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Copyright 2003-2004 by Nicholas. The author retains all rights to this story and requests that you do not alter or post this story in any form without his permission. The following is a work of fiction. The characters are purely fictional, as are the events. This story depicts acts of love and sex between consenting persons, youth and adult. If stories of this nature offend you, please leave now.

If you are under age then get your friend and have him read it to you. Sit on his lap and cuddle up, I hope you'll love the story as much as you love him.

Thanx to my friends for giving me the gifts of ideas for my grom. I love you guys, you are the very best! Beachkid? Tell me you're alright.

Surfer Magazine, in their collectors edition of October 2001 had an article by Rod Cox defining a grom:

"You are definitely NOT a grom if ... A. the last time you paddled out you were clinging to your dad like a baby sea otter. B. when someone asks you if you think "Barney" is cool, you say, "Yeah, but those Teletubbies are kinda scary." C. you ride any board with a deck softer than its bottom. D. you've shaved anything other than your head, graduated from anything other than the eighth grade, ... or paid rent by any other means than cleaning your room, taking out the garbage and promising not to pee on the toilet seat.

You definitely ARE a grom if ... A. you can get to the beach by yourself – or in any automobile or public conveyance other than your parent's mini-van. B. you have been either punched, kicked, spit on, Dutch-rubbed, pantsed, pink-bellied, head-shaved, tampon-nosed or otherwise humiliated by older surfers, who obviously consider you enough of a pack member to perform initiation rites. C. you have more than two stickers on your board not laminated under the glass. D. you're between the ages of 11 and 18 and can actually surf."

Namaste, Nick

The Grommet – Chapter Six

A prairie storm is an awesome beast. A devil's decoction thrust upon the earth. The billowing, towering columns of black and gray seem anchored to the earth by riveting flashes of millions of watts of electricity. Yet anchored is the wrong word altogether as the whole mass boils its way across the plains. It almost looks as if it gradually chews the prairie up inside its inexorable forward motion. The sun shines bright and clear before the frightening demarcation line.

The rainbows dance upon the clouds and sometimes leap out forward of the beast and touch a pot of gold hidden centuries before by aged and forgetful prospectors.

That sunshine swallowed whole into a deep and midnight blue; the blue of ocean depths suspended in the air. Yet not suspended there, instead etched against a deeper blackness as the tiny hatch marks in a fine engraving. Hatch marks indicating contrapuntal motion to the billowing of cloud. Hatch marks darker here and lighter there proclaiming differences in their pressure. Pressure changing all the time and flowing out before the angry clouds and sweeping down the grasses and the grains. The waving visible if not the individual grass.

Then silence, stillness, quiet as the very ground would hold its breath before the storm jaws drew it in the maw.

The topmost billows of the clouds pure white against the palest blue of summer sky. The difference in the colors in the cloud almost a confirmation of the promise held within the violence below that all would conquer darkness. All would come round right. All would use the terror and the tremblings to purify, to purge, to exculpate all sins.

The explosive energy of the lightening flashes was yet silent across the miles and miles of distance. This was one place that normal mortal beings can see the curvature of the earth. The Big Sky. The powered pummeling of nature's pure and intense majesty. The final acts of cleansing.

I stood upon the hillock then, an angular and awkward just-teen. The hillock of my secret place, my special space, my refuge from the storms inside my house and mind. This hillock I had found which gave me unrestricted view of the very universe. No obstructions east or west. Nothing to blot my view of north or south. Of course the stars in all their millions easily visible at night. This hillock where I hid by standing in full view, unclothed, untied to family and to friends. This hillock where I surrendered to my nature by dominating all that spread before me. None could approach without my long and leisure gaze. None could sneak up on me, fling open the door of my mind and expose the inner blackness. None could trap me and expose the shame of rigid dick and flying hand and desperate grunts and groans which racked me with the pleasure of release no matter how I tried to deny and resist that debase action. None could see that all my dreams were dreams of other boys.

I stood there on my hillock, all sharp points and long lines and watched the upper softness of the clouds, the lower rigidness of rain and dazzling jaggedness of thunderbolts stripped silent of their thunder. I stood with my mouth open at the size and energy displayed. I stood and watched what I knew to be a hundred miles away as the very earth was caught in orgasm. I stood there and spread my seed upon the grasses and felt no shame for the first time in a year or more. I stood there purged of guilt. I stood there and waited for the cleansing rains of nature.

The prairie storm had made my youth and early manhood just like the beach was now making my middle age. The intensity of nature, the wholeness of its touch, the completeness within its messages. But part of that prairie storm had been the hillock refuge too. I did not have it now. I did not have a place of overarching perspective. I did not have the luxury of views upon the universe. I had in fact, the opposite, the hidden debase desires, the storms inside my head.

I lay beside the sleeping Cam and wrestled with new demons. As I laid him off to sleep I kissed his brow and sudden realized how this boy had penetrated more than just my heart. I loved him. Loved him as a protector would. Loved him as a father loves a son. Loved him as an object of desire.

I wanted to caress him. I wanted to brush his hair from off his forehead. I wanted to trace his cheek. I wanted to graze his tender ribs and sides. I wanted to taste his essence, to kiss him with the passion of a lover, to take his sweetest gifts and bring them to full flower. I wanted to love the all of him and have him love me back.

The lightning bolts within my head were not silent as they had been then. They fought together, one saying love is pure, one insisting base. How could I think to even touch his cheek when my rigid manhood dreamed of more. What had he said within his whimpering, shivering fears at being just a chain around his mother's neck? The jerk had "made him." Made him what? I hadn't strength then to ask. Now it seemed as though I was the jerk. Not the savior promising a lifelong love of sand within each other, but a twisted pervert thinking vile and obscene thoughts.

Thoughts I'd thought were gone so many years ago. Thoughts I thought were replaced with the love of wife and children. Thoughts I thought were expurgated in a storm that left me whole. Thoughts I knew were only lurking deep inside some pool of hidden bile inside my head. Thoughts I desperately tried to think away.

I tossed and turned upon the bed and when I couldn't think a thought of purity I rose and took my sleep, or lack thereof, upon my reclining chair. Daisy watched me leave the room and with a quick and gentle sniff and lick, she left Cam in slumber deep and lay beside me as if to guard me from my darkest self.

A storm from ocean's center is insidious and sneaky. No blazing pyrotechnical display. No billowing cumulous. No more than a simple flag displayed at point to tell of coming power.

It starts as wind; just wind and high and streaking clouds. Wind builds and with it surf will rise. The waves begin to crest in less than the appointed seven second round.

In daylight cries go surfer to surfer and grom to grom, SURF'S UP! And the beach begins to hum. Those with lesser skill begin to quake and soon are seated on the break watching in awe as waves rise and rides become less long, but all the more thrilling for the danger. Those who think they have the skill will catch waves above their heads and ride until the wipe outs wipe the tone from muscled legs. Those who know they have the skill will ride the one they want and stay the course out on the reach and hope they know they have the strength to make it one last time from water to the sand.

At night the wind will raise the surf and accelerate the pounding of the universal heartbeat. Wind rises as the clocks ascends. Surf follows shortly there behind. The stratus clouds begin to steal the light. The moon, the stars, the upper glow all tossed away upon the wind. The thundering beat begins a passion play within the nearest human breasts.

Imperceptibly, unobtrusively and inexorably the waters claim the beach.

The surge begins.

A falling tide declines to fall. A rising tide devours all. The break is breached and tossed another dozen feet upon the shore. It won't be still though even there. The storm has its own desire, its own appetite. Foot by foot the bubbling swirling mass reclaims the nuts tossed up from darkest Africa, the plastic trash from Chinese ships, the shells so expertly plucked of former lives by gulls. The flotsam of yesterday once anchored in the sand is now again jettisoned from beach and joins the boiling mass. Another foot the ocean claims as its.

The howling sounds of wind through wires and deckside rails strengthens by the turn of hands upon the walls.

I feel it in my chest. I feel it in my head. A throbbing, wildly climbing frenzy; Ravel's inspiration surely for the madness held inside Bolero's crashing forward headlong dash. No demonic flash and ribald terrored power like the prairie storm and its echoes in Moussorgsky's Bald Mountain dance, but steady, steady, sure and swift. One more foot, one more mile per hour, one more star consumed, one more shell demolished, one more step toward insanity. Oh how the ladies must have screamed and ran in terror. How the stately gentlemen must have shaken in their boots; how many creamed their pants?

I felt it starting, perhaps it fed off me. I patted Daisy's head and went outside and wrestled surfboards from rail to safety on the deck before they could not be wrestled any more. I stood and faced the wind. Could it and spume within its embrace scrub my thoughts away? Could I be purged of guilt again? Could I find solace here?

Daisy stood beside me, pawing at my foot and whining that I come in.

I stood as on my hillock; bare and exposed, but no master of my domain. I stood and shivered deep within my bones. How had he claimed my bed, my dog, my heart, my very soul, the essence of my being and I would return him debauched innocence? Come surge, pull me in, take me to your breast. He deserves far better than I now thought for him. I hung my head and watched the waters rise.

My past, my fear, my shame and Oscar Wilde's demented chorus echoed in my mind:

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you—ah! what else had I a boy to do,—

For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue.

Rudderless, (I) drift athwart a tempest, and when once the storm of youth is past,

Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death a silent pilot comes at last.

Yet there was the matter of the promise. The promise that I had freely given, he had eagerly consumed. I could not disappear. I was his, here was his, all was his and I must make that true.

I slumped to the deck and Daisy leaned into me. Desire barely beaten off, I sat exhausted as the waters of the sky joined the waters advancing on the beach.

Somewhere in the night a nose even colder than my flesh and a small hand pulling at my larger hand roused me from the stupor.

"Come to bed Nick, it's cold. I'm cold."

The softness of the warmth inside my fingers raised me from the deck, yet like an automatic reflex my arms kept raising up and suddenly the warmth was pressed against my chest, around my neck and shoulders and nuzzling under my chin. The wonder of the scent of him refilled my brain, recharged my clumsy synapses and reenergized my legs. I turned and walked into the house. The floor was wet where I had left the patio door open, Daisy dragged her blanket on the spot and woofed a little woof to tell me it was okay to close the door. She nudged me toward the bedroom.

I grabbed the towel inside the bath and quickly patted my tender burden's back. He stirred and nuzzled more against me. I used one hand to dry at my hair and try to get my back. He mewled a little in my ear. Not a complaint, but like a kitten telling mother cat that all is well and all is safe and all is faintly happy.

I laid him in the bed and crawled in beside him once again. He didn't give me a chance to gaze at his sleeping beauty. Like some hidden homing gene had been activated by the chill he squirmed over still asleep and climbed atop my chest. The weight was non existent. The warmth from him to me was like a raging fire. I pulled it deep into myself. His eyes fluttered open and he looked into my soul. One slender hand reached down between our bodies and rearranged my rock hard dick between his legs, then moved up and rearranged his own against my stomach. I almost blanched and ran from underneath him.

He smiled so deep and whispered, "It's okay, you love me." His eyes closed and I felt the peace of sleep.

He was right, the tempest wrong: it was okay, I loved him!

It was more than okay, it was fantastic...

Because he loved me too.

Dawn failed to dawn that morning. At least it failed to break, or maybe it was really broken; how could one tell for sure? Anyway the clock said late, the light levels said real early. The non existent weight against my chest had disappeared. Coffee smells were wafting from the kitchen though, so I stumbled from my bed and managed to somehow find my way from bath to the front room. I'd no sooner stepped out of the bedroom than I was attacked by climbing arms and legs and nuzzling cheeks and happy giggling boyflesh. What a way to wake. The scent of him, the aroma of coffee, the warmth of both anticipated inside and out. I hugged him close to me as I made the final steps into the kitchen. The coffee was poured, the cup perfectly mixed with a little cream and just a touch of sugar. He had seen me make it once and remembered every facet!

Boy in one hand, coffee in the other, I walked back to the front windows and looked out on the gathered storm. High tide was to be mid morning, just now, but this was no tide. This was the storm in splendid glory. The breakers rolled up fifty feet of beach and tickled at the base of steps down from the deck. The glass was slightly fogged with salt spray. The rain had passed, the winds had not and as they whipped across the foaming waves they shredded bubbles in mid air.

"Its awesome!" Cam barely whispered in my ear.

"Its magnificent," I said. I pushed aside the door and stepped into the fray. The wind whipped his hair out from his head and grabbed his laughing giggles and flung them headlong against the house. He squirmed to get down and ran out to the rail. He climbed up on the inner rail and leaned his head out in the wind, like Daisy in the car. He shook and screamed his pleasure at the sensations pummeling his body.

He turned and laughed a yell to me, "Its like surfing on dry land! I almost feel as if I'll fly away!" He stood and faced the wind with all his might, his arms raised, hands pointed at the sky. Had he any of the Krypton race within him, he would have indeed been flying.

I shivered in the wind and soon he bounced down and once again climbed up against my chest. We turned and Daisy looked at us from safe and warm inside as if we were utter idiots. I brought him in and dropped him in the chair. He laughing fell out and wrestled her on the blanket. They lay almost caressing each other as I refilled my cup.

Then bouncing up as if a spring exploded he was in the kitchen rummaging in the fridge. Eggs came out and bacon too, and soon the counter top held onion, mushrooms, cheese. "Let's make an omelette? Please????" He batted unnecessary lashes in my direction. "I saw them on TV, but I never ever had one!"

I laughed and tousled his damp hair and headed for the dark room. I returned with a step stool and soon he was chopping mushrooms and onions and stirring eggs a bubble with life's mysteries. I know we talked of which came first, and how I knew these mushrooms wouldn't kill us, and why the onion made him want to cry even though he wasn't sad, and how the yoke stayed separate from the white, and why a shell was the best thing to use to get shell out of eggs, and when would the cheese go in, and how did I know to flip them over, and when did I learn to toss them like that, and how many eggs could he eat, and would Daisy like some too, and a thousand other questions and observations I had never considered in the making of a simple omelette breakfast. The kitchen fairly rang between his giggles, laughs and wondered ooohs and excited chatter. The morning flew away.

Once eggs had been devoured the dishes seemed to disappear and once again I marveled at his approach to cleaning up. It was just a thing to do and do it now and get it done seemed the best way to get it out of the way. I laughed that my own son I bet hadn't washed a dish until he had gotten married! Cam had them in the sink and done and rinsed before I got up from the table. The counter too was clean, the left over ingredients quickly cleared away.

Then I was being dragged back to the big chair, pushed down and handed one of the books I'd not been able to part with. "Read me a pirate story?" Cam pleaded as he climbed into my lap. I chuckled that he'd used his time well before I woke. Robert Louis Stevenson's classic Treasure Island was pirate story par excellence.

I read the classic tale. Cam snuggled deep within my enclosing arms. The marvelous illustrations by N C Wyeth seemed to fire the boy's imagination as much as the thrilling tale. And yet, soon the deep and peaceful breathing in my lap told me he had fallen asleep. I held him close against my heart and set the book beside the chair. My now free hand was demanded on Daisy's neck. We all slept the storm away.

"Hey Grommet!" was the call and suddenly I was alone and all the energy of boy and dog were bouncing on the deck. The tide had backed itself away, the storm blown out, the light of day was streaming on the sands. No care had Cam for shorts or shoes, his sparking eyes pleaded excuse to run down to the break. I laughed and barely nodded my consent when flying like the Superboy he launched from off the rail. Daisy, somewhat more dignified, raced down the steps only to collide with fissionable energy as she swelled the count to five. Racing out of clothes and out of sandals too, Jim and Corey, Cam and Bri and Daisy beat the surf in its retreat. They splashed the ocean's foam against the air and spun the light in dancing hair and claimed all beauty as their share of life and joy compleat. I watched as frolic turned to industry and soon, amazing just above the break, a castle did appear. They worked in concert with each other, tide was beaten, each a brother to the battlements they raised. Soft sand, soft hands, soft voices in a thrilling whisper built the towers ever higher. When they stopped their shining golden skins were scattered on the sands and stillness left them with their thoughts of princes, pirates, dragons, kings and I watched daydreams blossom on the strand. Maxfield Parrish must have seen a boy, a castle, a beach between to paint his magic art. Dorothea Mann must have known it too to capture purity so completely from the start

O BEAUTEOUS boy a-dream, what visions sought

Of pictures magical thy eyes unfold,

What triumphs of celestial wonders wrought,

What marvels from a breath of beauty rolled!

Skyward and seaward on the clouds are scrolled,

A mystic imagery of castled thought,

A thousand worlds to lose,—or win and mould—

A radiant iridescence swiftly caught

Of ever-changing glory, fancy-fraught.

Dorothea Lawrence Mann

Suggested by Maxfield Parrish’s “Air Castles”

Then like a shimmering mirage upon the desert sands, Cam rose and walked toward me, an offering in his hands. His smile a million times brighter than the sun; he breathless stood in front of me and voice filled with awe he looked from hands to eyes and said, "I found an angel's wings."

He had indeed and so had I and as I picked him from the beach and held him to my chest I nuzzled nose into his ear and whispered, "Yes, an angel left them here for you to find and me to always cherish."