WARNING: This story – a fictional one - contains sex between a minor and an adult. Do not read the contents if it will offend you. If accessing this story causes you to break local laws (village, town, city, county, province, state, or country, etc.), please leave now.
Any characters portrayed in this story are fictional and not representative of anyone living or dead.
Anyone wishing to contact me can do so at john.thestoryteller@gmail.com
Other stories on Nifty by John Teller/The Storyteller can be found here.
All rights reserved. All parts of these documents are © Copyright 2016 John T. S. Teller, and may not be reproduced in any form without the author's consent. Nifty.org has permission to reproduce it on their website.
A small sermon. Nothing in life is free. Everything costs, and Nifty is no different, so please send them a couple of $'s/£'s to cover costs and stuff. They're very discreet, and you won't get your name in lights if you do. Donate here: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
Fellowship of the Schoolboy Ring.
By John Teller.
Part two.
Alan Parnell speaks now.
Unlike the other lads, when you've all scrambled up the stairs to the top deck of the double-decker bus that you catch each morning, you've done what he asked and put the book he gave you into your school bag to be opened later. But the rest of the lads haven't. Benji ripped the brown paper off his book as soon as the bus took off, and now he's giggling with Tubby Jackson at the cover that has a sexy looking woman almost kissing a bloke. Once he'd ripped the paper off, so did the others, and now they're all laughing and talking about their books. But you've taken a history book from your schoolbag and are studying it, and when Tubby asks you what your book is about, you tell him, "I'll look at it later. I forgot to revise my bloody history last night, and Parkinson says he's going ask us to write a synopsis about what we've revised. I'll be in the shit if I don't."
You're hoping against hope that your excuse puts them off the scent, and thankfully, because they've got four books to drool over, it actually does. But while you're pretending to revise your history, you pick up on the many comments the lads make.
Brice Washington-Thompson. Bloody `ell! He's got a double barrelled name. -- This one says it's his seventh novel. I reckon he's gay. He looks gay. -- Don't be bloody daft Tubby! You think everybody is gay. -- Well I've never seen a woman in his house. -- That doesn't mean he's gay. -- Of course it does... blokes his age are always married or living with a bird! -- He fancies you Benji. He said you could be his hero and earn lots of dosh. (Raucous laughter.) -- I'll sell him my arse for that TT. -- You bloody would, as well! -- Nothing wrong with a dick up your arse if it buys you a TT. -- You are a gayer Benji. That's why you haven't got to shag a girl yet. -- That doesn't mean I'm bloody gay. -- According to Tubby it does. -- This wotsisname... Brice Washington-Thompson is gay because he hasn't got a bird around. Well, none we've seen anyway. (Your pal, Gary Clewlow, who's just started the new school with you and is sitting by your side flipping through the pages of the book he was given, comes to the rescue.) -- From what I can see of this book he's given me, the last thing he is, is gay. The bloke in the story is fucking a prostitute here. -- Let me look! -- Let me look! -- Let me look! (Half silence for a couple of minutes, and then), Jeez! I've got a fucking hard on here. He's definitely not gay! (And so it goes on.)
He's definitely not gay. You feel a sense of disappointment in the pit of your stomach. You fool, Alan Parnell! You've had a crush on a bloke for ages, and he isn't gay. So you've got no chance! And all this time you were hoping he would be. Even yesterday you still had high hopes, especially when you saw him looking at you sort of special when you were all talking about him being a writer. He even stared into your eyes. You looked into his as well. He's got beautiful eyes. Green ones. With him being sort of dark with dark brown hair, you always imagined he would have brown eyes, but when you saw that they were green, your tummy did a double somersault because you love green-eyed blokes.
**********
You got the feelings the first time you ever saw him. When he got his car out and looked right at you and not the others, and ever since, you always stand so you're looking at his house every morning, hoping to catch a glance at him. You've seen him a number of times in the front bedroom. But it was only fleeting glimpses. On a couple of occasions you could have sworn that he was smiling at you, but then he went away. You've thought about all sorts of things to get to meet him properly. Your first plan to get to know him went all to cock. You went and sat on his wall on a Saturday morning for a long time, and you worked out that if he came out and asked why you'd been there for so long, you could pretend you were waiting for a mate and were going to catch a bus into the city. It wouldn't have been so bad, but it was pissing down, and because there isn't a bus shelter where you catch the bus by his house, you were bloody soaked after an hour of sitting there. But he must have been out or something, because he never showed his face.
***********
The bus arrives at the school, and you all get off. When you're walking up the school drive, you consider throwing the book he gave you in a trash bin. You're not interested in all the shit the lads were talking about. The only reason you were excited on your way to the bus stop was because you were thinking you would get to find out things about him. Well, because the lads rattled off everything, you know everything about him without even opening the bloody book. He's Brice Washington-Thompson aged twenty nine, and he isn't bloody gay, so why bother reading the book he gave you?
**********
"What are you sulking about?" asks dad when you throw your schoolbag onto a chair in the kitchen.
You give him a dirty look. "I'm not sulking!"
He half laughs. "That bottom lip of yours will be on the floor if it drops much further. What's the matter? You been in trouble at school?"
You give him another dirty look, pick up your schoolbag and sling it over your shoulder as you make your way out to go upstairs to your room. "I'll go and do my homework."
"Dinner will be ready in half an hour. I'll give you a shout. And change out of that uniform Alan. Be a good lad and pop your shirt and underpants and socks in the wash basket. I'm going to do a wash later tonight. Don't you want a hug?" You stop in the doorway, undecided what to do, but then you feel the tears coming, turn around, and go back to your dad. He opens his arms and you sink into his warmth... into the only place where there's a shelter from the deep hurt inside you: the hurt that never gets better since mum died. Dad holds you tight, kisses your hair, and you increase the pressure of the hold you have on his strong waist. More tears; lots of tears now, and dad soaks them all up. Then he says in his soft, deep voice, "That's a good lad. Let the tears out son. It will do you good. It will help soften the pain. It's going to take a lot of tears and lot of time, for both of us." The pressure of his hug increases, and then he says, "I'm always here for you Alan. Whatever it is, always remember that your dad loves you and is always here for you."
And so you let out the tears and the sobs and deep wails of despair that you carry inside you every hour of ever day; every day of every week, every week of the last six months since your mum died of cancer and left just you and your dad alone; together.
**********
You go to the bathroom to have a pee, and then go back into your bedroom and look at your schoolbag that you've dropped on the bed. It's in there... the book you were so looking forward to receiving all yesterday and all last night. And when you went to school this morning there was a spring in your step because you were getting a gift from Him. But all that has gone now. He's not the special person you thought he was. He's just a writer of semi-pornographic novels about bloody Victorian England. All day the lads have been laughing about his books and the way he describes blokes fucking women. The one in your schoolbag will be no different... all full of the same trash. You don't know why people read that sort of stuff. It's all bollocks. Make believe bollocks. Writers never write about real stuff like a twelve year old boy who is gay and likes men. They wouldn't dare do that. Well, that's not quite right. A few writers do. Him who wrote the book about the film, For a Lost Soldier, had lots of bollocks. That's what you want to be. You want to be like Jeroen, and you were hoping He would be like Walt. That's what you've been living this last month, and he's been in your bed every night ever since you set eyes on him. But even those thoughts are shit now. How can you do stuff thinking about a bloke who writes semi-pornographic stuff about women? Sod the bloody tears! You never stop crying these days. You cry because mum's gone, but now you're crying because the bloke you've fallen for is a porno writer who doesn't give a shit about you.
*************
You tear off the brown paper and throw it on the floor. Halifaxual. God Almighty! What a crap name for a book! On the cover is a picture of an old cotton mill and a bloke with a woman in his arms. But the bloke isn't looking at the woman... he's looking over her shoulder at a lad wearing a raggedy striped shirt with no collar leaning against the wall of the mill, and the lad is staring at the bloke. Interesting! Is the lad jealous of the bloke, or is he jealous of the woman? None of the other lads' books were like this. Halifaxual? That's almost homosexual. The lad is older than you, but he's sort of cute, and the bloke is definitely staring at him as if he wants him. That's how you want a bloke to look at you, as if he really wants you. What does it say on the back cover?
Washington-Thompson has deviated from his normal modus operandi and delved into pastures new with his latest novel. In Halifaxual, he has created an outlandish ménage à trios between his main characters, Clarence Benningworth (son of a wealthy mill owner), his fiancée (the debutante Hilary Onions), and a seventeen year old boy, Edward Bragg (hired hand at his father's cotton mill). This steamy love affair becomes multi-dimensional. Man loves woman – man loves boy – woman loves man – woman loves boy. The odd fellow is Bragg, who loves only Benningworth. For those who are hooked on Washington-Thompson's style, this is a must read, if only for the beautiful way he deals with the complications of this multi-faceted love affair.
Then there are some excerpts from national newspapers: For an upcoming young writer, if this is what is to come, then more please! Washington-Thompson's best novel to date. This one will leave you breathless with its intricacies of bisexual and intergenerational love. Tissues ready, Ladies! Not for prudes. And if you (like me) have a tendency to shed the odd tear or two when Washington-Thompson plucks at your heartstrings, then most definitely do not read this on the airplane! Find a quiet place; a nice glass of wine, and lose yourself in this beautiful story. That's after you've stopped chuckling at the title of this novel. Halifaxual! Well, it fits perfectly when you realize that the steamy affairs d'amour take place in Halifax in the industrious northern towns of England.
Why you! Why has Brice (what a lovely name!) given this particular book to you? Is he psychic? If he'd given this book to any of the other lads then he would have been in some deep shit! They would have teased him to death. This isn't just gay stuff, this is intergenerational! Was it chance that you got this book? They all looked the same wrapped in brown paper when he handed them out, so there was no way of knowing which book was which. Maybe it was pot luck who got what. Did he write anything on the brown paper? It's on the floor. You should have a look.
There it is. That's how he's done it. There's NB written on it, in tiny letters, right in the corner where it was folded over. What does NB mean? B. Boy? Possibly. N? Naughty? Nice? Nice Boy? That would be beautiful if that's how he thinks about you! Maybe he does like you after all? Maybe he knows that you like him a lot? He certainly can't know that you've been in love with him for ages. But maybe everything you're thinking is a load of bullshit. Maybe he gave this book to you because he's sussed out that you're gay and he thought you might like this book better than the other ones that are about straight relationships. But that doesn't mean that he likes you the same way that you like him.
***********
"Are you feeling a bit better now your belly's full? You certainly look a bit chipper than when you came home. Do you have much homework to do?"
You smile at dad across the dining table. "I'm okay now dad. Yes, I've got lots to do tonight. And I've got a book to read for English Literature. Why don't you go down the pub tonight and have a game of darts with your mates? I'll be okay. I'll be in my room most of the night anyway, so I won't be much company to you. You get off to the pub. When do you start your next shifts? What shift are you on?"
Dad sighs. "Tomorrow... Tuesday... I'm on noons. Eight days on and then four off. Then five days doing the day shift and three days off. Then it's eight and four again. Sorry, son. I don't like these rotating shift patterns no more than you do, but having a job these days is the important thing."
You smile at dad. "It's okay. You have to go to work. I can manage now. It's the day shift I don't like. I have to get my own breakfast."
Dad grins at you. "You don't mind getting your own dinner then?"
You chuckle. "Putting a Tesco's ready meal in the microwave isn't a lot of trouble, nor is ordering a pizza or getting something from the chippy."
Dad grins again. "Mum would give me some stick if she knew I was letting you eat all that rubbish." Then he winks. "Don't you dare tell her when you're saying your prayers!"
You chuckle. "She already knows. I've told her lots of times that you're neglecting me."
Dad's eyes are misting over when he looks lovingly at me. Then he smiles. "She knows I'll never do that. Anyway, I think I might just pop down the pub for a pint and a game of darts. Are you sure you'll be okay?"
You nod. "I will be... providing you do the washing up."
Dad laughs, and then tries to flip you on the ears from across the table. "Idle sod! Okay... it's a deal. But I'll be back home before it's time for you to turn in. Gotta give our boy a goodnight kiss, even though he is almost twelve."
************
Although you can't wait to read the book, you know you have to do your homework first, and that takes you an hour and a half before you're satisfied with what you've done, and only when you've got all your school stuff ready for tomorrow do you pile your pillows up against the headboard of your single bed and then sit on it with the book in your lap. But before you start reading, you turn to the back cover again. That's because above the blurb there's a photograph of Brice, and a short résumé of his life and career...
Born in 1982, a native of Lancaster, and educated at Lancaster University, Brice Washington-Thompson won the Derrington Prize for his first novel: Cry, desolate heart! at the age of twenty one. Since then he has written a number of books and is gaining a reputation for his knowledgeable interpretation of life and morals in Victorian England. He still lives in Lancashire.
You look at the photograph of him. It's obviously been taken in a studio, and it was probably taken two or three years ago. He looks a little older now, but those couple of years have added to his handsomeness. He's a little more rugged now. You smile. The Audi Quattro TT suits him better now. You grin. He's a show-off. When he drove the TT out of his drive and down the road, he put his foot down and must have been doing sixty miles an hour before he was sixty metres away. All the lads were laughing at him. Show off, Brice!
The book is a paperback and about three centimetres thick. You won't be able to read this in one night. It will probably take you a week given that you have lots of homework to do now you're in high school. But, because of what you've read on the blurb and you know he writes about men and boys, you really do want to explore what the book is about, and you're really glad that you didn't throw it in the trash bin. And because of all this, you're actually beginning to feel about him what you felt before. That's why you bring the photo of him on the back cover to your lips and give him a kiss.
Time to read, but you need a bookmark first. What to use? You've got a couple of bookmarkers in your schoolbag, but you've made yourself comfortable now, so what else can you use? There's an envelope on your bedside cupboard. It's got some stuff in it about the new debit card dad has arranged for you. He said you needed one just in case you needed some money and he was at work. That will do. Where to put it? Inside the back cover for now.
Inside the back cover! What's this? It's a photograph! What...! Why is this in here? He must have forgotten it was in this book. It's him! Brice... with a boy! Because he looks a lot younger than he is now, it must have been taken a while ago. But who's the boy? He looks about the same age as you. He's a super looking boy. In fact he's very similar in looks to that boy in the film you've watched on Youtube. That French boy. The one who plays Alexander in Special Friendships. You've watched it lots of times. It always makes you cry. What's his name? Ahhh... Didier Haudepin. Of course! How could you forget! You've pretended you were him lots of times, as well as pretending you were Jeroen in the film For a Lost Soldier. But what is Brice doing with him? And why is it in this book? Brice looks really happy, and so does the boy. As a matter of fact, the boy looks as happy as you would if Brice was holding your shoulders and hugging you to him as closely as Brice is holding this boy. I don't think its Brice's brother, because they don't look anything like each other. So who is he?
The photo is stuck to the back cover. Maybe it might say underneath when it was taken, and maybe where it was taken. It's only stuck on one corner, so you can look underneath without taking it out. What's this? Lots of writing. What does it say?
You come softly,
Silently
And flow through my thoughts
Dreams again,
Even now.
Present in my mind.
Held, in my heart.
Giving me
You,
As if to flow
Along in you
As you come softly
Silently
Into my arms again.
Even
If it is only in my dreams
As I sleep.
Flow,
Endlessly tumbling
Softly
Silently
Inside of me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I love this poem you wrote for me, and I still love you and miss you.
From your special boy, Sinclair. xxx
Tears now. Lots of them. Tears of jealousy. Tears all jumbled up because you don't know what to think. But you know why you're shedding some of the tears: they're tears of relief. Brice has had a boyfriend just like you. Sinclair. The beautiful boy in the photograph was Brice's boyfriend. He had to be. No boy would write the words, I still love you and miss you. From your special boy, Sinclair. xxx unless he was Brice's boyfriend. That's exactly the sort of thing you would write if you were ever parted from a man you loved. And Brice wrote the lovely poem especially for the boy.
**********
You still can't stop crying. The book means nothing now, but the photograph means everything, and the poem Brice wrote for his special boy is beautiful. Things are happening like in the films. But these are real things. Brice and Sinclair had a relationship. Had? What if they still have the relationship? You've never seen a boy around his house, but that doesn't mean they don't see each other. Anyway, the boy will be grown up now. Maybe that's why he wasn't at his house that morning when you sat in the pissing rain hoping to see him? He could have been with his special boy. Shit. More tears. Lots of tears. And then... NB. Nice boy? It could mean that! Perhaps the Sinclair boy thing is over and Brice actually likes you? For God's sake, Alan, work it out!
Right, where to start? He looked right into your eyes when the lads were talking about the TT. He did! He really did, and the look wasn't a normal one. He really looked at you! That's what made your tummy turn over with nerves. You thought then that he was giving you that look because he really liked you. Now, he's given you this special book. It is special. This isn't just about the things you like... it's about the things he likes. He's been in love with a boy, and the man in the book is in love with a boy. Perhaps he's trying to tell you something by giving you this book. Perhaps...? No, he wouldn't do that, would he? He wouldn't have put the photo in the book on purpose so you could see it... would he? He'd only do that if he really wanted you to know he's loved a boy before. Can all this be because he feels the same way you do, and this is his way of trying to tell you? Just suppose he did love you. How would he be able to tell you? He can't come out to the front of his house and tell you with all the lads there. That would be crazy! He'd be in deep shit. He doesn't know where you live or what your mobile number is, so he can't contact you that way. In fact, you know far more about him than he does about you! He doesn't even know your name! But there's another thing to think about: the photograph.
The photograph. It's got to be special to him. If you were him and you had a photograph from a boy who loved you with all the lovely words written on it, then it would be very precious to you. You'd never let it out of your sight. You'd probably sleep with it under your pillow. So you've really got to get it back to him. Even if everything you've worked out is all a load of bullshit, that doesn't mean he shouldn't get his photograph back. What about if...? Yes, that's how you can do it. It's Tuesday now. Friday will do. Well, any time after you've had time to read the book. It doesn't matter if you don't read it all the way through. You can always get another copy of it from Amazon if it's still in print. But it's got to look as though you've had time to read it or he'll know you're up to something. But suppose you don't see him on Friday? And another thing... you can't just give the book back to him. He didn't say he was lending it to you. He gave it to you, just as he gave all the lads their books. So it will look daft if you give it back to him. So you can't do that! Shit! Really, there's only a couple of ways you can get the photograph back to him, and both will tell him that you know all about him and the boy. If he hasn't left the photo in the book on purpose, then he'll be really embarrassed whatever way you get the photo back to him. But that's a chance you'll have to take if you want to do the right thing.
***********
When you arrive at the bus stop with your pal, Gary Clewlow, the older lads are already there, but because it's drizzling with rain, they're not sitting on the wall. As usual, you stand with your back to the road so you can look at Brice's house to see if you can see him. You'll see him if comes out and gets his car out of the garage, but most mornings he doesn't do that. You're pretending to the other lads that you're not looking at the house, but you hardly ever stop glancing at the windows. All the other lads are facing the road, and you're standing last in the row so you can sort of mix with them or not. You look at your watch. Another five minutes before the school bus arrives... that's if it's on time. It usually isn't. Most days it's about three or four minutes late.
The curtains upstairs are always open, and so are the ones downstairs, so that means he's up and about. If you see the downstairs curtains are closed then you know you won't see him, because it probably means he's still in bed. He'll sleep in the back bedroom because there'll be no traffic noise at the back of the house. When he comes out to his car, those downstairs curtains are always open. They're open now, so he's up and about somewhere. Or maybe he's already gone out.
No he hasn't! The front door is opening. Oh, God, he's coming out. What to do?
He smiles at you. A really nice smile, but a sort of puzzled look on his face. The others haven't seen him yet. You want to make some sort of a sign that means you know about the photo, but you can't think what to do. The only thing you can do is give him a really nice smile, one that he might know means you're okay with him. So you do, and he sort of nods to you. Then his face goes sort of serious, as if he's thinking, and he goes to the garage doors and opens them. That's when Benji turns around and sees him, and he shouts, "Hiya mate."
Brice grins at him, but doesn't say anything. Then he goes inside the garage, starts the car, drives it out, leaves it ticking over, and gets out of the car. You expect him to go and close the garage door, but instead he walks along the short drive and asks, "Did you enjoy the books, lads?"
You don't know what to say, but it wouldn't be heard even if you did say something. Benji and the others are all talking at once, telling Brice various things and laughing, and my mate, Gary, even says his mum reads all Brice's books, so you remain quiet. And then Brice looks directly at you, and asks, "What's your name young man?"
You're taken aback and nervous as hell when you stammer, "Err... Alan. Err... Alan Parnell."
Brice smiles at you. "Have you read yours, Alan?"
You shake your head, and say, apologetically, "I opened it last night after I'd done my homework, but I only had time to read a bit of it."
Brice gives you another lovely smile. "I hope you don't mind, Alan, but the book I gave you was a special one. It's the only one I have left of the proof run before it went to print. Do you mind if I have that copy back and I'll give you another one?"
You nod. "No, that's okay." Then you become really brave. Well, what's the use of pissing about anymore? You're pretty sure he knows you've got the book with the photograph of his boyfriend in it, and he can probably tell by how the other lads have reacted that I haven't told them about the photograph, so you might as well try and sort things now. That's why you say, "I thought it was strange. There's a letter stuck inside the back cover. I used it as a bookmarker."
You know immediately by Brice's face that he knows you're protecting him by referring to the photograph as a letter, and there's relief in his face when he says to you, "Yes, I know there is." Then he looks right into your eyes when he says, "It's from an old friend from my university days. We were good pals, but she's lived in the United States for years, and I don't hear from her nowadays. Can you let me have that back too? That's more important than the book."
You grin at him. "Okay. I'll look after it and get it back to you." Just then, the school bus arrives. The other lads go to get on it, which gives you a few seconds to hang back slightly, and you say quietly to Brice, "I'll bring it back to you on Saturday morning?"
Brice nods, and smiles. "That would be best. I'll be in. See you then. And thank you for you-know-what."
You return his smile with a knowing grin, and then get on the bus.
**********
"What are you ginning at Alan," asks Gary as you stare through the bus window.
You've been thinking ever since you got on the bus about what Brice did... referring to the boy as if he was a girl. He knows you know it isn't a girl, but he was covering his back to stop the other lads knowing. It was real sneaky stuff you both did. You said the photograph was a letter, and because he knew you were covering for him, he said the boy was a girl. So that means you can both pretend he's normal. But if he's worked out that you really like him that way, then he's also covering for you. That's why you're grinning, but if you and Brice can become proper friends, then you don't want anybody to know about it, and the best way you can do that now is to pretend that the letter was from a girl and tell the others that Brice has had a girlfriend. That way they won't suspect anything. That's why, instead of answering Gary directly, you tap Benji (who is sitting in the seat directly in front of you with Tubby next to him) on the shoulder, and say, "That letter he wants back... it's from an old girlfriend. I read it through last night."
Benji is all ears, and he turns in his seat and asks, "What does it say in it?"
You giggle. "Well, let's just say that he isn't gay!"
You've got the attention of all three now, and Gary says, "Come on! Tell us what it said in the letter! Was it sexy stuff?"
You chuckle. "Well, it was good enough for me to have a wank over. She was telling him how she felt when they were doing it for the last time. It had an American postmark on the envelope, so she must have written it to him after she'd gone over there. She said it was the best fuck she'd ever had."
"Benji's eyes are wide now, and he says, "She didn't use the word, fuck?"
You laugh. "She did, and she said what a fantastic dick he's got."
"Have you got it on you?" Tubby asks.
You shake your head. "No. It's still in the book."
"Fuck!" says Benji, "I want to see that! I'll bet he feels like a tight tool. He'll know you've read it. I mean, nobody would find a letter in a book and not read it! He must know you've read it. Are you going to tell him that you have?"
You shake your head. "No. I'm going to pretend I'm one of those people who would never read anybody else's mail. I won't be able to look him in the face again if he knows I've read it. And don't you lot let on that I've read it or he'll run over me with that TT the next time he gets it out!"
Everybody laughs. Then more talk about the letter, and more talk about Brice, until you all get off the school bus and you've become a sort of a hero. But even more pleasing to you is that so has Brice, and you'd bet your last penny that all the lads would bet their shirt on Brice not being gay now.
**************
I feel guilty; an androgynous cuckold; a betrayer of the love I have for Helena when George lifts the blankets of my large bed, slips in beside me, and wraps his young, strong legs around me. I've tried. Oh, I've tried! But there's no antidote for the love this young man has injected deep into my aching heart, and like venom from the fangs of the cobra is fatal, I know I am now lost in his warmth; in his smell of the working-classes, and the acrid pangs of cotton-dye that cannot be washed away. But even those smells become like frankincense and myrrh when George is in my arms; musk to my senses, and instead of rejecting his advances as I should, I enfold him in a cruel embrace and allow his mouth to devour mine. Hot lips; searching tongue, and I am lost. May God help me from the devil within, but the devil is strong, and George is very much aware of that when he teases me more by nibbling my neck, before...
"Do you love me, Carew?"
I kiss the top of his head, rub my lips over the sweat on his forehead, touch the tip of his nose with warm lips, and whisper, "Yes George, I do. I shouldn't, but I do, and I think no good may come of our association. But I am as powerless to stop it as trying to stop waves crashing against the shores of England, and like those waves, each time we make love, you take away part of me, and corrode my soul.
Kisses now, on my chest, then lower, his nose stroking the dark hairs of my being. Then lower, and only when he knows he has me completely at his mercy does he take me again and leave me gasping at the Devil's door. Maybe it would be better if Lucifer opened those doors and threw me into the fires of damnation, but if those fires are akin to the sins George makes me commit, then I would welcome them again and again and again.
**************
Phew! Brice is a brilliant writer! You're as hard as a nail after reading that! But you had to reach page 89 to get to that bit. You've only skimmed through the book, but that's because you were looking for this type of juicy bits. Halifaxual! Brilliant! You wish you were a boy working in the cotton mills and had met Carew, and you wouldn't care if you stank of cotton-dye if you could go lower and lower. That's exactly what you want. That's what you fantasize about, and the other way as well with a Carew doing the lower and lower bit. That's what you want to do with Brice... and lots more things. But most of all you want the part where you kiss. That's the loving bit, and the other comes after.
You pick up the photograph of Brice and Sinclair. They will have done what Carew and George did, of that you're sure. That's why Brice could make it so real. Brice would be Carew, and Sinclair would be George. Man and boy.
But what now? You're not sure if you'll be able to sleep tonight. It's Friday night, and tomorrow morning you're taking the book and the photograph back to Brice. What will he do? Will he invite you in? Suppose he doesn't like you the same way that you like him? Suppose he just takes the book off you at the door and sends you packing with a `Thank you'? But suppose he does like you in the same way that you like him? Suppose he invites you in and tries things on with you? What will you do then? Will you let him? Suppose all he wants is your body? Will you let him? Oh, God! You're shitting bricks wondering about all these things. Perhaps it would be better if you got up really early and just shoved the book through his letterbox. At least then he wouldn't be able to hurt you. It would make things difficult afterwards, but you'd rather have that than be really hurt, as in really, really hurt. You've had enough real hurt shit this last six months, and you don't know if you could cope with more really, really hurt stuff. Oh, God! Please don't let things go wrong mum. You knew I was gay, didn't you mum! That's why you said to me a week before you died that I should do whatever I wanted with my life, and that I shouldn't let other people make me be anything other than my true self. Yes, you knew mum, but you still loved me. Dad doesn't know, but you did. Oh mum! Oh mum! Oh mum! Please make Brice love your son! Please!!!
To be continued...
You can find my other stories on Nifty here. If you wish to comment on this or any of my other stories, just drop me a line to john.thestoryteller@gmail.com Genuine comments will be appreciated. All flames will be extinguished in the trash bin.