arms of a stevedore and the vacant look of
recently-lobotomized.

When I got back to the fuming Beaux, I could see him ready to growl at
me... until he saw the nuclear-orange goo popularly known back then as
Nacho Cheese. Beaux turned out to be better than I was, not surprising
since I had never been particularly coordinated. As long as I kept the
snackies coming, Beaux and I stayed in that zone of mutually-ribbing
bowling comradery.

I "won" when I actually bowled a strike... in the next lane over. My ball
had hit the gutter at the perfect angle, flipped up and the spin imparted
thereby drove it straight into the heart of the pins. Beaux was helpless
with laughter, as were the two guys next to us on the other side. We all
shook hands. It turned out that they were press mechanics at the Ford plant
about 15 minutes away in Liberty. They and some mates who lived up this way
worked a split-shift starting at noon and carpooled from the bowling
alley. These two always bowled a few frames before the shift started which
kept the owners happy (as did having a half-dozen cars in an
otherwise-deserted lot).

Beaux was incredibly wary, but the gregarious guys really were nice and
fun, razzing us and each other. I slowly realized that, other than waiters
and doctors, this was likely the first encounter Beaux had experienced off
the Bayou that was not sexually-charged. These ultimate blue-collar men
made the occasional lewd joke, but they were simply loosening up before
their shift. They broke when the rest of their crew arrived, three more
guys and a woman. We said our goodbyes and they were off.

Beaux and I wrapped our last game (I finally won, which meant we had to
stop before I got further humiliated). I figured Beaux would be in no mood
for lunch with the number of nacho-trays and German pretzels he'd
consumed. What the fuck was I thinking.

We paid for the bowling and went up to the counter-service area and grabbed
a couple of stools. I was moderately surprised at how full they were since
there'd been so few bowlers. The reason became clear: the food was
plentiful, cheap and delicious. I got what was then simply called a steak
sandwich (the term cheesesteak was uncommon in the Midwest and 'Philly' as
a name went nationwide over a decade later).  It was dripping with beefy
goodness and the onions, peppers and mushrooms were perfection. Beaux's
first burger was probably a half-pound and huge with every topping known to
man. The ultimate hit, though, was the fries.

An order was simple. The inevitably-named Moe popped one big spud into a
hopper and SLAMmed a lever, ejecting long, thick, square potato strips into
a basket. He dropped them into one fryer that hardly bubbled as he started
the rest of an order. He popped the fries out and let the rest around the
time the grill food was starting to sizzle. The taters dropped into a very
hot fryer as he finished at the flattop. He plated the sandwiches, popped
the fries, fluffy in the middle and crispy-brown outside, into a huge steel
bowl with some salty magic stuff and, viola, gastronomic ecstasy at the
bowling alley.

He did this, non-stop, the entire time we were there, never at rest, never
seeming to even look up at the orders much less the rest of the world, lost
in the magnificent dance of luxuriant grease.  To this day, I've rarely
found a match for what that man pushed across his tiny little counter for
Mrs Deliverance to dispense. Beaux ended up demolishing the burger, a hot
dog far larger than any -- never mind--, a second order of fries and most
of an order of chicken strips (I stole several and nearly lost a finger in
the process).

On the way out, I grabbed a sheet with the Main Lanes' schedule. Kid Bowl
(oh God, they had a clown; I shuddered, praying with wasn't the Shoe Ghoul)
was on Monday. They had Youth Night each Tuesday and Thursday, and Disco
Night (give me a break, it was the 80s) on Wednesday. Ladies' Night was
Friday and Sunday-Funday had half price frames after 5:00. They sported
live music on Saturday nights, a band called Mortal Micronotz. I made a
note of that as they sounded familiar.

Our appointment with Dr Silver wasn't until 3:30 so we drove around and
chatted. "So, Oncle, those guys seemed real nice. Are, um, most people like
that?" I smiled.

"Yeah, actually. Most folks are nice, friendly, just living their own
lives." He got thoughtful and stared at the passing scenery. Well,
'scenery' is a bit of an exaggeration. We were driving along the Missouri
River (at that moment a mud-brown and murky expanse) with railroad sidings
to the left and Goose Island across the 'water' on the right (it was not an
island, and if there had ever been any geese they had long since dissolved
in the toxic sludge of heavy industry). Not KC at its finest.

He spoke again just after we crossed the Broadway Bridge (oddly, you only
pay tolls one way; going into downtown was free, leaving cost money. On
reflection, that made sense. I'd certainly pay to escape after more than 30
minutes in that traffic nightmare). I had to do something I doubt I'd ever
done; I shushed him. I was approaching one of the most insane interchanges
outside of New Jersey; if you picked the wrong lane you might never be
found again.

In a flurry of turns, near-collisions, mad swerves and inventive cursing, I
finally made it into the area where Dr Silvers' office was. "Sorry, Beaux,
so sorry. What were you asking?"

I looked over at the bloodless, wide-eyed face and he just stammered, "That
was b-b-b-bad as flying, true! Oh, Oncle, can we go another way next time?"
I found the parking lot and pried my ward's fingers off the dash and
seat. It wasn't until we got to the reception room, though, that we both
recalled just how much we hated the last visit.

A sallow-looking young man and his trouble-looking mother left as we
arrived. It was amusing in hindsight; Beaux and the teen shared the
long-suffering look of kids at the mercy of adults and I shared an equally
commiserating look with the mother, 'What's a parent to do?' Beaux and I
fidgeted as Dr Silvers did whatever doctors do between patients.

As the previous week, the small young doctor was as soft-spoken and
pleasant (pleasant-acting; no I hadn't forgiven him for the previous week)
as ever. This time, Beaux and I both sat on the couch, and I got the
feeling that the doctor was smiling behind his neutral and professional
expression. There was no mistaking our body language; it was Beaux and I
against Doctor Satan.

"So, Kevin, how was the week?"

"Fine."

He sighed and actually did break into a smile, a chuckle even. "I'm sorry,
Kevin, but the role of 'surely teen' is already taken. Would you like to
try that again?" He had me there, and we both knew it. I sighed deeply, but
relaxed.

"Sorry. It's been a stressful week. In addition to all the other stuff,
Beaux was hurt."

Dr Silvers sat forward instantly, "I'm so sorry, Beaux. Are you okay? What
happened?" That launched the Lightning Story and Dr Silvers was the picture
of rapt attention throughout. I watched with serious respect as he got and
kept Beaux talking, loosening him up, relaxing the teen.

"So, Kevin, what subjects did you cover in the sessions you agreed to do
with Beaux?"

I stammered. I couldn't help it. "Um, well, touching, kissing, a lot about
names and terms and such, since that was confusing. I got Beaux a haircut
and the stylist is, um, well, a really close friend. He, er, stayed over
and that started, well, a few fairly in-depth discussions." I blushed.

"And how about Hans?"

"Whuh?"

"Hans? The nurse? I heard that Beaux took quite a shine to him and he,
apparently, is still talking about you both?"

"Whuh?"

"Okay, I guess I'll save that question for when you brain starts working
again. How about I spend some time with Beaux now and we'll call you back a
little later?" Beaux was no happier with this than I was, but I could tell
that there was no room or reason to argue.

I had brought my book, thankfully, so was spared the horrors of rereading
the magazines. I sank into the wondrous word-images that Delaney painted in
'Star in my Pocket Like Grains of Sand'. The budding and doomed love
between Rat Korga and Marq, and the seemingly-inescapable Cultural
Fugue. It was eerily reminiscent of the real world of Reagan and Thatcher
and Chernenko; of Evil Empire and Reaganomics, of the British miners now
called "The Enemy Within" and the IRA, of the failing Soviet Union and the
constant threat of nuclear war. Nearly an hour passed. I literally jumped
when my cocoon was shattered by a cough from Dr Silvers.

I expected Beaux to be in a simmering rage, but he looked more intrigued
and curious than anything else. "Beaux made an interesting point -- several
in fact. I'll start with where you and I left off, Kevin. Tell me about
Hans, please?"

"Um, well, he's..." I glanced at Beaux and saw no reaction at all. I sighed
deeply and long, "he's insanely gorgeous, to both of us. I can't figure out
who, if either of us, he's attracted to."

"Can't help you there!" I fucking hate chipper people. "All I can say is
that he's all doughy-eyed over one or both of you. I saw him three times
this week at St Luke." Hey! What was that about pretending not to know
Beaux was hurt? "When he found out I was seeing the two of you, it was like
I said I had backstage passes to Bruce Springsteen." He muttered, "I wish
he looked at me that way." He caught himself and realized he's just said
that out loud and blushed. He saw the slack-jawed shock on my face and
laughed.

"What, Rob didn't tell you?" I just stared. "He referred you to me because
I'm good with child abuse cases, but also because I'm gay, Kevin. Don't
worry, though, Hans has made it clear that I am {air quotes} 'very nice'."
I smiled at the phrase every gay man knew as The Death of Hope. "So, you
two will have to work it out, or not, with Hans.

"I'm a lot more interested, though, with your reaction to Barry." If I was
embarrassed before, I was flat-out squirming now.

"Surprisingly, and unlike Beaux, I don't find your reaction at all
worrisome. If anything, it raises my respect for you. Your instant,
knee-jerk reaction was to protect Beaux. Well done. However, and this is
the part that Beaux really hates, Barry is right that Beaux needs to meet
people. I understand you went bowling? Not a bad choice, actually, and I
think Beaux is a lot more open to meeting people after the guys from the
Ford Plant.

"I want you to accelerate that, but I also want to you stop beating around
the bush (pun intended) about what you and Andy did. It's the next logical
progression and, if I guess what all happened correctly, will round out the
most-common sexual situations Beaux will face if he turns out to be
somewhat or mostly gay. If you aren't up to that, tell me. I won't care and
you'll still have to do it, but tell me anyways. Okay, I'll take you
stunned silence as acquiescence.

"Well, I'll see you both next week, again at 3:30 on Monday. I will expect
Beaux to have at least," he smiled, "a *theoretical* knowledge of oral and
anal sex." He had one more bombshell to drop, one that took both Beaux and
I by complete surprise. "I'm also going to refer you for an appointment
with Dr Baskin, Doctor JULIA Baskin. She is a well-respected sexual
therapist and can fill Beaux in on matters that you, Kevin, are unlikely to
have a lot of experience with. Have a great week gentlemen.

"Beaux, you can look at me like that all you want. It just makes me even
more certain I'm right. Oh, and Kevin, don't bother trying to slam the
doors. It won't work. And, no, I am not giving that secret to a
builder. Good evening, gents."

<eof>

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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Canvas Hell: 24 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/
Beaux Thibodaux: 16 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 17 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Off the Magic Carpet: 10 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/
Lake Desolation: 9 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/
Dear John Letter: 3 chapter .../military/dear-john-letter/
Brother Bear: 2 chapter .../incest/brother-bear/
Shark Reef: 2 chapters .../adult-youth/shark-reef/

Special collaboration with Brad Borris: In God's Love .../incest/in-gods-love/