Date: Sat, 1 Jan 2005 06:17:41 -0500
From: g d <parrafan@ureach.com>
Subject: The Grazed Elbow and Other Calamities part 2

The Grazed Elbow and Other Calamities pt 2 (conclusion).

by parrafan

DISCLAIMER:
Don't read this if you are not old enough by the laws that apply
in your jurisdiction.
This story is made up. Nobody in the story is intended to
resemble any real person. Even you.

THANKS:
To Rebel, Mike, Danny and Kent for their kind words of
encouragement.

the story takes up from near the end of Chapter 8

"Terry, please don't cry, come on now," I said as I mopped his
wet face with a corner of the bedsheet. "Your...er...Mum asked
me to talk to you about erections, and whether you...er,
but...ah, I need your help. Truly I do, otherwise I'll be crying
too." I held my arms open for him to give me a hug. He had to
let my tool go to do so, which was probably just as well, or he
might soon have been getting a first-hand advanced lesson in
male virility. He clambered off the bed into my arms, which I
folded around him, and we both sort of slowly crumpled onto the
bed like one of those buildings which has been levelled with a
controlled demolition.

"Now, friend Terry, we have all night to talk things out, if we
need it, and all tomorrow morning as well. Let's have a good
long chat, like friends do, and you can get everything off your
chest. I guarantee you'll feel better. Let's start with a kiss,
okay?" I saw the beginnings of a smile curl on the end of his
mouth, and his eyes scrunched up, not like more crying, but in a
happy way.  He made a short laugh, almost a bark, and pecked me
on the lips. He pulled his head back to look into my eyes (for
approval?), so I  smiled and pecked him one back.

He had not said a word to me as yet, so I decided on the direct
approach to loosen his tongue. "Is that the best kiss you can
give your favourite teacher? Hmm?", I quizzed him, rubbing his
chest lazily.

"Well, you show me a better one," he spoke at last, his quiet
voice still betraying fear (I guess about the erection business)
and reluctance (that in spite of my declaration, I still might
vanish in the night, back to my own house).

"A better kiss, eh? Well young Master Terry Gillings, I just
might do that. I fancy myself as rather an expert on the
subject, so you can just jolly well lie back and I will give you
the benefit of my vast knowledge, both theoretical and
practical". I was speaking in my pompous tone, which usually
makes the kids in my class laugh (or at least smile).

"I am ready, my lord," Terry replied. I think he was lapsing
into the persona of one of his literary characters. A boy that
reads a lot often imagines himself to be one of the characters
in one of his books, usually an heroic figure, Frodo Baggins
perhaps, or Jack Hawkins, or maybe John Connnor from the
Terminator. Terry lay back with his hands behind his head,
awaiting my next move.

I looked him in the eyes and smiled. "For an improved kiss, one
must open one's mouth slightly and allow one's beloved to play
about with his tongue". I tried to make it sound like I was
explaining how to add fractions with different denominators. I
bent over him and lightly grazed my lips on his. He opened them
a little, as I asked. My tongue licked his lips in preparation
for a  frontal attack, although that word is far too strong for
what I had in mind. Invasion, perhaps? No, nothing so
aggressive. More like the timid landing of refugees on the
deserted beach of a  foreign land. Terry's eyes widened as he
felt my tongue inside his mouth, but as in all of his school
subjects, he was a quick learner. His little tongue poked at
mine, then circled it. I suddenly sucked, pulling his tongue
into my mouth. I could feel Terry jerk underneath me ( I was
resting a little bit of my upper body weight on him), but I
thought that was only from surprise. He explored my mouth very
tentatively, running his tongue over the backs of my teeth. I
began to get worried about a premature ejaculation again, so I
paused.

I broke the suction between our lips in order to speak, but kept
my head just an inch above his face. "Would you like to show me
what you have just learned about kissing?", I whispered. Terry
nodded, and lifted his head to clamp his mouth on mine. We
tongue-wrestled for another minute or two, both of us moaning a
bit as we tried to outdo each other in satisfying the other's
desires. I had to break things off again, for the same reason as
before.

"Now we have kissed intimately, we can't have any secrets from
each other any more", I declared to Terry. He nodded. I
continued. "Your...er...Mum told me that she has never seen you
with an erection. You now know what an erection is. She thought
that you might have a problem with them because of...because of
an accident you had when you were a little baby". I waited for
him to say something.

"I have never...had an erection, Sir. I don't know why, and it
worries me. When I saw your...er, your penis, I realised why
boys have erections. It's so the penis can be...inserted, isn't
it, Sir?"

Terry's quick perception of the matter helped a lot. The thing I
had dreaded most when Mrs Gillings first raised the subject was
having to have 'the talk' with the boy. But he seemed to
perceive the essential mechanics, and their purposes, as soon as
he saw me naked. Another argument in favour of communal nudity,
I guess. I pressed on.

"Terry, I am not convinced that your...accident...caused you
permanent damage. Sometimes these things are as much
psychological as physiological." I knew Terry understood these
big words because his eyes showed no confusion. "If I may, I'd
like to test out my theory. Are you game?"

"What...what did you...what are you going to do?" Terry asked.
He was a little concerned, as would be natural.

"I am going to stimulate your little penis, to see if you can
become erect." I let that idea sink in for a moment before
continuing. "What I want you to do, is shut your eyes and focus
your mind on someone or something that you truly love, and think
of how nice it is to be close to that person or thing, how good
that person or thing makes you feel, and just let your body
react however it will. Let me do the rest".

This really was the worst kind of pop psychology, but I had to
give it a try. It broke my heart to think of Terry in a hospital
ward, undergoing any number of surgical tests to establish the
nature and extent of his impotency. I put my trust in
Providence, and hoped that I was doing the right thing by the
boy that I had become way too fond of.

He was already laid out in front of me, relaxed and calm. I
moved his legs a bit further apart, then looked up at him.
"Ready?" I enquired for the last time. Terry just nodded and
looked at the ceiling. I bent over his loins and dabbed at his
little member with my tongue. Terry flinched a little, then
stayed still. I took his flaccid little worm in my mouth and
began to suck on it. At the same time, I probed between his legs
for his anus. My intention was to launch an attack on two
fronts. Napoleon and Hitler both found this approach to be
unsuccessful, but I was determined to succeed where they had
failed.

I have to admit, I entetained no thoughts of winning this
battle. I thought, from what Mrs Gillings had told me about the
condition in which she had found Terry as a baby, that he would
be completely impotent. Despite my fears, I was determined to
try my best for this boy. While I worked my mouth on his little
penis, working it up and down, laving it with my tongue,
sloshing around under his foreskin, I poked my index finger into
his bottom hole, searching for the little gland I knew to be
there.

They say that God looks after idiots and drunks. They also say
that miracles happen to the most unlikely people. Well, I don't
believe that there is a God as such, but tonight, somebody gave
Terry a little touch of good luck. His tiny member responded to
the combined assault of my tongue and my finger. His previously
inert phallus spontaneously hardened to a respectable (for an 11
year old) two and a half inches of skinny boy erection. It
pointed straight up his hairless tummy towards his belly button.

Terry propped himself up on his elbows. "How did you do that,
Sir?", he gasped, staring down at his first woodie.

"Well, I'm not sure, Terry old son. Smoke and mirrors? Fairy
dust? I guess sometimes things just happen by themselves", I
replied, as I carefully withdrew my finger from his prostate
gland. "Um, you're allowed to hug me by the way," I interrupted
his reverie. He was staring at his hard-on as though it were a
cobra in a basket at some Indian fakir's tent. I had broken the
spell, however, and he laughed and hugged me.

"Everything else can wait until tomorrow", I assured him as I
held him in my arms. I could feel his hard little member poking
into my stomach as we drifted off to dreamland in each other's
arms.

Chapter 9: Am I Gay?

I woke up before Terry. I can never stay asleep when the sun is
pouring in through the window. About this time of day I usually
take a brisk walk, to clear the cobwebs and keep the waistline
in check, but I didn't want to disturb my little friend - he
clung to me like a possum baby clings to its mother. So I ran my
fingertips up and down his back to wake him up slowly.

Terry stirred a little, but didn't really wake. I deemed an
increase in stimulation was in order. I grasped one buttock in
my left hand and began to squeeze rhythmically. The other hand
continued the marching fingers down and up his spine. Every time
the fingertips reached his bottom cleft, I pulled the cheek I
was grasping to one side so that the fingertips of my other hand
could march right down to Terry's hole. When the fingertips
arrived at that tender place, they began to mark time, drumming
on the spot. First a tapping, then a rapping, now a poking, soon
a prodding. I wish I was talking to an awake Terry now, I am
sure he would know what book those lines came from - a Grimms
Fairy Tale, perhaps. Terry stayed asleep.

I rolled onto my side and let Terry slide off me onto the bed.
His hands slowly released me, and not a moment too soon, as my
back teeth were floating. I crept off the bed and made my way to
the toilet. Mrs Gillings was up and about, but she paid my
nakedness no mind. It was almost as though I were now a part of
the family, like a big brother or an uncle to Terry, inducted
into the family rites, and permitted to enjoy the family
customs.

When I returned to my bedroom, Terry was awake, uncovered, lying
back with his hands clasped behind his head. His boy part had
returned to a flaccid state. He watched me closely as I entered
the warm bedroom.

"The other boys have a nickname for me", Terry stated,
matter-of-factly.

"Oh yes? Not a cruel one, I hope?", I replied lightly.

"Depends how you look at it," Terry answered. "They call me 'HG'
".

"Hmm. Er. I give up. What's it mean?"

Terry gave me a sour look. "I asked one of the boys what it
meant, and he said that it was short for 'HG Wells', the writer.
He wrote 'War of the Worlds", and 'The Time Machine'. Those are
two of my favourites.The boy said that everyone called me 'HG'
because I was always reading and I liked books so much."

"Well, that's not so bad, is it Terry? There are a lot worse
nicknames a boy can have. Some boys are so invisible that they
never even get a nickname." I was trying to humour him, and he
saw through me.

"That's what I thought, too, until my friend Peter set me
straight. He said that my nickname had two meanings - one for
public use, and one more private for the popular boys to laugh
at among themselves".

"Oh? And did Peter tell you about the other meaning?" I feared I
was on dangerous ground here.

"Yes", Terry answered simply. "He said that 'HG' stood for
'Hermione Granger'. You know, Harry's friend, the girl who was
always reading books".

It was charming in a way, that Terry referred to 'Harry', the
literary creation of Ms Rowling, as though he were one of his
acquaintances. But that did not disguise the fact that Terry had
a girl's name as his nickname. Strictly contrary to school
policy, giving a boy a **girl** name as a nickname.

"Does that mean that the other boys see me as a girl?" Terry
asked, with more than a little trepidation.

"You are obviously not a girl, Terry, no matter how many books
you read. You attend an all-boys school, and you would not have
passed the physical if you were a girl." I tried to make light
of the poor boy's dilemma. Possibly not the right approach.

"They may not think I am a girl, but do they think I am a...a
proper boy?" Terry looked at me in the face to try to see the
truth in my eyes. "Do they think I am...queer? Sir, am I queer?
Am I...gay?"

"Terry", I began, "I am glad I had a sleepover at your house
last night, so I could answer this very important question for
you this morning." I hope Terry did not detect that I was
babbling to give myself time to think.

"You know there are a lot of people in the world, Terry, a lot
of people. Most of them try to get through their miserable lives
without thinking too much. One way of not thinking too much is
putting labels on things, and on people. They think that by
putting a label on someone, that person is correctly identified,
pigeonholed, and sorted out for all time. Labels like 'Queer',
'Straight', 'Liberal', 'Democrat', 'Patriot'. Let me tell you
something about myself that I have never shared with anyone
before, Terry.". The boy just looked at me, waiting for me to
continue.

"In my lifetime, I have learned a few things about myself. I am
not sexually aroused by men, so I do not think of myself as
homosexual. I am not aroused by women, though I have known a few
of them in bed, so I do not think of myself as straight. I enjoy
the company of boys, but I do not desire them sexually, so I do
not label myself as a pedophile. I am simply a male person who
is trying to get through life by what honourable means I can." I
looked at Terry and continued.

"The reason I have shared my deepest philosophy with you is
this: you, Terry, are the only person I have ever loved with my
whole heart. It doesn't matter to me that you are a boy. You
could have been a man, or a woman, or an Alsatian dog, it makes
no difference. Once I give my heart, it is given. And I believe
it is the same for you. You do not feel any attraction for the
other boys in your class, so that tells me you are not gay. I
think I am right in guessing that you can love only one person,
and I am the lucky one. Doubly lucky, because I also feel the
same for you."

Terry looked at me with something akin to wonder. A grown-up had
revealed his innermost secret to him. A grown-up had said that
he loved him above all else in the world. A grown-up, not just
any grown-up but his own dear Sir, had pledged his love. So it
didn't matter whether he loved a man, or a woman, or anything.
He could just be himself again. He jumped up and hugged his
teacher before running naked to the toilet before he disgraced
himself.

Chapter 10: Will you still love me?

The ensuing weeks settled into a comfortable pattern. I spent
each friday evening and saturday morning at Mrs Gillings' home,
enjoying her cooking and Terry's company. On my arrival every
friday, Terry greeted me with an abundance of kisses, and
escorted me to the family room, where he would sit naked in my
lap and encourage me to fondle him. Mrs Gillings simply
tut-tutted in the kitchen. After dinner, the two of us headed to
what I now thought of as 'my' bedroom to pleasure each other's
bodies in every way we could think of short of actual
intercourse for a few hours until we fell asleep exhausted in
each other's arms.

"Do you know something Sir", he asked me once, "My penis only
gets hard when I think of you. It doesn't get hard when I lay in
bed alone, or when I think of the other boys in our class, or
even when I wash it in the bathtub."

"I have to admit, it is the same with me, Terry. No sexy
pictures, no thoughts of your classmates, no Internet stories,
get me stiff any more. Only you do - and then only on a friday
night!"

"What do you think it means, Sir?" Terry asked timidly.

"I think that sometimes it doesn't pay to think too much.
Sometimes we just have to live our lives as best we can, and
leave the thinking to those quiet times when we are lying in
bed, reviewing the day's wins and losses." I hoped this answer
helped him. At the time, I was kissing his chest and groping his
warm genitals on the couch. Mrs Gillings was cooking another
fine dinner.

Weeks turned into months. Terry graduated from my class into the
sixth grade. I continued to enjoy dinner with him and his
grandmother every friday night. We slept together afterwards, in
each other's arms until Saturday morning. I have only a modest
sex drive (to match the size of my equipment) which meant that
one night of loving per week was enough for me. It seemed to be
enough for Terry too. We usually satisfied each other with our
mouths or hands, sometimes not waiting until after dinner, but
pleasuring each other on the living room couch while Mrs
Gillings cooked the dinner. She would call out words of
encouragement from time to time, to both Terry and I, which I
found quite disconcerting at first. Once she even praised Terry
on his oral techniques, but then warned him not to spoil his
appetite. I nearly had a stroke when she said that!

Terry eventually finished his primary schooling and advanced to
Secondary school. It no longer mattered that he was no longer in
my class, or even in the same school. My main concern was for
Terry's physical maturity, or lack of it. I hoped that he simply
was a 'late bloomer', but it was now a long while past his
thirteenth birthday, and he still showed no visible signs of
puberty, until one friday when I arrived at the door of his
house to find him wearing not his usual birthday suit, but a
pair of football shorts (and nothing else). It was such an
unexpected sight - imagine seeing a puppy in a tuxedo and you
can begin to encompass  my surprise.

Terry gulped, looked at his feet, shuffled them a little then
looked at me. I tried to make out that I believed nothing
unusual was happening, allowing him to usher me inside his home.
We sat on the couch together, as was our custom, holding hands.
He had a worried look on his face that I was not accustomed to
finding there.

"Okay, tell me, Terry", I simply stated, "out with it".

"Would...will you still...love me...if I...grow up?" he asked
hesitantly.

"Is that all that was worrying you Terry?", I answered, trying
to keep my voice level. "I thought we settled this a long time
ago. Age does not matter between you and me, it never has. What
brought this panic on?"

"I was nervous about showing you," Terry began, "but I suppose I
should have trusted you like I always have". I gave him a
quizzical look, so he continued. Slipping off the couch, he
faced me as he put his fingers to his football shorts. "I've got
hair", he confessed, pulling them down and off. And it was true.
A tiny tuft of brown hair graced the right side of his pubic
mound. "I've had it a few days now. I wasn't sure if I should
shave it off".

"You'll do no such thing, Terry", I heard from the kitchen. Mrs
Gillings must have heard the whole thing. No doubt she saw the
first filaments of pubic hair as soon as they appeared. Not much
escapes her.

"I want you to penetrate me tonight," Terry whispered fiercely
to me. "Prove to me that the hair doesn't matter".

"I don't know...that's a big step. Maybe you should think it
over and be absolutely certain that's what you really want. Once
you've...done it, there's no going back", I cautioned him.

"I already have thought about it, and I'm certain. In fact," at
this point Terry glanced towards the kitchen where his
grandmother was rattling some pots, "I want you to do it to me
right here, now, before dinner, to prove you really love me".

I also peeked towards the kitchen. The same thought was on my
mind. Just how broad-minded was Mrs Gillings? I had my answer
sooner than I expected as a one-litre dispenser of sorbolene
dropped into my lap from above. I almost shouted in surprise
(and pain!) as Mrs Gillings' disembodied voice followed the
sorbolene. "Dinner in thirty minutes. There's a towel under the
cushion. Don't hurt my boy".

Thirty minutes, eh? I stood up and undressed in record time,
fishing out the towel from under the pillow, spreading it on the
couch, sitting my naked bottom upon it and holding my arms out
for Terry to climb into my lap. The next part of the story is
way too private to disclose, but it involved a juggling act with
a wriggling boy, a sorbolene dispenser, some tears, quite a bit
of vigorous jockeying up and down (on Terry's part), a lot of
huffing and puffing (on my part), and yes, you guessed it, not a
few pertinent comments from Mrs Gillings on the kitchen. How
does she do that?

A cop-out, some may think? In my defence, I have to assert that
there are some love affairs too beautiful to describe; some
couplings too sublime to enunciate; some events of total
abandonement of self that are so precious that to put them into
words could only diminish them. Readers can be assured Terry's
request was granted before dinner (with a minute and a half to
spare) and again after dinner, and again the next morning.

Chapter 11 The Ultimate calamity

Terry no longer wore the footy shorts when answering the door on
Friday nights, and his little auburn-coloured pubic bush grew
week by week. Perhaps 'bush' is an altogether too strong word
for it. 'Patch' might be more suitable. Terry's enthusiasm for
sex (with me!), in all its permutations, never diminished,
thankfully. He no longer needed reassurance, he wanted
exploration. I had to check a couple of books out of the library
to keep a step ahead of him!

Terry was fourteen years and three months old when he had his
very first emission of semen, and I was present on the happy
occasion. I have never liked the taste of seminal fluid, but
Terry seems to enjoy it (or he never complains about it). I made
an exception on this red letter day, not only tasting but
swallowing, as he has done for me so many times. Mrs Gillings
even brought some mouthwash from the bathroom and set it on the
end-table!

At dinner, Mrs Gillings dropped her bombshell. She had finally
achieved her one goal in life, making Terry's life happy. "Oh,
he's always been cheerful, no problem there, but when he is with
you Sir, he is genuinely happy. As for me, it's time I moved
into a cosy little retirement villa. I've had my eye on it for
some time, since that first night we had you over for dinner in
fact, Sir. I failed miserably with...well, with 'you know who',
and I am pleased, very pleased indeed to have not failed a
second time. Terry has never kept anything from me, not for long
anyhow, and I am very relieved to be able to let him make his
own choices for his future life. Terry?" She looked at her
grandson expectantly.

Terry had watched Mrs Gillings while she made her speech, but
now turned his gaze to me. "Sir, I would like to live with you
when Mummy- I mean, when my **grandmother** moves into her
retirement community. I will be your devoted companion, friend
and lover." And then Terry began to sing for me again - not the
treble with which he first serenaded me, but with the light
tenor voice that he had adjusted to in the last few months:

"Imagine me and you - I do,
I think about you day and night- it's only right
To think about the one you love, and hold him tight
So happy together"

He got out of his seat with a paper napkin to dry the tears that
ran down my cheeks. We sang the rest of the song together, quite
loudly. The neighbours must have thought I had too much wine
(again). My new life had started.

End - thanks for reading.

parrafan@ureach.com