By Wes Leigh
This is a work of fiction intended solely for the
entertainment of my readers; any resemblance to any real people or places is
purely coincidental. Readers who would like to chat are encouraged to contact me
at weston.leigh@protonmail.com.
This story is the property of the author and is
protected by copyright laws. The author retains all rights. No reproductions
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Dedication
To my wonderful
grandparents who made spending summers on their farm a joy.
For giving
this city boy a lifetime of cherished memories.
I'm not broken. At
least, I don't feel broken in moments like now, early in the morning.
I wake up and sneak
my head out of the thick blankets on my bed. The sky is still dark outside, and
a chilly breeze blows the curtains gently from side to side in my window. The
cold air blows across my face. I shiver and pull the heavy quilts back over my
head. Deep inside the warm cocoon I've created in my bed, I grin and hug myself.
I squeeze my eyes tighter, trying to steal another minute of sleep. I love this
time of the day. The rest of the world hasn't woken up yet. I might be the only
person on the planet who is awake.
Well, I know that's
not true, because there are people on the other side of the planet who have
been up for hours. I'm good at science so I know these things, but I love to
pretend that the rest of the world is sound asleep and I'm the first one to
wake up and discover the new day. Even the sun is asleep, hiding beneath the
horizon. The air is cool and moist and still. Is it weird that cold air smells
better? There is just the faintest whiff of sweet perfume coming from the
flowers Momma planted on the back side of the house, near my window. They're
called honeysuckles, and they don't have a strong scent just yet, but they will
when they begin to bloom in the late Spring and throughout the Summer. They
will make my room smell nice, not like a stinky boy, Momma says.
I giggle and sniff
my armpits. Very stinky.
I scratch my balls
and sniff my fingers. Not as bad as my armpits, but I wrinkle my nose anyway. I
need a shower.
Not now though. Now,
I'm curled up in a warm ball underneath my blankets, smelling my stinky body
but safe from the freezing blast of subzero air pouring through my window. I
think there must have been a great catastrophe during the night. Perhaps an
invading armada of hostile aliens attacked our planet, erecting an impenetrable
barrier between us and the sun to slowly demoralize us and force our surrender.
The days will grow colder without the sun. Our plants and animals will die. And
I will be the last human alive, safe here in my warm blankets, waiting for the
end of all that is noble and pure.
Then my family ruins
my fantasy. I can hear them moving around in the house, so I know I have to get
up too. Even if there are space aliens blockading the earth, there are chores
to be done.
I throw off the
blankets and jump out of bed. It really is cold for March. The sun better come
up soon or we might freeze after all! Goosebumps pop out all over my bare arms
and legs. I grab the blue jeans draped across my chair, step into them, and
pull them up as quick as I can. My dick is shriveled up, hiding inside my
underwear. It knows how cold it is this morning. Smart penis, staying inside my
boxer briefs where it's still warm! I grab a tee shirt and yank it down over my
head and cover my shivering body. Socks. Boots. And a warm sweater. Now I feel
ready to face the aliens or my brother, whichever comes first.
I open my bedroom door
and see my brother peeing in the bathroom. Why doesn't he shut the door? That's
just nasty. It wouldn't be so bad, but he pulls his underwear halfway down his
legs and stands there with his butt showing. He has hair on his legs, but it's
hard to see because it's so light. All of us have light hair. Blonde. Mine's
almost white, and with my blue eyes, I like to pretend that I'm the one who is an
alien, sent to live with my human family and learn the secrets of humanity. My
brother's secret is that he likes to pee with his underwear around his knees
and his butt showing. I don't mind that part, because my brother has a lot of
muscles in his legs and back and butt. I wish I had a body like his, but I'm
still a skinny wimp. I probably shouldn't look at his naked butt, but I can't
help myself. It's out there, all white and round. Then he does the part that is
nasty. He farts. Twice. Why does he do that? It stinks up the bathroom and it
sounds disgusting. He scratches his head with one hand, then farts once more.
I wave my hands in
front of me, trying to move the air and push his farts around. I have to use
the bathroom next, and I don't want to smell big brother farts. He feels the
air moving and turns his head. "What are you doing, Squirt?" he asks.
"Trying to live
another thirty seconds despite your gas attack," I reply, waving my hands more.
"You are such a
weirdo," he mumbles. That's his word for me. Weirdo. When he says it, I think
he means broken. And when he calls me Squirt, that's another way he lets me
know he thinks I'm broken. A weird little brother who does weird things with
his wimpy, squirt of a body.
My brother shakes
off the last of his pee and pulls his underwear up. He turns around and I get a
good look at the front of him. His underwear sticks out like my dad's. My
brother is a man, with big muscles and a big cock. Not a squirt. Not a weirdo. Not
broken.
I squeeze past him
and push him out of the bathroom, then shut the door behind him. I don't want
him to see me and make fun of me. I get my pants open and my underwear down
beneath my balls and start pissing. I stare at my dick while the yellow pee
streams out. Why is it still so small? When is it going to grow? It should be
happening. I'm thirteen, but it's still the same size it's been for years. Broken?
When I finish, I
wash my hands. My brother didn't wash his, but he's going to be getting even
dirtier doing his chores, so he'll wash up when he's finished, I guess.
My sister bangs on
the door. She wants me to hurry up, so I don't bother drying my hands. I just open
the door and push past her and ignore her grouchiness.
"Ewww,
it stinks in here. You guys are so gross!" she exclaims.
I ignore her. She's
always grouchy, especially in the morning. She's actually grouchy all day long.
I shouldn't say this, but she is a real witch some days. Poppa would swat my
butt if he heard me call her a witch, and Momma would take away my books for a
day, but they know it's true. I've even seen them talking about what they can
do to make my sister be less of a witch. Maybe put a gag on her so she can't
talk? Yeah, that would be nice.
I head down the hall
and into the kitchen. Momma leans down so I can kiss her cheek. She's mixing up
breakfast for us all to eat after we finish our chores. I can't wait. She's
rolling out biscuits now. Her hands and her apron are dusted white with flour. The
dough is soft beneath her palms as she kneads it in gentle circles. Then she'll
cut out circles of fresh dough, brush them with melted butter, and slide them
on a pan into the oven. They'll rise higher and higher, turning light brown,
and we'll have delicious, flaky, burning-my-tongue-if-I-eat-them-too-fast manna
from Heaven. I love to break them open and smear salty butter inside, then let
it melt just a little before smearing grape jelly on top and taking a big bite.
Momma's got a skillet popping and sizzling on the
stove, filled with sausage patties. Hot oatmeal is bubbling in a big pot. She'll
pour out tall glasses of milk to go with breakfast. It's what we always have,
every morning, and I love eating it every day. It never gets boring, because
Momma always has something special on the table, like homemade peach preserves
or apple butter. Sometimes she fries bacon instead of sausages. And on Sundays,
we have fried eggs. Momma is a great cook.
Poppa is waiting at
the door for my brother and me. He wants us to hurry up and get started. Poppa
and my brother will feed all the big animals and milk the cows. My job is to
gather eggs and feed the chickens. I also put out grain for the horses. We have
three new colts and two fillies this Spring, all born within the last couple of
months. And some two-year-olds too, who need to be broken to ride before we
sell them at auction in a month or so. I love feeding the horses grain from my
hand. Their whiskers are so soft, but you have to be careful because sometimes
they try to nip your fingers. They can also be very frisky early in the
morning, so they like to run around and kick at each other. They'll kick you too
if you aren't watching out.
One of them kicked
me once, accidentally. Right on the hip. It hurt so much,
I passed out. Poppa said it scared him, but I was okay afterward. No broken
bones. Just a huge, nasty bruise on my leg.
After all the
animals finish eating, we turn them out onto the pasture. Then my brother and I
muck out the stables. I'm not very good at it because I'm not very strong, but I
can rake while my brother takes care of the really heavy work, like shoveling
and pushing the wheelbarrow around. While we do that, Poppa starts whatever
work he has for the day. He checks the equipment he'll need, pulls his tractor
around, and attaches the implement he'll use first. Or he looks through the
storage barns to make sure he's got enough supplies. That's especially
important during planting season. Poppa hates to run out of seed in the middle
of the day.
The sun is coming up
by now. The birds start singing in the trees next to the house. The roosters
finally figure out what time it is and start crowing. In the pasture, the young
horses are running and playing, and their mothers call them to their sides with
soft whinnies. The cows are moving slowly away from us, headed for the tall
grasses at the back of the pasture. They seem to like those best.
I take a deep
breath. The air is crisp and clean. There is the sharp odor of the animals, and
it's not always a nice smell, but there is also the fresh scent of life, of
growing plants, of the family garden, of the alfalfa fields, of the barns with
their earthy undertones, of the slow-flowing river nearby.
It's hard to explain
how I feel. When I stand here, looking out at our animals grazing, hearing
Poppa hard at work in the barn, feeling the morning breeze in my face, sensing
the morning sun on my back, I feel connected to our farm. It's a part of me and
I'm a part of it. I'm not broken, because I have a place, my own special spot,
on God's green Earth.
͠
͠ ͠
There are other
times, other places, where I'm not so certain. Days like yesterday, when the
other kids made fun of my small dick in the showers after PE.
Being the last
eighth grader to start puberty sucks.
Being the last
eighth grader to start puberty in a small, farming town filled with other guys
that started growing hair on their lips and above their cocks in sixth grade ...
well, that sucks massive donkey dicks.
Going to a small
rural school where everyone from seventh grade to twelfth grade attends the
same school ... where the guys who made fun of your little dick have big brothers
who like to give you wedgies and then shove your face in the toilet ... where
you're smarter than all of them, even the seniors with their huge muscles who
can hold your face inside the toilet until you start to choke ... where they all
laugh and call you a faggot, not because you're gay, but because you're smaller
and weaker and smarter than they are ... well, that sucks too, but it's just my
life. And that's why sometimes I think I'm broken.
That's why I don't
talk to anyone at school. That's why I spend a lot of time in the library,
looking for a new book I haven't read. There are over fifty-three science
fiction novels in our library, and I've read every one of them. Some I've read
twice. My all-time favorite is Robert Heinlein's The Moon is a Harsh
Mistress. I've read it four times. I cried at the end when the intelligent
computer named Mike ... oops, I shouldn't say anything more, because it would
spoil the ending. But, yeah, it's my favorite story and I love reading it again
and again. The characters in my books seem like they're my friends, the only
friends I have, so I like spending time with them. You probably think that
makes me a geek. A nerd. Broken. I think it means I have a fantastic
imagination, an extensive vocabulary, and an agile mind.
What? This isn't how
thirteen-year-old boys are supposed to talk? Especially when they grow up in a
small town in the middle of nowhere? Maybe I should stutter and say, "Uhhhh, duh?"
Sorry to disappoint
you. I'm not stupid, even though I grew up with a bunch of stupid guys who
think they're better than me because they have bigger cocks. Well, I have a
bigger brain. My brain never shuts down. That's why I sometimes think I'm
broken. Why can't I be like the other boys and have a big dick and a small
brain?
My mother is
positive I'm not broken. She's a wonderful mom, always taking good care of us,
feeding us delicious food, and listening whenever we need to talk. I've told
her that I feel broken because I'm so smart but I live on a farm where everyone
needs to have muscles, not brains. Momma tells me not to talk or even think
like that, because God doesn't make mistakes, and I'm not broken. I have a
place on the farm and a place in the family and I just need to understand that
there's a reason I am the way I am. I don't know if Momma would say that if she
knew everything about me.
My father agrees
with her, though he does worry about me. He's a simple man. A hard-working
farmer. He might be a little disappointed with me, I think, because I'm not
strong like my brother. Carson has huge muscles from helping Poppa since he was
my age, even younger. That's why Carson is so strong now, and it's why he plays
football. When Carson graduates this year, he might go to college and play
football, but probably not, because Poppa couldn't take care of the farm
without Carson's help. They both expected me to be doing more around the farm
by now, but I never grew. I stayed skinny with little arms and weak legs and
that's just how it is. I wish I was bigger. It would help if I was strong
enough to stop the other kids from bullying me. It would be great if I was
strong enough to help Poppa and Carson on the farm. But my body never got the
message that I was needed around here. Instead, Poppa has me do what I can,
usually taking care of the baby calves and the other animals. I'm good with
animals. Even Poppa notices and I think that's why he doesn't see me as broken.
He says we all have jobs we do around the farm, and I pull my weight in
different ways. He says we'll make do somehow, and it will all work out in the
end. God will provide. He says that all the time, and he seems to believe it. He
says God provided the family with an intelligent boy who loves animals and
understands what the animals need, so I have a place on the farm too. Poppa might
be just saying that to encourage me. Poppa is good at encouraging me, even when
Carson looks at me with a disgusted frown.
Carson is a good
brother, I guess. He never complains about how much extra work he has to do
because I'm not very strong. He just does whatever he has to do, and if he sees
me struggling to lift a heavy bag of grain, he steps in and lifts it for me. At
school, he defends me when he catches the other kids treating me bad, but
sometimes I think he hates doing it. Sometimes I think he wishes he had a
little brother who was stronger and could stand up for himself. I can see it in
his eyes, even when he pretends he isn't sick of me
being such a wimp.
Mattie doesn't
bother pretending. She tells me to my face that I'm a wimp and need to grow
balls. That's funny, coming from a girl who doesn't know what it's like to have
balls. Some days, Mattie acts like she has more balls than Carson. She goes
around, ordering everyone, like she's the queen or something. I don't know why
Carson lets her get away with it. He's seventeen. She's fifteen. And she's a
pain in the everyone's ass. She thinks she's better than the rest of us, and
she's always talking about how she's going to leave this hick town one day and
become a famous movie star. Talk about delusional! My sister, Matilda Dawn
Greene, a famous movie star? Only if she becomes a porn star.
I shouldn't say that
about my sister. I'm supposed to love her and protect her honor, but she's the
one who is secretly doing sex stuff with half the boys in the county. I know,
because I've caught her a few times. She doesn't know. I'm very careful and
clever, and she never sees me. But I see her and the boys and the things they
do behind the barn.
That's another
reason I think I may be broken. I get hard when I see her pull their big cocks
out of their pants. They always try to touch her boobs, but she won't let them.
I'm kind of glad she won't, because I really don't want to see her boobs, but I
like seeing her pull their pants down and bring out their cocks. When they get
hard, I get hard too. I don't do any of the stuff my sister does with them,
because I'm just a little scared actually.
Why am I scared?
I think if I do that
stuff and I like it, it will mean I really am broken. I think I mentioned that
I'm very smart for a thirteen-year-old. Probably because I read so much. I know
all about sex stuff and what boys go through at my age. I know my body is
taking longer to begin puberty. I know that I'll begin having odd feelings
about myself and other people. I know about erections. I know about sex dreams.
I know about masturbation, even though I'm still not sure how to do it right. I
know that boys sometimes are attracted to other boys at first and even
experiment with other boys. That is NOT going to happen for me, not where I
live. I don't want to be beaten to a pulp by the other guys when they find out
I messed around with another boy. I know that some boys never lose their
interest in other boys because they are gay, and I think I might be gay,
because I've never been attracted to girls at all.
I might be
overthinking this. I often do that.
But there are days
when I think I might be broken because I might be gay.
Then there are days
when I think I might be broken because I think gay boys are broken.
You see what I'm
doing? Overthinking again.
My name is Truman
Nathaniel Greene. I'm thirteen. I live on a farm where we have cows, goats, a
few horses, and chickens. We also have a big garden to feed the family, and
acres of alfalfa to feed the animals. I help my Poppa, CJ Greene, by taking
care of our animals. My brother, Carson Greene, is strong like my Poppa and
together, they do the hard chores on the farm. My sister, Mattie Greene, is a
bratty witch, but Momma makes her help too. My mother, Edith Greene, is one of
the nicest women you'll ever meet. We're happy, and we work hard, and this is
my story.
Not my complete
story. That would take too long to tell.
This is the story of
the summer when I was thirteen, the summer I found out I'm not broken.
The end of BROKEN, Chapter One
Dear Readers, a few words I'd like to share with you,
If any of you have read Robert Armstrong's delightful stories Schoolie or Kurt Series,
you may have noticed a similarity in the style of writing I'm using for this
story. If you haven't read Schoolie (Nifty Archive:
adult-youth/schoolie) or Kurt Series
(Nifty
Archive: adult-youth/kurt-series), you should
reserve a weekend or three to binge read them both! They are among the best gay
erotic stories you'll find anywhere, as well as a fun excursion into the
Australian outback.
And Rob Armstrong, if you're
reading this, please don't be upset if it seems I've imitated your style. It's
simply that I can't think of a better way to write about a young boy's
coming-of-age and falling in love for the first time. Thank you for writing
your stories first and inspiring my own tale.
And one final note: A special
thanks to mein geliebter
for his patience in reading each chapter as I finished it and providing loving
encouragement and feedback. Ich liebe dich, mein herz.
With warmest regards,
Wes Leigh