Other stories on Nifty by J.T.S.Teller.
Boys can be lovers, too.
Jimmy the Love Virus.
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(From reminiscences with a valued friend.)
By John T. S. Teller.
Its early summer. An English early summer. Warm enough to wear just a dark grey dress shirt and mid-blue tie, and dark-grey slacks, and well-polished black shoes. It's the beginning of a Saturday-night-and-I've-just-got-paid, as I lounge against a cycle shop window by the traffic-lights on the corner of a crossroads, with a couple of my pals, discussing where we will go for the night's entertainment. Dancing or the boozer; or the boozer and dancing? A difficult choice. I turn, and check my reflected appearance in the shop window. I look fine. A good looker.
Twenty, I am; blond hair styled like James Dean. The blond hair goes well with my blue eyes. Maybe I can pull tonight? I rarely have a problem with the laydeees. The guys are laughing at me because I'm so vain. I don't mind. We give each other shit about everything. I tell them to `fuck off', and press my fingers lightly on my hair to ease out a slight imperfection. And then I turn away from the window.
The traffic lights change to red, and a car pulls up. It's no more than a couple of yards from me. And then it happens.
He looks at me through the side window of the car. His face comes within my vision as a cursory glance, and then I have to do a double-take. Something inside my head or my heart makes me do it.
Puppy-eyes stare at me through the side window. Brown; glistening; puppy-eyes. Dark brown hair; a beautiful, slightly inverted nose set above full, sexy lips. It must be warm in the car because He's wearing a thin, white cotton shirt that's open a number of buttons, and His slim neck and half-revealed collar bones are visible. And I fall in love with a small boy who is no more than twelve-years-old.
Our eyes are locked in recognition of a shared something. It screams out from His beauty, and echoes in the depths of my soul, and my own soul replies with the same encrypted language: the language-of-love.
His eyes narrow, and become frantic. Mine do, too. My lover is trapped in the jail of His parent's car, and I'm trapped in the company of my pals. He wants to come to me; I want to hold Him tightly. His left hand comes to the side window, and His fingernails scratch at the glass that separates us. And then His brain begins to work, and, frantically, He lowers the window. And now He smiles, and the face that was beautiful, becomes erotically gorgeous as we stare into each other's eyes. I can feel His love envelop me in a red hot glow, and I breathe deeply, and send every wisp of my own love back to Him.
The traffic lights change to green, and the car begins to pull away. He is frantic. I am frantic. He hangs his head out of the window, and stares back at me, and then He twists in the car and stares at me through the rear window. Twenty Yards. Fifty yards. One hundred yards. And the car and He disappear over the brow of the hill.
He is gone: forever.
On the occasion of my 70th birthday, my family are gathered around me. I propose a toast: To love!
I smile a wry smile as I raise my glass, and they raise theirs.
Puppy-eyes stare at me through the side window. Brown; glistening; puppy-eyes. Dark brown hair; a beautiful, slightly inverted nose set above full, sexy lips. He's wearing a thin, white cotton shirt that's open a number of buttons, and His slim neck and half-revealed collar bones are visible. And I fall in love with a small boy who is no more than ten-years-old.
Silently, I propose my own toast: To Him! He will be sixty now? Will He still remember me - the now upright citizen, but secret lover of boys? I still remember Him, and the beautiful love we shared for a minuscule boy-moment in the history of time.