SYNOPSIS

Dr. Helen Hart, a psychotherapist whose 13-year-old son suicided, formed HELP (Homosexual Enriched Life Partnership) as a support program for suicidal gay boys.

 Eleven-year-old Brady Singer had been attracted to hunky white men for a year when he was outed by his team mates at a regional swim meet. After the rumor spread through his team and school, Brady attempted to hang himself.

HELP comes to Brady's rescue, a week after his `incident.' Although his parents resist strongly, Dr. Hart introduces Brady to Jacques (Jack) Broche. He's a gourmet chef, chunky not hunky. He carefully feeds his love of boys from afar, yet he's so ashamed that he also attempts suicide.

Jack and Brady meet, and the next few days pass in a whirlwind, both man and boy thriving as a relationship develops. Modern society would call the relationship abusive, yet Brady is in love every bit as much as Jack.

If you want a quick thrill, put this story aside until you mature as reader. Read on and you'll discover the trials and tribulations of growing up gay, from kisses, tickles, and giggles to ecstatic groans as Brady experiences a man's love, eventually joining in that inevitable inimitable way. Suicide is the farthest thing in their minds after they become part of a wonderful embracing community.

SYMPTOMS OF MIND CONTROL.

Unfortunately, you can't donate to HELP. If it existed, its real identity would be a closely guarded secret in today's two-faced society. However, you can donate to NIFTY. At least for a while, you'll help like-minded men and boys. Be aware you are an oppressed minority with NO legal protection. `Woke' forces are gathering, the initial goal to eliminate your freedom to think and freedom of speech, and then, to eliminate you.

Likely, some of those `woke' voices seeking to eliminate you, also read stories on Nifty. Hypocrisy, like ignorance, knows no bounds in today's society. Denying freedom of thought/speech to those who would read this story is symptomatic of greater oppression and mind control. If you know history, you'll realize that gay, lesbian, bi, trans... are also at risk.

WARNING

For legal reasons, the NIFTY website carries a warning about access to stories by MINORS, or in the company of MINORS—no one wants impressionable boys reading stories and using imagination. Instead, they visit adult porn sites, meet adults online, and contemplate suicide.

FACT OR REALISTIC FICTION

Written in 2017-18, HELP is not biographical. That said, a year earlier I had autographed three books, a birthday present for a 12-year-old boy. As we chatted about the books, his proud father stood nearby, attentive, and to my eyes, possessive. I was never more certain of a kindred spirit—his son was without equal, a Scandinavian Adonis; charming, athletic, exuding gay. A year later, the father committed suicide, the reason withheld.

Authenticity and artistic license create realistic fiction. Some readers might be upset or distracted by the abundance of factual material; however, it is there for a reason. Youth suicide is real. If HELP saves just one life, it justifies itself. Too many gay boys die in a woke society that says while `all genders are good'; men and boys cannot love each other.

While an explicit homosexual theme might not be suitable for under-aged readers, if HELP gives hope and reassurance to troubled gay youths, that is a good thing. Perhaps if their parents read it, too, they might realize what is best for their sons runs counter to society's mandates.

This story concerns the 'love that dares not speak its name' in the 21st century. The ancient Greeks celebrated pederasty, and accepted homosexuality, yet just last century, western society imprisoned men for doing what comes naturally to our species. Today, homosexuality is accepted, with the proviso that boys only like boys; and men only like men. The underlying presumption is homosexuals must mutually `age' in interest to make a relationship socially acceptable. However, the history of humanity clearly demonstrates that such thinking is not only constipated, it is flat-out wrong. The truth: humans vary in their proclivities and their partners' desired maturities—some men find boys desirable, and some boys find men desirable.

The sexual urges of gay boys are as real and powerful as those of men. Most young homosexuals find satisfaction with age-mates; a few seek out younger boys; yet others dream of older partners. Nifty has served these boys for over two decades, yet that will soon end.

Adult-attracted boys risk everything to find happiness; or frustrated and frightened, they resort to suicide. The cause is a hypocritical world with no solution to a very real problem. An alternate view, shocking in its import, is our righteous society intends to sit idly by as young homosexuals kill themselves, while pretending to `help' them. Frankly, I'm tired of hypocrites deciding what is right and wrong, moral and immoral, natural and unnatural.

IN APPRECIATION

Every so often, a writer finds someone who is editor, advisor, and reviewer; a friend whose suggestions go far beyond mere criticism. Such a person is vital to creative endeavor, both stimulating and challenging. With such a big role in developing a story that he should get equal credit.

Thank you, Frank.

Also, a special thank you to MC VT, another Nifty writer, who spent long hours dissecting early drafts, and greatly enhancing the story with his insightful assessments. He set such a high bar that I sought other (easier) projects, only now returning to finish what I started five years ago.

CHARACTERS

 

Brady Singer

Brady is yet another kid named after New England Patriot, Tom Brady. He has short straight silver-blond hair with a cowlick in front—he's nicknamed Tintin because it sticks up (a quiff). Needless to say, he suffers taunts. Bee-stung lips, big blue eyes, and being the smallest kid in his grade don't help. He compensates for his looks and small stature by rigorous triathlon training. This kid is a dynamo at 65 lbs and 53 inches!

At eleven, Brady is just starting puberty, yet already he secretly looks at triathlon magazines to fuel his dreams about his swim coach—he swims with the YMCA Barracudas. Despite his buff appearance, he is shy with low self-esteem. In an era of woke rejection and in-class-participation, he's a B-average student.

Victimized for his homosexuality, Brady attempts suicide by hanging himself.

Jack Broche

Jack (Jacques) is 43. Being of French extraction, he has short brown hair, receding hairline, smooth shaven, brown eyes. He is overweight at 74 inches and 235 lbs, single, funny, superficially gregarious, and a gourmet chef with an exclusive restaurant (Garçon À Votre Service), three books, and a cable TV cooking show, Chez Votre Garçon. Since his staff are largely young effete men, everyone assumes he is gay. However, he lives a secret life, lonely and ogling boys from afar. Unable to touch, he is miserable, his depression is often so great that his Brittany Spaniel, Boy, won't leave his side.

He lives in a small Victorian-style carriage house, and drives a 2012 green Jaguar XKR, which Brady adores.

 

Julie and Ted Singer

Brady's mother is a discouraged nurse at a local nursing home. His father is a salesman for woodworking tools, more interested in his furniture projects in his workshop-basement than his job, or raising his son. The Singers were in their mid-40s when Brady was born. Julie went off the pill, thinking she'd reached menopause. They live in a small two-story wood-framed house, with part of the second floor turned into an apartment for Brady's paternal grandmother, Nancy.

Nancy Singer

Grandmother, devoted confidant and cheerleader, Nancy is the understanding foundation in Brady's life.

Helen Hart, PhD

Dr. Hart is a psychotherapist. After her 13-year-old son, Shane, commits suicide, she starts a second doctorate in neuroscience and begins doing research in early adolescent psychosexual development. Realizing the profound issues underlying youth suicide can be addressed by other means, she forms HELP.

Her inherited farm/converted barn near Boothbay Harbor, Maine, provides a getaway for HELP partners, with horse riding, camping out, fishing, sailing, canoeing, and privacy.

Shane Hart

Shane died at 13 years old. From age 10, he was attracted to black men, documenting his turmoil using an app on his iPhone.

His school soccer coach, Ruhiu Ndung'u (Rye) a Kenyan, groomed the moody 12-year-old, sexually abusing him while leading him on. After preaching faithfulness, he made Shane practice oral and anal sex with a cucumber. Shane was beyond puppy love when he lost his virginity in a three-way with his coach and a high school student. Disillusioned, he rode his bike into a delivery truck.

Andy.

Aged 24, Andy is a Psychology graduate student, who attempted suicide after his father killed himself. He joins HELP as a graduate assistant-instructor. His father's `every time, everything in moderation' approach to homosexuality becomes the HELP doctrine.

Professor Tony Thrall.

Assistant Professor Thrall is a stereotypical ivory-tower-liberal always attired in pressed slacks, bowtie, and baize sports jacket. Dr. Hart was a guest lecturer in his Intro to Psychology class. Thrall found her presentation uninspiring, yet later, he has his department head assign him to HELP for community service.

Jeff Trent and Dr. Peter Proctor.

In love with his father at age 12, Jeff, overdosed on over-the-counter aspirin. He was HELP's first `success.' He is nearly 16, and has his parents' consent to marry his partner.

Peter Proctor is a family-practice doctor. A boy lover in the middle of a midlife crisis, he plays a key role in identifying and supporting troubled youth.

Mary Trent, is Jeff's sister, and Dr. Hart's graduate assistant.

Garrett Carter and BJ.

Garrett is small for his age. He's gay and gorgeous, hair dyed blond with green-eyes. He is uninhibited and sexually overt. When Garrett is in his bedroom supposedly playing Wii, he chats with men on videocam. One of them sent him a dildo for his birthday. He was eleven years and two days old, when his mom walked in on him. That night, he overdosed on his mom's Vicodin, 11 pills, one for each year of his life. He has been in HELP PT for 21 months.

At 35, BJ is a very successful investment manager.

Tyler Roberts and Rick.

Tyler is 12. Long wavy brown hair, blue eyes, good looking. He is an accomplished drummer and electric organist. His school music teacher suggested he start a garage band. From the outset, Tyler was sexually active with him. After he came out to the band, he received an email booting him off. When he calls his music teacher, he learns he's been arrested. In the garage, he plays the organ and attempts suicide by inhaling gasoline fumes. He is saved by Rick, his little brother's baseball coach. Tyler has been in HELP PT for seven months when Brady joins.

Rick is 38. He wears glasses and he's balding under his baseball cap. He is Harvard educated, a city planner. He's also a fitness fanatic.

Calvin and Keith.

Calvin is just 12, the fifth of seven children. He's overweight with a marine-buzz blond. He has a crude sense of humor for a Catholic altar boy. Aged nine, he was abused by a priest at St. Ignatius. His guilt drove him to drink a quart of pure ethanol. He has been in HELP PT for three months.

Keith is a retired US Army master sergeant, now paramedic. He attended at Calvin's attempted suicide.

 

 

 

 

 

HELP

 

Episode 1: Thursday Morning, October 25^th

 

Introduction to Human Psychology (Psych 101), with Assistant Professor Thrall, met on Tuesdays and Thursdays, 10:00 thru 11:00 am in Erikson Hall, Room 164. At 10:05, it was time to get their attention.

Thrall boomed through the speakers. "Good morning all!"

To the students sitting close enough to notice, he seemed bothered as he looked around the auditorium. There was no getting past that morning's attendance. Normally packed, freshman students occupied only half of the 340 seats. The course syllabus was responsible –Thrall's quizzes, two thirds of the final grade, never covered guest lecturers, just the textbook, Psychology and You: A Millennial View (by Anthony J. Thrall, Ph.D.)

"Settle down please. We need to get started."

Positive student evaluations were crucial for a second reappointment, which was why one-third of the grade was `Interaction'; in-class participation, and using social media to discuss issues outside class. Professor Tony Thrall was a Facebook fanatic.

"I'd like to introduce today's guest lecturer, who will talk about her research in psychology."

As important as it was for his generation to `relate' to its younger members, keeping an appropriate distance was essential. Thrall dressed appropriately; always pressed slacks, pastel-blue shirt, polka-dot bowtie, and baize sports jacket. Not only professorial, everyone knew he was Ivy League. Members of that august group seldom hired their own graduates, so he had to be brilliant, and cutting edge.

"First, some ground rules," he continued, sporadically holding up fingers as needed. "As you know, all my classes use what I call `Socratic learning.' I expect social thinking and active participation. Raise issues, share ideas, and comment as you see fit. It's okay to express your emotions; they make us human. Remember value judgements reflect your values only. Be careful in your choice of words. You do not learn by offending other students."

Thrall beckoned to his guest. "Please welcome Professor Helen Hart. Doctor Hart is also a graduate of our esteemed university with a Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology. She is also undertaking doctoral research in Neuroscience based on her current focus, adolescent psychosexual development. She is widely published with over 30 papers in leading journals. Her current research is undertaken in conjunction with the Hartmann Institute, with grants totaling over $7 million."

As introductions went, it was brief; curtailed because the previous class, Freshman Mathematics, had stayed to the very last moment.

 Dr. Helen Hart slipped her son's iPhone into her jacket pocket before she shook hands with Thrall. She stepped up to the lectern, soothed her allergy-ravaged throat with a cough lozenge, and began.

 "Good morning! As part of your ongoing study of human psychology, I'm supposed to talk about the role of research generally, and I will; however, I'm primarily going talk about applying my research to real problems. Hopefully, you will learn something about psychology along the way."

She caught Thrall's cautious eye, more suspicious than curious. Guest lecturers brought perspective, not academic knowledge.

"My research involves something all of you remember with great affection, the turmoil of adolescence. Just holding hands with someone other than my parents was a major step for me. It is for most kids. Hickeys from finally getting to first base? Yes, I had those, too. I'm sure some of you even experienced the excitement of home runs before you started high school. Did you know about ten percent of kids have intercourse before they turn 13? However, I'm not here to talk about batting averages."

Dr. Hart waited for snickers, murmurs, and a few groans to die down. Concealed by the lectern, she risked another quick look at her son's iPhone. May 24^th, 2015. She knew his last words by heart, the last image of her son seared in her mind. Her face flushed as she scrutinized the screen, hazy with scratches. One click took her to Shane's zany sense of humor, and a cucumber, May 23^rd 2015.

It took what was left of 30 seconds to order her thoughts.

"We can laugh about it now; however, adolescence really is a difficult time of life. The proof, a disturbingly high percentage of adolescents attempt suicide. Too many succeed, as much as a third of all suicide attempts."

She exhaled, hesitated, inhaled again. That damned cucumber was always front and center, impossibly wide! Her beautiful 13-year-old son pretended he was straight; instead, he was in his bedroom, trying to stretch his ass, doing what a gay boy needed to do to get his home run.

"Not just teenagers. Suicide is the fourth leading cause of death among preteens, 11- and 12-year-olds. I guarantee many of you contemplated suicide before you arrived here; some of you have taken steps; a few have tried it."

A quick glance around; she had their attention, more or less.

"Let's look at the phases preceding suicide."

Dr. Hart pressed the primary audio-visual control button. The lights dimmed and a high-powered projector came to life on the screen overhead, a bar chart of the stages of suicide, male and female.

"Ideally, we should discuss the progression from ideation, to planning, to attempting the chosen method; however, we don't have time for it today. I do want you to note how many attempts go untreated medically. About two thirds are non-life-threatening. We'll get to the successful attempts shortly."

Dr. Hart gestured at the audience as she walked the stage.

"Let's imagine that all of you are adolescents, about one in six will think about it."

At the end of the dais, she indicated the left section, 20-odd rows stretching into the gloomy rear of the auditorium.

"All of you are thinking about it. One in nine think about it a lot. That's dangerous territory. One in nine is about halfway back. How many actually attempt it?

"One person is too many."

It came from a haggard face in the third row. Long unkempt hair, tatty down-insulated vest; she knew the type. Bright, anguished, depressed, likely a broken home, early 20s and still in identity-crisis mode. Possibly a graduate student--she'd recognized three doctoral students as she entered the auditorium.

She gestured again, wondering if he was `conflicted' enough to try suicide again.

"The latest research says seven percent will attempt it! One in 14, so the first four rows since they are mostly unoccupied. As you can see, adolescent girls attempt suicide more than boys."

She switched to the next chart. There had been a time when she enjoyed teaching. Now, charts were crutches to avoid interacting.

"Suicide rates for 10-thru-19-year-old males and females. Incidentally, suicides by young people have increased dramatically since this data."

"Dr. Hart, I apologize for interrupting," Thrall began.

She stiffened, turning to see what he wanted. Black-rimmed glasses, trimmed beard, and swept-back black hair, Thrall was good-looking for an Ashkenazi.

"My syllabus encourages students to make observations about data," he explained. "This is too good an opportunity to pass up."

"The increase begins at puberty, and way more boys than girls," someone said after prolonged silence.

His point made, Thrall indicated for Dr. Hart to follow up.

"Boys succeed at twice the girls' rate initially, and then at an accelerating rate. Why is that?"

She scanned the auditorium, waiting for the haggard face—if anyone understood, she was certain it would be him. Their eyes met momentarily. Sullen, yet thoughtful like a graduate student should be, likely still dealing with the aftermath, definitely not an easy kid to raise. Having him in a graduate class would be difficult.

"For most girls, attempting suicide is a gesture." She quickly explained. "It's their way of signaling problems. Girls are also arguably more vulnerable, and they spend a lot of time on social media, which is where the idea usually manifests."

Nowadays, Dr. Hart tolerated graduate students; she loathed teaching undergraduates, especially women. Only months out of high school, their first year in college was a reprise of senior year. They arrived preprogrammed with impeccable test scores, outspoken, searching for inequity, real or perceived, their intellectual curiosity about zero. And fresh 'men' were no different, a constantly critical conditioned minority, like most black students. Pavlov-brains, she'd called them in a faculty meeting, almost no critical thinkers.

"For boys, suicide is not a gesture," she continued. "They seldom share the precipitating causes, even with their closest friends. Sadly, taking their own lives is often the only option. If the data are accurate, most choose suffocation, usually by hanging, or poisoning-slash-drug overdoses, with self-inflicted gunshots as the runner-up. However, there are problems with the data."

"Who's to know it was suicide?"

She inclined her head; `was,' not `is.' Apparently, he wasn't into raising his hand, and she hadn't seen him speak, yet it was the same voice.

"Scared, lonely, hating himself, a 12-year-old boy pops his mom's Vicodin pills, or he inhales gasoline fumes in the garage, or he drinks a quart of pure ethanol. He's so ashamed, he doesn't leave a note."

She fixed her gaze on a group of seemingly uninterested women, pegging them as rich-kid girls.

"Imagine drinking a whole bottle of vodka at age 12. The Russian standard is 40 percent alcohol. This 12-year-old drank 750 milliliters of 94 percent. It burned its way down his throat. He kept drinking even though he retched violently. His esophagus was in agony, yet nothing came out. Within moments, he couldn't stand up. He broke his collar bone falling down. His stomach spasms were so strong there was internal bleeding. God only knows how he drank all of it."

She paused to let it sink in.

"Accidental drug overdose or planned escape? Without a note, who's to know? As bad as an O-D is, it's more socially acceptable than suicide. Especially for those kids whose reason to suicide is socially unacceptable."

She caught the nod. `Haggard Face' had been there; an O-D survivor, perhaps still taking antidepressants. If Shane had survived, he'd be in high school, a junior, already looking at colleges. He always talked about becoming a doctor. She pushed the thought back. The last thing she wanted was to bring back those memories.

"There are factors common to both girls' and boys' suicides," she went on. "Depression, social pressures, social media, substance abuse, victimization; those are the most common; however, there's almost always an underlying problem. Anyone want to take a stab?"

"The gay factor."

She nodded at the face in the third row. Shane had been lanky with dark curly hair, a lot like him.

"My 13-year-old son died three years ago when his bike collided with a delivery truck."

She watched faces, always the same mix of sympathy, indifference, and morbid nosiness—those students with cellphones now lit up, googling her name.

 "I didn't realize what really happened until a month afterwards when I found his diary app on his iPhone. Please don't think I'm being melodramatic. My happy-go-lucky kid was gay. He kept it so well hidden it was the last thing I expected. Not my kid; he got straight-As, played soccer, was a promising violinist, and he gave great hugs. I won't go into the details; however, his death wasn't an accident."

`Haggard Face' looked increasingly forlorn. She'd seen the same face on parents years after a child committed suicide.

"The suicide rate for early-teen boys is estimated at about 1.4 per 100,000 people in the U.S. It doesn't sound like very many, does it? It's 4,500 boys! I have a friend at Boston U who found her 14-year-old son asleep on his bed in the middle of the day; until she saw bloody hair and red splatters on his Red Sox pillow. A day earlier, a substitute teacher saw his selfies on his iPhone and reported it to the principal."

Dr. Hart paused, already hoarse and sucking on the lozenge. Shane had kept a meticulous record of observations, innermost desires, and growing fears; something that no parent, bereaved or otherwise, should have to read and try to understand. She'd dissected it day by day, finally realizing how much her son had struggled, silent misery since he turned eleven. Back then, his iPhone was `the best present ever.'

"Over 25 percent of adolescent suicides are gay and bisexual boys. Largely because of my son's death, my research focuses specifically on the formative stage of homosexual identity, when desire first confronts social rejection," Dr. Hart said as unemotionally as she could manage.

Even at eleven years old, her son's mind was churning, already ogling what he wanted most of all, desire emerging, and a social outcast; it was disheartening to think about.

"Suicide kills more young homosexuals than AIDS; more than car wrecks. It gets worse. Let's assume you are all middle schoolers, all budding homosexuals." She pointed left and right. "Both sides of the auditorium, 37 percent of you, will attempt suicide! If we were talking about transgendered kids, it's nearly 50 percent."

 Deep breath and exhale. For Dr. Hart, the sharing, not the breath, not the words, was purifying, purgative, too. It freed her mind of Shane's torment, her failure to recognize and intervene.

"For the last three years, I've explored the psychosexual nature of male adolescence, specifically homosexuality beginning at the onset of puberty," she began, again. "I'm going to give you a brief overview, and then discuss clinical approaches. I hope you aren't easily offended."

Professor Thrall shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. Likely, he was antsy about something she'd said, or he abhorred the frank discussion of any sexual aberration. With a kind of cruel pleasure, she continued.

"Typically, by age ten to eleven, a slight increase in luteinizing hormones causes a boy's testicles to begin to grow."

She'd last seen Shane naked when he had a fever of 103 degrees. She had bathed him with cold water; all of him. Such a beautiful lean body at eleven, completely hairless, yet the first signs of Tanner Stage Two were visible in two-cc testicles.

"Within a year, his testicles have fully descended and are big enough to produce the testosterone needed for both primary and secondary physical changes."

 Old-fashioned, she preferred chalk and blackboard over erasable marker and whiteboard; however, there wasn't a choice in Room 164. Big black letters and relationship arrows soon covered the center panel. `Hypothalamus, GnRH, pituitary, LH, FSH, testes, testosterone.' She underlined `testosterone.'

"We tend to blame testosterone for most male issues. Luteinizing hormones are equally important, inducing changes in a boy's brain before his testosterone increases. Over the next few years, there's a massive increase in his grey matter, which is gradually pruned out, and myelination. We're talking a lot of rewiring, my nontechnical explanation of some very complex interactions. Nowadays, you can't do research in psychology without a background in neuroscience."

A quick glance at the audience confirmed that most had no clue why knowing neuroscience was essential, or what she'd just finished saying.

"If you have questions, or don't understand something, please ask."

She waited in silence. Absently, she touched the cell phone in her jacket pocket, tempted to place it on the lectern. That way, she could monitor the remaining time.

"Only recently, we discovered the chemistry underlying the hormonal intensification of behavioral and emotional responses. Lutenizing hormones cause the sex urge to strengthen and fantasies to begin. That's a polite way of saying horniness elevates."

She took a breather for the muttering to end. Shane's emails confirmed sexual compulsion already existed on his eleventh birthday. Increasingly urgent, increasingly ashamed, increasingly terrified of discovery; no wonder her hypothesis became what it did.

"Intensification precedes cognitive development and coping capacity by at least a year or two. Part of my research deals with that delay. I suspect it contributes to the suicide impulse."

"That sounds like causation, Dr. Hart," Thrall chided.

"The post-hoc fallacy." Summarily dismissing him, she focused her gaze on the class. "Post hoc ergo propter hoc,' is Latin for `after this, therefore because of this.' The order of events does not mean one event caused its successor. Does man cause climate change, or sunspot cycles, or changing earth-core temperatures, or changing orbital exposure to cosmic rays? The data supports all four hypotheses, but only one cause is reported in the mass media. Anything else, you're a climate denier."

Her last statement would've provoked debate in her doctoral research symposium, the only class she taught nowadays. First year undergraduates were unprepared for college, not a single ruffled feather.

"My suspicion about the suicide impulse would be difficult to demonstrate statistically, not impossible," she continued. "Can someone tell me why is a delay in cognitive capacity is important for our adolescent male?"

She waited again, not very long. No answer would be forthcoming especially in an introductory course in psychology. Even the department head called Thrall's class `FTE fodder,' a bonus from the university's general education requirements.

"Basically, the brain develops back to front. Intellect and reason lag behind behavior and emotion, creating stress; sometimes great stress."

She surveyed the students before her, blank faces all, likely not listening because whatever she said wasn't going to be on a quiz. Some students appeared positively bored.

"If you pay attention, you might learn something."

Annoyed, Thrall interjected, "Perhaps an example might help, Dr. Hart."

She glared back. "Example? Okay; by age eleven, most boys have sexual fantasies and masturbate regularly..."

Shane masturbated, mostly in his bed at night, sometimes in the morning. She'd seen him doing it when she went in to say goodnight, or to wake him. His sheet or comforter fluttered, his breathing deep and slow, becoming fast and frantic.

"... Masturbation is normal, although it would bother a lot of parents if they knew how often."

No students laughed. Inhibitions still dominated a few months out of high school, and it wasn't that funny. A few times, she'd talked about it afterwards with Shane. She'd never asked what he was thinking about. It was the one thing she should've done.

"As to stress; although some boys will joke with their friends, most are usually very embarrassed. They avoid discussing it with adults. They also go to great lengths to hide the evidence."

`Haggard Face' smiled. There might've been others.

"It will take another year or two before a boy begins to reveal his sexual persona to the world around him, about the same time he is capable of actual ejaculation. The same testosterone that causes the formation of semen, and motivates its release greatly increases his sex drive and the intensity of his fantasies."

Fantasies, again! Once considered indicators of sexual deviance, it was unusual if fantasies didn't occur. They were never far away in Dr. Hart's research. Emerging with initial GnRH secretions, fantasies formed in the orbitofrontal cortex, primarily decision making, yet responsive to emotion and imagination.

 "My doctoral research in neuroscience hypothesizes that fantasies corroborate sexual identity, if not define it. Simply, you are what your fantasies say you are. They initiate arousal and are critical to post-arousal responses. When your fantasy ends, you reflect; that's the let-down feeling mixed with satisfaction. In the same vein, if the fantasy is something to be ashamed of, we experience guilt, sometimes massive guilt."

She resisted talking about Shane's fantasies. Revealed in his diary, they defined her son even as he defiled his body in ways that still haunted her.

 "Caught between pleasure and shame, Freud's Id and Ego, an adolescent boy conceals what is socially unacceptable. By the time he's in college, he'll be capable of the complex reasoning needed to assert his true identity. Until then, he's all pheromones and libido, a sweaty sex machine."

Perhaps a third of the class laughed. She smiled back, thinking `finally.' The rest laughed after she added `semen' and drew a large libidinous tadpole-like `sperm' on her diagram on the whiteboard.

"If sexual fantasies are the precursors to one's orientation, which is what my research suggests; what causes the fantasy. How does the fantasy affect the urge that comes with it, and the feelings afterwards?"

"In other words, what turns a guy gay," a male snickered from the rear of the auditorium.

Thrall half rose from his seat in the front row, turning side-on.

"When you're expressing your emotions, please remember an inappropriate choice of words can hurt others."

With a disparaging shrug, she stalked back to the lectern.

"Let's spend a few minutes talking about sexual orientation from the neuroscience perspective. The suprachiasmatic nucleus of gay men is twice the size of heterosexual men. The suprachiasmatic nucleus regulates circadian rhythms; that's the biological clock. It's evolved that way for a reason; we just don't know what it is, yet. Next, INAH-3, which is part of the anterior hypothalamus, is much larger in heterosexual men than in homosexual men and women, regardless of age. We know that INAH-3 is key to sexual behavior in animals. There are also differences in cerebral asymmetry and functional connectivity. A higher proportion of homosexual men are left-handed. They are also more creative, compared to heterosexual men, and women."

Surely, someone would counter. However, she had data to back up her statement. The difference was substantial and unequivocal.

"My point is not causation or consequence; however, one thing is clear; sexual orientation comes with unique biological differences. Based on that, a logical conclusion is homosexuality is not learned, or a matter of choice. It's genetic, or prenatal, or a combination of both."

Dr. Hart saw a hand raised in the gloom, yet she switched to the next image. She wasn't up for debating causation again.

"This is an MRI of a boy who's a year away from puberty. We'll call him John. Puberty is occurring earlier; John used to be twelve; now, he's ten. Freudian psychologists would say his sexuality is latent. Unless he's too inhibited, in reality he secretly masturbates with his friends because girls are `gross.'"

Surveying the room, young women predominated, not because males weren't as intelligent, in fact, just the opposite.

"When I was a girl, boys called it a `circle jerk.' Nothing has changed except the boys start younger... Adventurous boys went further; they called it `corn-holing,' and pretended they're practicing for girls."

She waited until the few snickers ended. For the longest while, she'd wondered why Shane hadn't `butt-fucked' with his buddies. He certainly knew about it, and he had many opportunities; however, there was no mention of doing it in his diary-app. Shared masturbation at sleepovers was likely, yet there were only a handful mentioned. She still remembered when she'd finally realized his attraction to `b-s', `black studs,' was all that counted. Only adult `b-c' aroused Shane, nothing else. `Black cock;' her son had hungered for it.

"There's a certain amount of guilt, unless they're attracted to guys," she added. "In which case, they're in hog-heaven for a couple of years."

"Don't drop the soap!" came from the right of the auditorium.

"Incendiary comments are not welcome in this class," Thrall interjected.

Dr. Hart took a breath. "Freud's psychosexual development defines latency from about age six to puberty, a period when psychologists believe sexual desire is dormant. The word, `latent' comes from Latin, the present participle of latēre, to lie hidden. Arguably, `latent' means `hidden,' not `dormant.' So, what happens during this `dormant' period?"

Again, she waited, long enough to start thinking about Shane. Thankfully, there hadn't been an autopsy.

"First, a preteen boy's sexuality isn't dormant; it's male-focused. John actively seeks companionship with men and older boys."

Thrall cleared his throat. She ignored him.

"Most psychologists don't want to talk about it; however, throughout history, man-boy and boy-boy sex play is just another life experience. Increasingly, the former is considered a very traumatic event. Why? Because, current social trends demand the end of male bonding, regardless of consequences."

Dr. Hart expected one of the `feminists' to interject. Instead, they muttered among themselves, none of them happy about some of her comments, or that she was limiting her lecture to homosexual males. She nodded at the closest cluster, hoping one of them would initiate a discussion about male dominance and child sexual abuse. Her perspective; it was overstated, misrepresented, and a world away from the real problem, bewildered boys lacking male affection and role models.

"It's the best thing that could happen to a gay boy."

Now, that turned heads in the first three rows. Even Thrall looked over his shoulder. Expressing emotions pertained to socially acceptable activities, not pedophilia.

She tugged on her right earlobe, looking right at the face in the third row, as much as saying she wanted to talk with him after the lecture. According to her research, it was true; for gay boys, prepubescence was paradise until things went wrong.

"Be careful with value judgements. They reflect only your values," Thrall warned.

"Sorry; I didn't realize I was making a value judgement."

She considered intervening, yet wavered. She'd already gone farther than she intended. Some of the women in the first few rows now whispered among themselves, brewing mutiny, likely a complaint to her department head, or the Dean. Stopping just short of advocating pederasty was far from acceptable in Ivy League academia, academic freedom notwithstanding.

"Moving along," she resumed, adding notes and brain parts to the whiteboard. "The front part of John's brain deals with memory, thought, and behavior, including his urge to masturbate. It's where he decides what's socially acceptable, and what's not. The frontal lobe predicts consequences of actions. The prefrontal-cortex, `pf-c,' mediates consequences with emotions and morality. As I said, the brain develops back to front, so the pf-c is the last part to mature. It's not that children don't have a functioning pf-c; it's incomplete, changing, and incapable of complex thought. The result..."

Dr. Hart let it hang until silence descended, the proverbial pin-drop.

"... John's sexual responsiveness knows few barriers."

She directed a laser dot to the pf-c target, zapping back and forth like a computer game. Again, no smiles; or if there were, she couldn't see them. For effect, she stopped abruptly and turned to the audience.

"What if I said my research indicates John's hypothalamus and prefrontal-cortex form the basis of his sexual orientation?"

She noticed a young woman nudge her neighbor to be quiet. Black slacks and white blouse on the attentive one, on the other, Rugby shirt and blue jeans lit up by the glow of a cell phone.

With a sigh, she returned to the whiteboard and spell out `prefrontal cortex' and `orbitofrontal cortex' with an arrow from `GnRH,' and connected them with a dotted line under `fantasy'.

"Fantasies begin with GnRH. We know that because when we treat adult paraphilia with a gonadotropin releasing hormone analogue, sexual fantasies diminish."

When no one asked, she took a deep breath. It bothered her that Professor Thrall looked as uninterested as his students.

"I should explain GnRH-analogues. They are modeled after GnRH, and have varying effects on the pituitary gonadotropins. Analogues treat infertility, some forms of cancer, and precocious puberty. For an adolescent boy or girl, it stops puberty in its tracks, a reset if you will. The same approach is now used to pause maturation for transgender kids." Dr. Hart stopped abruptly. "However, I digress."

She returned to the lectern, hoping no one picked up. For a long time, she'd theorized that a `reset' could've saved Shane by giving the rest of his brain time to develop, even though his sexual orientation was already in place. Reducing fantasies would make his homosexuality less impactful, less stressful, less depressing. Now, she had data to back up her theory.

"There's evidence to support the hypothesis that the pf-c largely forms our personality. You can't see it on John's MRI, but right now there's an increase in his pf-c neurons. The wiring, if you will, is in place for John to discover who and what he is, except there's a problem. Just about anything can create an identity crisis, including the fantasies that create identity."

Suddenly, Professor Thrall half-raised his hand. "Dr. Hart, I think this is a great chance to involve the class in discussion."

She scowled momentarily, deciding it was better not to dispute.

"Dialogue is always a good idea. Let's talk about adolescent identity. Any takers to identify what an identity crisis is?"

"Identity is what defines you," someone said from the darkness.

"There's different kinds, like social identity, and stuff."

It was an older woman in the front row who answered next.

"Two distinct parts form an adolescent's identity... The crisis part, that's when your values and roles are being reevaluated, and commitment, when you stick to a certain role or value."

She looked directly at Dr. Hart, out of place in a pleated white blouse, her hair in a bun, and oblong glasses. She was in her 30s, an unlikely Ivy-League freshman/first year student. She was also attentive; perhaps a visiting graduate student, or she was auditing the class. Either way, she came prepared—almost word for word from the textbook.

"My most recent paper in the American Journal of Adolescent Psychology concludes with the following..."

Dr. Hart read from her notes.

"`At the same time as homosexual identity consolidates, the young adolescent boy discovers the consequences of his sexual orientation. Any boy whose sexuality is in doubt experiences exclusion from social groups. It doesn't matter if he is actively homosexual. Compared to heterosexual boys, he is prone to fits of depression.'"

She looked at Thrall, getting zero response.

"I'm not talking teenage angst."

He nodded, minimal agreement given the crucial role of `angst' in his `millennial' theories.

"My paper ends with, "The resulting emotional crisis can induce suicidal thoughts.'"

Dr. Hart looked around the auditorium, catching a glimpse of `Haggard Face.' He had his cell phone out, looking down at it, not at her. Distracted, she switched to thinking about Shane. Every diary entry revealed a troubled mind, the collapse of confidence, and increasing fear, even as he went about preparing himself for sexual intercourse.

She cleared her throat—it was allergy season in Cambridge, MA.

"I know of one boy who `outed' himself to his band. The other members booted him off by text message the next morning. He inhaled gasoline fumes, enough to spend three days on life support and a week in critical care. He still has occasional spasms."

In shocked silence, someone murmured, "That sucks!"

 "To summarize, at a time when a boy is sexually curious, John is also confused and vulnerable. Some boys are more vulnerable for reasons we don't fully understand, or can't accept."

The most vulnerable boys were gender dysphoric, on the transgender track. After them, came boys like Shane; his sexual focus was socially objectionable. Worse, by the very nature of his desire, he also endangered the person he loved.

"If John's sexual orientation is to older males, the so-called latency period not only provides opportunities to meet prospective partners, it greatly amplifies his sexual urge. A boy's innermost fantasies can easily become real, very real. At the same time, he fears disclosure to his peers, his parents, his teachers, counselors, just about any one he meets..."

Dr. Hart took Shane's iPhone from her jacket pocket, checking the remaining time before placing it where she could see. She continued speaking as she scrolled through diary entries, months rushing past until Shane was 12. For no particular reason, she stopped on June 3^rd 2014. Shane's frankness bothered her, yet he'd never intended anyone to read it.

The face in the third row stared back with relentless intensity, even fixation. For a moment, she dwelled on Freudian fixation; it denoted persistent sexual traits, inconsistent across time; an anachronism like men loving boys.

"... John's sexual orientation threatens his very existence, so he hides, and lies constantly. At a time when he is desperate for social interaction, he worries about being perceived as different by others, or he's discovered and rejected. That garage-band musician I mentioned; he was in a relationship with his 36-year-old music teacher. I'm not here to debate morality; society deems the relationship wrong. However, the end of the relationship was the main reason why he tried to kill himself."

She backed away from the lectern. With today's biased juries, the June 3^rd entry alone was enough to send Shane's boyfriend to prison.

"... The parents of one of the band members reported what he'd said when he came out. The police got involved. The music teacher is currently serving a ten-year sentence. Since the incident, our promising musician has PTSD, suffers from acute depression, and has lost a year of school. Without the right intervention, there's a 50-50 chance he will attempt suicide again. He's 12 years old."

She stepped back from the lectern and folded her arms. Now, she had their attention.

"For those of you who are interested in a career in psychology; what are you going to do about thousands of adolescent boys who kill themselves every year because they can't deal with being gay?"

A tentative hand went up in the second row, a young woman with close-clipped hair and black-rimmed glasses.

"Increase their self-esteem."

Increasing self-esteem was the fad-answer to everything. Still, Dr. Hart nodded thoughtfully.

"How would you do that?"

"Um, for starters... Well, I'd institute a gay support program in middle school, assuming you're right about the age thing."

"Let's think about your idea. Twelve-year-old boys will self-select to hang out every Wednesday afternoon, share their stories, and come to grips with being homosexual. Problem solved."

Dr. Hart shook her head, mild disbelief at what purported to be education.

"We already have feel-good programs in middle school. As a broad generalization, they don't work for high-stress kids. Their primary value is for grief counseling."

"Everyone wants special treatment, gays especially," someone said.

"At the high school I went to, gay kids were treated the same as everyone else."

Yet another freshman woman, dressed for a fashion show, added, "Gays were on the sports teams; they went to dances; they did everything we did. No gays killed themselves that I know of."

"My school pandered to gays. It was all so artificial, and everyone knew it."

The older woman raised her hand. "I think you're all missing Professor Hart's point."

"Why don't you address it then?" a discordant voice called from the rear of the auditorium.

Dr. Hart gestured for the woman to respond before Thrall had a chance to take over the class.

"She just said some gay kids are more vulnerable for reasons we don't understand, or can't accept, so they hide it. They're never going to attend a support program."

"If you don't know who's susceptible to suicide, you can't intervene," Dr. Hart continued.

She looked around, wondering how many of the students appreciated the irony—a gay boy was a ticking time-bomb, some far more than others.

"Three years ago, I wanted to know why my son was so distressed he needed to kill himself. I was close enough to Shane to know he'd talk about what bothered him, unless it was something he was ashamed of, something he thought would be very upsetting to me."

Professor Thrall fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable with his guest lecturer introducing her personal issues to his class. Finally, he shook his head. Only then, Dr. Hart revised her opinion—reappointment wasn't warranted. His research was banal, angst and the role of stereotyping in prejudice. He needed to be teaching in a community college where his research was cutting edge.

"As I said earlier, my son's diary was very revealing. He wasn't attracted to white, middle-class boys in his peer group. While it's still problematic for a young teenager, it's not taboo."

Another cathartic. Another deep breath. She could feel their eyes on her, staring through semi-darkness. Thrall looked apoplectic.

"What is sexually taboo in the 21^st century?" she posed calmly. "Pedophilia, definitely; it's worse than bestiality. A lot of men kill themselves because of it."

She paused. People always exhibited revulsion when pedophilia came up for discussion. She could see it all around the auditorium.

"There are a few other `philia's' that come close; interracial relationships when they become sexual fetish; not much else. My son's boyfriend was a grown black man, think lifeguard type, what you might call 'hunky.' In his own words, `Black studs excite me; how weird is that?'"

Silence was shock and condemnation, not sympathy.

 "That's the reason my son killed himself; a scared white boy so ashamed about his desire for a hypersexualized black man that he had no alternative."

Thrall ahemed loudly. "Sometimes our choice of words reflects our emotions; and that's okay."

"I seek understanding, not acceptance," Dr. Hart said coldly.

The older woman put her hand up again. It was almost as if she knew Dr. Hart was on the edge.

"This is kind of related. My grandfather is in a nursing home, Professor Hart. A nurse there is a friend of mine. She almost lost her son ten days ago. He tried to hang himself. He's a sweet kid... I mean... I've met him several times when he comes to work with her. He always acts like there's something bottled up inside him. He doesn't seem like the kind to do it, though. He's really a sweet kid, just very shy."

The woman hesitated, finally deciding not to say the rest of it.

"Well, I'm sure there was a reason," Dr. Hart said.

Abruptly, Professor Thrall coughed, signaling `enough' or clearing his throat, it was impossible to tell. Still, she stared in his direction, an open-hand gesture inviting comment, not expecting anything useful.

"We're nearly out of time, Professor Hart. You can always continue the discussion on Facebook."

"Thank you for reminding me, Tony." She turned to the older woman. "If you want to talk about it, please see me outside. Let's use the remaining time to talk about clinical applications of my research..."

 

Episode 2: Thursday Morning, October 25^th

 

"Excuse me, Professor Hart. I'm sorry to bother you. Do you have a few moments to talk?"

Dr. Hart pivoted, still flustered from her brief debate with Professor Thrall after her lecture. He was up for reappointment at the end of the semester. Like most junior faculty, he focused on pedagogical outcomes and teaching style as if nothing else mattered. He had expected an overview of research methods, the topic listed on his syllabus, not what he called, `her in-depth overview of adolescent homosexuality.' Discussion ensued, sharp retorts to his assertions, which primarily concerned political correctness. A disparaging remark about small-sample-sizes had really annoyed her. She'd abruptly excused herself.

The outspoken woman bustled up, bulging backpack slung over her shoulder, breathless yet smiling reflexively, seeming relieved that she'd finally caught up.

"Thank you for pointing out the contradiction of special treatment for what is a normal and natural variation in human behavior," Dr. Hart said.

The woman smiled slightly. "I read your paper in the February Journal of Adolescent Psychology."

"Sounds like you're a graduate student?"

"I'm taking a year off work to get my MBA in marketing. I've taken a few courses in psychology along the way. I read your paper because of what happened to the nurse friend I mentioned."

"I appreciated your comment, although I'm not sure anyone else did. Most people, including psychology professors, have no idea how bad it is for some kids."

The woman sighed. "I didn't want to say it in class. I think Brady's gay, only he doesn't act like it."

Still upset at Thrall's unprofessionalism, Dr. Hart was polite, yet curt. "I have a few minutes if you want to talk about the incident."

"He survived only because the rope came undone when he fell. There was no damage to his spinal cord; however, he still ended up seriously injured; his larynx mostly. He was unconscious for a day. His doctor told his mom there might still be brain damage. There can be delayed effects."

Dr. Hart nodded understandingly. "Anoxic encephalopathy. Brain cells are not equally sensitive to oxygen deprivation. Cell death can be patchy. How long was he..."

"His grandmother saw him fall, so it was only a minute or two before she got the rope off him."

 "That's good. How long since the incident?"

"It was last Monday, when he came home from school. His mom's sure it was an accident; she keeps saying `he was only playing.'"

"It might be an accident," Dr. Hart said dubiously.

"I took him some books to read on the weekend. Brady seemed so lonely. He barely said a word. I don't think he has many friends. His grandmother told me he's on a YMCA swim team."

"Swim team kids are usually pretty close."

"Not Brady. With practice and meets, he doesn't have time to play. He starts his homework as soon as he walks in the door."

"I know what that's like. My son used to do his homework in the car on the way to soccer practice."

It was also how Shane avoided talking to her.

"Anyway, I asked around. My old high school is next to his middle school. Someone said it came to a head while he was away at a swim meet. The team stayed in a motel on Saturday night. The five other kids he roomed with looked at porn, all kinds, not just straight."

Dr. Hart easily envisioned the precipitating situation, impulsive, unexpected, and very abrupt. Six horny boys fooling around, exerting their nascent masculinity by tormenting each other.

"They teased him at first. Because of Tintin, I expect."

She frowned. "Huh?"

"Tintin. It's his nickname. His hair stands up in front."

"Somehow, it got personal, though." She could guess how; however, far better to hear it.

"Brady was the youngest." The woman hesitated. "And the smallest, apparently."

Dr. Hart nodded. There was no getting past `smallest'. With puberty, endowment became important, gay or straight. Worse, was an untimely erection; devastating for a boy's self-image.

"You said you think Brady is gay?" she posed, emphasis on `think.'

"He acts straight to cover it up, the same way you were talking about in class. Apparently, he had the wrong reaction when the boys looked at gay porn."

"Not acting disgusted would be a problem. Getting aroused would be the kiss of death."

"Even his best friend called him `queer.' He's barely eleven."

Dr. Hart exhaled. It would escalate after name-calling, cruel insinuations until the rest of the swim team rejected him. By Sunday, text messages would have transmitted the rumor to his school. By Monday morning, Brady's life was ruined. By Monday afternoon, he was suicidal.

The woman touched Dr. Hart's arm. "I read about your HELP program on the Hartmann Institute website. That's why I'm here. He needs that kind of help."

Dr. Hart had heard it before; every attempted suicide, it seemed.

"It's up to his parents to reach out to the Institute. Usually, it's someone like yourself who sends them in my direction."

It was her stock answer for well-intentioned people who wanted to involve themselves in someone else's tragedy.

"His grandmother said his father is in denial. Even after... It's probably not that important."

"With incidents, it's been my experience that the things that truly matter aren't always appreciated by the people who are closest to the victim," Dr. Hart prodded.

"His grandmother found his... I guess you'd call it a scrapbook. I know it bothered his mom. I haven't seen it. I think he made up stories about pictures he cut out of magazines."

"Fantasy reinforcement is not unusual."

Dr. Hart decided not to say the rest; how imagination sustained a boy's emerging sexual identity and fueled desire. The stronger the imagination, the greater the power, and the impact on the psyche.

"I could give you Julie Singer's cell phone number. Maybe you could touch base and see how he's doing?"

"The best thing you can do is have her call me."

The woman took a breath. "I'm afraid he'll try again."

Expecting a phone number, Dr. Hart dug into her jacket pocket for Shane's iPhone.

"I must've left it in the room."

 As soon as her lecture had ended, Thrall was in her face, as peevish as any overworked assistant professor, with an inferiority complex to match.

The woman scrawled the phone number on a bookstore store receipt. Dr. Hart pocketed a crumpled slip of paper, said a hurried goodbye to a woman whose name she still didn't know, and started back towards Room 164.

00 00

`Haggard Face' was sitting opposite the entrance to Room 164, knees drawn up with his back against the corner wall. He left his backpack on floor and stood up as she approached. Awkwardly, he held out a battered iPhone.

"I found it after you left. I didn't want to give it to Professor Thrall."

Dr. Hart glimpsed the screen and fumed again at Professor Thrall's gall to confront her. Her lecture didn't address his course objectives! Her lecture was about the intersection of theory and practice, research on the cutting edge, about real problems.

She swallowed, absently brushing an errant lock of hair from her cheek, unable to bring herself to reach out and take what belonged to her, to Shane.

"He reminds me of me at 12, only his hair's a lot curlier."

She wasn't in the mood even as `Haggard Face' slightly rotated his wrist, surreptitiously revealing one of Shane's many selfies. Her son was nude, his erect penis ruddy from masturbating. He'd taken it sometime in March, 2016, after Rye had started online chatting.

"He's really cute. Smart as a whip by the looks of him. Me, I got the dumb-blond gene."

She looked up abruptly. His wistful tone turned well-intentioned words into daggers, yet she found herself admiring his bluntness, suppressing anger that anyone, a student no less, dared to interfere in her private life.

He blinked and tried to hand over the cell phone. "I'm sorry about what happened. Shit happens to good kids, too."

Again, melancholy distracted her, enough that she smeared a tear from her eye.

"I've been there, Dr. Hart. It's Hell."

"Recently?"

"Ten years count?" He sniffed. "I'm really messed up every fall. I guess for you, summer is the bad time."

She regarded him, her frown conveying what she couldn't say.

"His last entry was May 24^th. Don't tell me it was wrong to read it; I know, okay?"

He took a breath, momentarily closing his eyes. She stared at him, wondering where he got off interfering.

"Gay boys play with toys; it's normal Dr. Hart, only not like that. What Rye did to him, made him do, that was wrong!"

"How is it supposed to be?"

"Not like what happened to Shane, that's for sure; certainly not his first time. Maybe later if he wants to experiment. A lot of us go through a stage, a bigger is better kind of thing."

 "A parent is supposed to know that?" She'd toughened since the incident.

"I know I'm out of line. A lot of gays test the limits. It goes with the territory. Not for a kid, though. It should be nice, so gentle you barely know it's going in." He reddened. "Totally inappropriate, right? I ought to know better. I'm sorry."

Finally, she took Shane's cell phone, a parting glimpse of the screen. Looking up from underneath. `Mr. Cucumber' extended beyond his hand. Given his facial expression, a couple of inches was agony. However, it was enough for Shane to achieve orgasm. There wasn't much; easy to miss, just droplets on his erect penis, as clear as water. Quickly, she pocketed the cell phone.

"Thanks for rescuing my phone from the enthralling Professor Thrall." She smiled briefly at the thought, although it wasn't anything to smile about. "Sarcasm is my escape from Hell."

`Haggard Face' stuck out his hand. "Mine, too. I'm Andy Wilson, Ma'am."

"There are some times when openness can be a virtue, Andy."

He regarded her stoically. He had a prominent jaw, dark brooding eyes, full lips, a rebel, a young Mick Jagger.

"Do you have time for coffee, Andy?"

She had in mind a croissant and Caffè Latte at the Starbucks in the Student Center next door. The line was so long they settled for paper cups of Graduate-Student-Association-brewed coffee, and found a place to sit next to a bay window overlooking a tree-filled quadrangle.

She regarded him, sipping nervously, knowing he'd confide if she was patient.

"I'm sorry I looked at your son's phone. I couldn't help it. He was a lot like me at that age," Andy volunteered.

"How so?"

"Coming out is awful for some kids. I'd only just started when it blew up."

"Started?"

"To ejaculate. I was the happiest kid alive. I was so proud, not just enjoying it, having real orgasms at last."

"Ejaculation is important to boys. Some cultures celebrate it."

"No need to wave it in your face, though, right?"

"If a professor of psychology can't talk openly about sex, no one can. It's certainly nothing to be ashamed about."

Andy gave a wry grin. "He was proud, too."

"He?"

Andy looked around, anything to avoid eye contact, blinking, anxious, sipping coffee until he got up the nerve.

"Andy, I'm aware that some boys like my son are lucky enough to be in supportive relationships. Family, relatives, friends; who the man is doesn't really matter," she said quietly.

Was it the way he lifted one eyebrow, his faint smile, his hand poised, his thumb deliberately stroking his coffee cup? Something had clicked. She was on the right track. With Shane foremost in her mind, and so much at stake, she had to pursue it.

"Having sex is an important part of being in love," she ventured.

It was spur of the moment, qualified yet noncommittal, even trite; and she regretted saying it immediately.

 "My dad was also my boyfriend," he said, looking down. After a few moments, he smiled. "I sex with him. That bother you?"

"Father-son relationships happen more than most families would ever admit. Trust me, you're not the first, or the last in that situation," she affirmed.

"Keeping it in the family is a familiar story, huh?"

His smile was a blessing in disguise. She smiled back.

"I know of one boy... He's 15, now. He started with his dad. He says it was `awesome...'" She made air quotes. "... until his mom found them."

Andy smiled weakly. "I was nine, going on ten when we started. My folks split when I was five. My mom was a big-time lawyer, always travelling, so I spent a lot of time with him. We were very close even when I was little, cuddling and kissing a lot," he confided.

"It annoyed your mother?"

"She was always picking on him about being too close to me. Maybe she suspected we did stuff. We hadn't, not really."

She lifted an eyebrow quizzically. He finished a chocolate chip cookie before he continued.

"He rubbed my butt... a lot."

She nodded. `Grooming' was the accepted term, an ugly word, deliberately negative, and inadequate.

"Whenever we watched TV, he had my pants down, or off," he added, looking around. "It was no secret he liked my butt. He was always talking about how cute it was."

"It bothered you?"

"It did until I realized it was important to him. Most times, we'd cuddle and I'd play with his penis. We'd do it for hours, just tickling. Then, one time I tried putting it in my mouth. He came in seconds. Oh man, was that a shock! Talk about bitter!"

Suddenly, she remembered a vague reference to `bitter' among Shane's text messages. Until then, she though Rye had given her son beer.

She sipped coffee and waited.

"About then, my mom found herself a boyfriend. I saw them together on the couch a few times. I was nine, old enough to realize my dad and I were doing the same things. Anyway, I asked her if they were having sex. After that, I stayed at his house in Brookline every weekend."

He smiled ruefully, remembering.

"It was kind of funny, being head over heels, and unable to do anything about it." He hesitated. "Most mornings, we showered together. It was always fun. Then, one day I told him I wanted him to be my boyfriend."

"Game changer, huh?"

"Major." He smiled over his coffee cup. "My heels were next to my head most of the day."

"Sounds like he enjoyed himself," she said.

Obviously, he was exaggerating, something nine-year-old boys were prone to do. With few exceptions, actual intercourse didn't start until later; preteen was typical, at least in the situations she knew about.

She noticed his frown. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"We both enjoyed it, Dr. Hart. I slept in his bed every night after that." He reflected. "You really want to know what's it's like for a kid? `Enjoy' is an understatement. I thrived on it."

She considered his directness, his apparent lack of shame, so far beyond professional curiosity she trembled at the thought. She responded with honesty.

"I can talk about it when I have to; however, I really don't know what it's like for a boy, not firsthand."

Suspicion fleeted, avoiding her gaze. Back to haggard; it lasted only a few moments before Andy remembered the good times.

"I was ready for it when it happened. He'd prepared me along the way; I just didn't know it. Right from the outset we were lovers. `Every time, everything in moderation,' he used to say."

Surprised, or mired in disbelief, she hesitated to clarify. "Everything?"

"And every time; that way we weren't doing it all the time." He grinned. "Of course, we did one thing in particular. Anal sex is the defining gay activity. For a boy, it's essential."

She smiled, never more curious as she gestured, `go on.'

"You sure you want to hear this?"

"I'm not easily shocked."

"Even at nine, taking it up the butt is satisfying, really good if it's slow and gentle. The orgasms are incredible."

"Did it hurt?"

Andy shrugged. "Not like you think. I really wanted him to do me. That's important for the first time. It was a big step, for both of us."

"Emotionally, how was it?"

Always traumatic, according to the literature.

"I remember gazing up at him. I was relaxed the whole time."

"It certainly doesn't sound like it would cause post-traumatic stress."

"People only say shit like that because they don't know better. Actually, it was very reassuring," he added softly.

 He looked around. "Some gay boys, especially the submissive ones, being penetrated confirms their sexuality. Being loved by a man reinforces it."

"Most gay men won't admit they were attracted to men as boys, but I suspect it's widespread."

"You want to know a secret?" He lowered his voice. "Boy bottoms might start with their buddies, but they need men for real pleasure."

She inclined her head, awaiting the nitty-gritty, what was essential for homosexual boys.

"As soon as you're loose and used to it, there's no need for guys your own age." He smiled ruefully. "You must think I'm terrible?"

"Seeing as you're being so honest..." She took a breath. "I think you were very lucky. You had opportunities most gay boys never have."

"I was the happiest kid in Boston. I had as much anal sex as I wanted, whenever I wanted."

"It's that important?"

"You show him how much you love him by taking him inside you. It's what being gay is all about, Dr. Hart. The rest of it is icing on the cake."

"It's a pity the rest of society doesn't have your outlook."

 He regarded his hand, fingers and thumb extended, remembering a rule, or a distant memory.

 "You start off doing everything, every time, there's nothing you won't do."

She gulped, almost lost for words, yet she had questions galore.

"What's everything?" she murmured

"For now, let's just say I grew up doing what I needed to do."

"I worry about what my son went through."

He looked around furtively. "It can hurt at first, only it's a nice hurt, really nice if he's careful."

Realizing the moment, she inhaled, holding his gaze, obviously very attentive. Slowly, she smiled and nodded encouragingly.

His voice was still low; now, with a nervous tremor.

"I had more sex than most gay kids, Dr. Hart; but we never did things I wasn't sure about. I really loved him, so he never shared me with other men."

They regarded each other in silence, both very aware their relationship had changed. She was his confidant, his confessor; he'd tell her things he couldn't, or wouldn't tell anyone else.

"Any regrets?"

He smiled. "Looking back, none; other than I wish it had lasted longer. Grow up like that, nothing is wrong or unnatural, nothing!"

He had few if any inhibitions. Love and sex were synonymous; far beyond infatuation. Suddenly, she was envious, not for herself, for Shane.

"What happened to end it?"

"My dad and I sometimes had sex in the car. My mom saw us parked. I didn't tell her everything, just that he hugged me. She called 911."

"She reported him hugging you to the police?"

"She lied. She elaborated most things, good and bad."

She sensed what was coming, offered an understanding smile. Andy rubbed his face, shaking his head as if it would change the inevitable.

"The next Sunday, I turned 12. We were asleep upstairs when the fucking FBI smashed in the front door. He ran downstairs. I heard a gunshot. Later, my mom said he shot himself in the head. She got everything because he hadn't changed his will."

"You hated her from then on, didn't you?"

"Worse than hate. After I cut my wrists, she sent me to a church school in Connecticut. Jesus saves gay kids."

"Pretty bad, huh?"

"There was a video camera in every bedroom. If you as much as touched yourself, a voice came over the speaker system. Everyone heard."

"A real Hell on Earth, thanks to religion," she allowed.

"There were places to hide. Not that it mattered to me; teenaged meat bores me. I was also conflicted; avoidant personality disorder."

Dr. Hart nodded. "Sounds like you're majoring in psychology?"

"I'm a first-year grad student. My roommate mentioned your HELP program last night; that's why I was at your lecture. You were pretty outspoken so I looked up the Hartmann Institute. Not a lot there. Some stuff about a HELP program and gay adolescents bonding to reduce depression."

 "Academic freedom allows me to say what I think on campus. I have to be very careful about what I say off campus."

"So, HELP does what, exactly?"

Not hostile, cynical. For good reason, the website was deliberately vague; an imprecise mission statement, ambiguous goals, even less information about strategies and process.

"In a nutshell, HELP nurtures young homosexuals who are at risk. They're highly susceptible to suicide, boys like my son."

"Like I was."

She decided she could trust him. "The mission is to connect them to a support group..."

"... So, another friggin' support program. Good intentions, crappy outcomes."

"Understanding the root cause is critical, Andy."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"Would a gay boy be better off if he had someone to help him through the difficult times? Someone he could trust, talk with, go places with?"

"We all need friends, so yeah, a mentor is probably helpful."

"If the friend was older, as much a partner as a mentor?" she posed.

"Sure."

"Having the right partner might even enrich both lives."

Andy muttered something behind his hand. He smirked. "'Enrich' means what, exactly?"

"Whatever it takes to reduce the suicidal predisposition."

Andy met her eyes, sensing compassion, real understanding.

He nodded slightly. "Sex?"

"Sex is a big factor. It may even be essential. I don't encourage it, for reasons that should be obvious; however, I'm of the mind that it's better if it happens sooner rather than later."

Andy glanced up. "That part ought to be easy. Stopping horny gay kids from having sex is next to impossible."

"Just between us, I don't even try. I worry about the younger boys being sexually active, though," she added defensively.

"Younger meaning preteens, like your `John' today. You want my opinion?" He had a wry smile, instantly likeable. "I hope they do it behind your back."

She shrugged, eyes lifted up, the image of innocence.

"I know firsthand what it's like being a gay preteen, Dr. Hart." Andy hesitated. "It's good with a man. If he's careful and patient, it's real good."

"Good enough to make a difference?"

"If they love each other, it's the best thing ever. Even one time will help them to bond," he confided. "More than anything, the sex part's essential."

She smiled back, absently rubbing her chin, an idea forming. "Why is bonding so important for you?"

"I don't know what else to call it. Most people would think what my dad did was awful. He taught me to accept being gay even though he wasn't. He liked boys, the younger the better."

"An interesting differentiation," she ventured, anything but condescending.

"We were so much closer afterwards, I could tell him everything, how I felt... After a while, we could look at each other and know what the other was thinking."

"When I was an undergraduate, I did a paper on Bonobo monkeys. They bond by having sex, male, female, young, old; any combination. They kiss and mount face-to-face, the same as we do."

Andy smiled. "My dad and I did it in all sorts of positions." He chuckled. "We definitely bonded."

"Tell me about it?"

"I always had more affection from him than any of my straight friends had from their fathers. What we did was nice, always about love." Andy reflected. "He taught me to be me."

"Ask any Psych faculty, they'd say he was inconsiderate and egotistical, your typical alpha male."

"I was on top about half of the time."

"The stereotypical pedophile is a sexual deviate breaking down a boy's inhibitions to prepare him for sex; then, taking advantage for as long as it lasts."

Andy looked around nervously. There was no one within hearing range—at 11:23 AM, most students were in class.

"You can speak openly, Andy." When he didn't respond, she added, "Being involved with HELP, you either have a very open mind, or you get one very quickly."

"I've never told anyone this."

"I've heard a lot over the last three years. I'm beyond feeling uncomfortable."

"I was never uncomfortable about sex when I was a kid."

"Then, why be uncomfortable now? I want to understand what it's like for a boy, especially when he starts."

"Like I said, we did everything my first time."

"He penetrated you when you were nine. It seems..." She settled on "...extreme."

"There are four ways to prepare a boy for sex, Dr. Hart."

Andy winked, wriggling his four fingers.

"My dad didn't believe in using toys to get me started, so we did three of them, mostly his tongue and fingers until I loosened up."

Dr. Hart touched her cheeks, cooling the blush before it started.

"After a while, he rubbed on my ass. I could feel the tip bulging in." He leaned to whisper. "You do that often enough, it fits just fine."

Then, it was her turn. She nodded, quivering with curiosity.

He leaned over, his voice very low. "Rimming works best."

`Rimming', was kinky, enjoyable, and hot as Hell; no wonder her surprise was audible.

"He did that? Analingus? When you were nine?"

Andy smiled. "Is it that hard to believe?"

Three degrees in psychology, a Ph.D. in neuroscience at the dissertation stage, 15 years of clinical experience, raising her son; all of it argued that a nine-year-old boy would struggle to overcome fecal hang-ups, engrained since toilet training.

"Remember, I grew up knowing my butt was important to him."

She still resisted. The negative instinct was overwhelming; starting at birth with mothers wiping fastidiously.

"I was playing in the bath tub when he started kissing me there. We took turns. It was fun and felt really nice."

"Him doing it to you, I can understand. It's the other..."

Andy took a breath, another admission on the way.

"After a few times, I wanted to kiss him back."

"You grow up doing something, it becomes natural," she ventured.

"Then, Dad rimmed me properly. He got really hard because it was so special. He had hair, so I only kissed his butt when it was my turn."

She nodded; it was pretty much what she expected.

"He shaved for me, front and back. It was a game-changer. Once I'd licked a few times, it was easy."

All she could think of was Shane doing that to Rye, putting his tongue *there*, licking a grown man's anus.

"Kinky, but fun, huh?"

"We did lots of kinky stuff." Andy moistened his lips. "After he took my virginity, we showered together. I was leaking semen, so he licked me out."

She swallowed saliva, her face hot. Did Shane love Rye like that?

"We did it every time after that." Andy didn't wait. "I wanted to show him how much I loved him. You think I'm disgusting, don't you?"

"Was it fun?" It came out as a whisper, urgent, nervous.

Andy smiled. "It was always nice, really nice."

She smiled, nodding reassuringly, telling herself to remain calm while she was desperate to hear more.

He smiled. "Usually, he gave me an enema beforehand."

She felt her cheeks flush again. "Right there, is something a gay boy needs to learn in sex ed."

Andy chuckled. "Most times, he rimmed me as soon I was flushed out. I still remember how good it was, plus it always got me in the mood."

"And it avoided any mess?"

"Always. I wanted him was to have him inside me," Andy whispered.

She was fully aware she'd crossed the line. She'd gone too far, too personal, too many details. She told herself that professional interest demanded she go on.

"I can't help thinking he groomed you, Andy."

He responded with an offhand shrug.

"He did if you mean educating, nurturing, and training me to express my sexuality. He didn't push me into having sex before I was ready."

"My son had to use a goddamned cucumber," she muttered.

"Rye was an asshole, Dr. Hart. I loved my first time. The way my dad did me, it was beautiful. Being patient and careful makes all the difference. He was so gentle. No toys. Just him," he emphasized.

After a few moments, her heart slowed down. She pictured it—his father accustoming him gradually, fingers, tongue, and penis, familiarizing, sensitizing, stretching, always reassuring.

"It would have to be better that way."

"I remember him bulging into me. So big, yet really slippery. All of a sudden, he was so far inside, I thought I'd explode."

`Explode', like `feeling full' and `the empty feeling', she'd heard any number of times since forming HELP.

She looked out the window, still no sign of fall leaves. It wouldn't be long, though, a few more chilly nights. She blinked away a tear, feeling it on her cheek before she smeared it away.

"Andy, I wonder... I'm looking for someone to help with HELP."

He smiled at that, quirky like Shane, without his dimples.

"I have eight boys in regular HELP. They're older, sexually mature. I do most of the counseling, and I'm constantly involved in recruiting. Then, the program is expanding to other cities, so I'm travelling every other week. Rescuing adolescent gays is turning into a real handful."

"A handful in another way, too," Andy joked.

"There's also a pre-puberty program. Only three boys so far, but they take as much time as the other eight."

"Also a handful, but in a different way."

Dr. Hart smiled. "I was wondering if you'd be interested in helping me with counseling the pre-kids. They need someone like you... There are some things I can't talk about, not like you could."

"I don't have much time. I already work two jobs part time."

"I can offer an assistantship, 20 hours for full tuition, healthcare, and a starting stipend of $2,800 a month."

"Don't you already have a graduate assistant?"

 "Mary runs the front office. She knows what the deal is; however, I need troops on the ground who understand what's really involved."

"I'm still in my first year," he reminded her.

"It's not a university assistantship. The Hartmann Institute has its own funds so it can make its own rules."

"Hart, Hartmann; am I missing something?"

"Please don't spread it around. My father is Conrad Hartmann. He set up the Institute's endowment after Shane passed."

"I know how to keep my mouth shut," Andy joked.

"We wouldn't be talking if you didn't. Believe me, you'll need to be discreet, very discreet."

"After what we've talked about already, that goes without saying."

"Are you in a relationship at present?"

"My roommate and I share pretty much everything, not where we're talking marriage; however, you never know."

She hesitated, yet it had to happen. "I have to ask. Are you attracted to boys?"

"Early and mid-teen, definitely not. Older, I might be tempted."

"I'd prefer you weren't. It's not a deal breaker if you promise not to be involved with any of the HELP boys."

"These troops on the ground do what, exactly?"

"You'll work with HELP PT. Mary calls them Poor Things. They're all preteens, but the PT actually stands for Pre-Testosterone."

Andy met her eyes. "What you said today about using an analog to stop puberty; it's also to prevent the production of testosterone so you don't get as horny, right?"

She hesitated, giving a slight nod after he inclined his head.

"Off the record... It's the difference between life and death for suicidal boys. Unfortunately, it's not an approved treatment, and it's expensive. Typically, a boy will be on it for three or four years. That's $100,000."

"Damn. Tell me about the kids I'll be working with."

"They're nice, not what you'd call angels, though. We meet every Wednesday evening. Basketball, pizza, and soul searching. They need someone who understands them."

"A bit more than babysitting... That's it?"

She smiled. "You'll help me with advising, instructing, organizing enrichment, and chaperoning."

"Okay, you got me on the last one."

"A young gay boy with an adult partner; just the thought scares most people. HELP parents are made fully aware before their sons join the program, yet having them alone with men, and unsupervised takes a great deal of trust."

"Hence a chaperone. So, they know Junior bends over, but they don't want to accept it?"

"Andy, you and I know gay boys can be desperate for affection, physical and emotional. Unfortunately, their parents don't realize how important it is until it's too late. Even when they're onboard, they still resist."

"All the gay guys I know had sex when they were kids. Doing it is no big deal."

"I can't advocate that HELP boys engage in sexual activity, even though I expect it, and I understand it's normal. With the right partner, the sooner the better, especially if there are suicidal tendencies."

"Having a romantic relationship is a major stabilizer."

"And so is being in a supportive community."

She watched him closely, wondering what was going through his mind.

Finally, he looked up. "My gay friends all grew up believing being gay is unmanly; it's drilled into them as toddlers, along with the anus is dirty."

"Andy, until today, my goal was to damage ignorance in stages; gradually, so they'd be ready for whatever comes their way. Now, I'm thinking immersion might work better; every time, everything in moderation."

He nodded approvingly.

"At times, you'll need to reach out to them, help build a community."

"Sign me up."

"Not so quickly. We facilitate meeting needs that are natural, Andy. We don't take advantage, ever. We never convert. If a boy isn't ready, we wait."

"How do we go about it then, preparing them for sex?"

"We nurture their sexuality. You'll talk about what's involved; what's good; what not to do. You need to be supportive, even encourage them, but that's as far as it goes. Along the way we build a community and provide emotional support."

She wasn't ready to explain methods and rules before he was on side. Still, he needed to know some of what was involved.

"Legally, we're required to report any signs of sexual abuse. Their partners are also required to report any sexual activity. The boys know what the deal is. What happens with their partners is up to them."

"My job is part social director, part off-the-record counselor?"

"What the boys need from you... My father calls it a coach; he might be right." She hesitated. "Could you at least think about it?"

"Dr. Hart, you're a breath of fresh air in a fucked-up society. Sign me up; I mean it."

"You're hired as of today. HELP PT coach; with your experience you'll be great. I'm depending on you for something else."

She hesitated to say the one thing she had difficulty doing. It took the most time. It was emotionally charged. Everything depended on it.

"Finding the right partners for our boys is crucial, Andy."

"Am I wrong in thinking `partners' means boylovers?"

"If they're men like your father. I'd like a dozen names on the short list. Right now, there are none."

"You could advertise on Craigslist, Dr. Hart," he chuckled. "Wanted, men who love boys and desire a long-term relationship."

"Add in no criminal record, no memberships or activities that might bring suspicion, willing to take the risk, yet smart enough not to expose himself. If you know a man like that, he would be perfect."

"They're out there." Andy grinned. "I'm sure I saw my dad's clone at Star Market yesterday afternoon. He was watching a boy in the next checkout; not perving at him like a predator, though."

She frowned.

"My dad separated pedos into predators and protectors. Evil and good."

"How could you tell?"

"He wasn't just looking at chicken thigh. He was infatuated, but scared. Constantly looking away, and using his peripheral vision. He was embarrassed, only he couldn't stop peeking. If the boy had been threatened, he would've been there is a flash."

"It's a pity you didn't get the man's phone number."

"I didn't need to. I recognized him right away. My roommate is a wannabe gourmet chef. He's always watching cooking shows on Cable TV. His name is Jack Broche. He's hot for a guy in his 40s."

"That your roommate's impression, or yours?"

Andy grinned. "The show always finishes in his restaurant, Garçon! À votre service. It's off of Brattle Street, near the Square. Customers call out `Garçon' when they need service; and their waiter always replies, `À votre service.'"

"I've heard about it."

"Anyway, at the end of the show, Jack snaps his fingers and calls Garçon!' You think that might be a giveaway?"

"If it's not, I don't know what is."

 

 

 

Episode 3: Sunday Afternoon, October 28^th

 

The Singers lived on Cedar Street. The house was a checklist of Somerville-urbane, two-story, wood-framed, pediment roof with a dormer window, bay windows (two), columned verandah on the front, narrow concrete driveway down the side. Recently repainted in the same pastel palette and white-trim as its tedious neighbors, the house was as `cute' as Nancy Singer had described.

Dr. Hart parked close to the curb, locked her car with the remote, a double beep as the alarm activated, and started towards the house. Her oversized shoulder bag weighed her down, like her mood, and a nagging worry. A salmon-hued door drew her on, past a pitiful garden ensconced behind an ersatz-stone retaining wall, up a flight of steps to the front verandah.

Still glancing around, she pressed the buzzer, noting a boy's bike jammed recklessly against the railing. It was high mileage, no paint on the wheel rims, tires bald, one squished flat. It had been put there in anger, shoved hard enough to scrape paint off the railing. While she waited for someone to open the door, she looked over the neglected garden: rotting remnants of kale, carrots, and zucchini, with signs in clumsy handwriting, `Private garden,' and `No Trespassing,' and a rickety scarecrow.

A late-middle-aged woman opened the door. Still in white nursing slacks and blouse with a badge, `Julie Singer RN,' she reminded Dr. Hart of another nurse, a mother whose son was HELP's first `success.' Jeffery Trent had overdosed on over-the-counter aspirin.

"Mrs. Singer, I'm Helen Hart." Dr. Hart held out her hand. "I realize this is very bad form, turning up without talking to you first. Nancy wouldn't take no for an answer. She was very insistent I see Brady this afternoon."

Red-eyed, the woman regarded her suspiciously. She inhaled tiredly and shook hands reluctantly. "I'm Brady's mother. His grandmother had no right to set this up. She only told us a few hours ago."

"I understand. I'm sorry to bother you." Dr. Hart extracted a HELP card from her jacket pocket. "Why don't you visit the Hartmann Institute website. If you think I can help, give me a call on Monday."

Mrs. Singer studied the card. "My mother-in-law can be very pushy at times. She thinks it's in Brady's best interest that we talk with you as soon as possible."

"My experience has been that intervention immediately after an incident is very beneficial for all concerned."

"It was an accident, Dr. Hart, plain and simple. Not that it matters. We have a therapist assigned from Children's Hospital. She sees Brady for an hour, three times a week. My husband's convinced it's a waste of time." Her voice faltered. "Well, let's not keep them waiting."

She led the way, stopping to point out her son's framed photo over the sideboard in the hall. Brady was dressed to compete, standing against a stone wall. There was a small trophy below it, faux marble base with a brassy athlete of indeterminate age and gender, and a generic inscription.

"Brady competed at the New England Kids Triathlon in July."

Dr. Hart easily recognized MIT's Zesiger Aquatic Center in the photograph. She passed it nearly every day.

"He looks hot."

With a face verging on sunburned, perspiration beading on his forehead, sweaty hair clumping, he was definitely `hot'. Otherwise, his expression was determined, vaguely bored, even arrogant.

Mrs. Singer smiled insincerely. "It was 95 degrees in the shade."

Something else raised Dr. Hart's interest; the possibility he was less than manly. Eleven-year-old Brady Singer was beyond cute, blessed with big eyes, a `pretty' mouth, cute-as-a-button nose, and light-blond hair cut short and efficient. Even then, his cowlick quiffed, hardly a Pompadour.

"He's very good-looking. I've never seen hair like silver."

At first glance, he might've been albino, even Tietz Syndrome, however, not with a suntan in mid-July.

"It's from my side of the family. My parents migrated from Finland after the Russian occupation."

 "How did he do at MIT?"

He looked like a winner in the photo, bucky-beaver teeth, bright mischief-maker eyes, golden brown skin, roguish, hardly stereotype-suicidal.

"Other than he decided he wants to go there after high school? Even if he was bright enough, we could never afford it."

"MIT offer any swimming scholarships?"

Mrs. Singer proffered a rueful smile. "It wasn't his best day. He'd just moved up to the senior division. The smallest kid in the meet, so he had his work cut out from the start."

A step closer, Dr. Hart pondered the photo. Suddenly certain; it was more than an affected hairstyle and full red lips, well-concealed signs that his parents likely hadn't noticed. However, she'd been around enough gay boys to recognize the signs.

Like many gay boys, Brady Singer was exhibiting, body aware in his skin-tight blue and white competition suit. `IN2TRI' on the left breast, the front zipper pulled down to his navel.

"He's very fit."

Swimming six days a week defined pectorals and abdominals, enhanced by a compact chest and taut belly. He was out to attract, no doubt about it.

"Being on swim team, the swimming part was easy for him, only 200 yards, like doing a medley. The bike ride really tested him; it was six miles," Mrs. Singer said proudly.

Dr. Hart focused on the nominal bump between the boy's muscular thighs. It was too small to draw attention, yet Brady's stance made it seem important, not larger-than-life, precious. It was almost amusing.

 "He gave it everything he had to stay near the front," Mrs. Singer went on. "He was too pooped to run very fast at the end."

She said something about YMCA Barracudas and running around the block for hours on end. Dr. Hart easily discerned Brady's penis under stretchy Lycra—it was stubby and very likely uncircumcised. Testes were harder to make out–there was negligible distortion where they should be. Undescended was a distinct possibility.

"Getting him to practice every day is a pain. I'm always working and his father hates sitting around waiting for him. We're lucky his grandmother is still driving..."

Down a short hall, varnished oak stairs ahead, a framed print on the wall, Jesus nailed on the Cross; beside it, a blue and white Virgin Mary sculpture. Mental note, Catholic. Mrs. Singer was still going on about Brady riding his bike to and from school every day when Dr. Hart spotted an elderly woman in the living room. She waved as the woman waved back, Victorian dour, yet visibly relieved.

Reinvigorated, Mrs. Singer introduced them. "Dr. Hart, this is Nancy, Brady's grandmother."

Finally, Dr. Hart could put a face to the voice on the phone. She'd imagined frail, and failing health from her trembling voice. Instead, Nancy Singer was in good health, just worried and nervous.

"I'm pleased to meet you." Dr. Hart touched a cold hand, meeting determined, even stubborn eyes.

"This is Brady's father," Mrs. Singer went on, directing attention to a man who stood by the window, looking out. "Ted, Dr. Hart's here!"

"I think the leaves are starting to turn." His monotone as much as said he didn't care.

"There's a lot of color in Maine already," Dr. Hart said, more curious than offended. "I was in Boothbay Harbor this time yesterday."

Ted Singer stepped away from the window, no smile, no recognition, clearly regarding her as an intruder.

"I looked at the Hartmann Institute website." His tone was icy. "I don't know how you can help Brady. He just needs time to put this behind him. We all do."

Nancy interrupted. "Ted, you promised to keep an open mind."

"Mr. Singer..." Dr. Hart began.

"Ted works just fine, Doctor."

He made no effort to greet her beyond a cold inquiring look as if she had no right to take up his time. He hadn't even bothered to change out of carpenter bib-overalls, natural duck canvas with a haze of sawdust.

She inhaled. "Ted, before we conclude it was an accident, is there evidence to suggest it was not an accident?"

"I know my son, Doctor."

"It wasn't an accident," Nancy said, her voice firm yet unobtrusive. Trembling, wrinkled hands grasped the couch armrest. "I saw him jump."

"You didn't have your glasses on, Mom," Ted snapped.

 "I hope it was an accident for his sake," Dr. Hart said quietly. "If it wasn't an accident, there's a high likelihood he'll try again."

"His therapist said he's improving every day," Mrs. Singer said, her gaze fixed on her mother-in-law.

Feeling like an unwelcome intruder, she looked him in the eye. "If he does try, it's 50-50 he succeeds."

Before her husband could rebut, Mrs. Singer gestured at a ponderous La-Z-Boy recliner, sideways to the fireplace, electric logs glowing. Dr. Hart sank into gloomy-brown vinyl. Diagonal to both couches, it was hardly her preferred position to meet with parents.

"I want to apologize. I understand how difficult this is for you," she began, opening her oversized bag.

"Do you really?" Ted snapped.

Dr. Hart rubbed her forehead. "My son was homosexual. He killed himself because of it."

"Well, my son isn't queer! He's barely eleven; sex is the last thing on his mind."

"Did you even look at his scrapbook, Ted?" Nancy muttered.

Dr. Hart withdrew a HELP Parent Folder from her shoulder bag. She was tempted to contradict, to point out boys had sexual urges years before visible puberty. Instead, she tried `neutral'.

 "Typically, an eleven-year-old boy doesn't know what he is, and to be honest, neither do you, Ted."

 "The hospital therapist said boys go through phases, Dr. Hart," Mrs. Singer intervened. "It's normal for them to be curious about other males before they get interested in girls."

Ted glared at his wife.

"That's true, Mrs. Singer. However, for gay boys, the curiosity is much stronger. That's also normal. I've seen boys your son's age where the urge is so strong, they aren't able to deal with it. Craving might be more accurate."

Dr. Hart never explained the extent and nature of that craving at the first meeting. Parents had a problem accepting that their cute preteen boy fixated on other males. Eventually, they'd learn how it affected their son, and experience the guilt that came with it. However, most parents initially reacted with denial, sometimes disgust.

"Nancy, you mentioned something about a scrapbook..."

"His scrapbook doesn't prove anything!" Ted lowered his voice. "It's just a silly kid collecting magazine pictures and making up stories."

"Still, I'd like to see it. My expertise is in adolescent psychology."

Ted returned a determined stare.

"This is crazy. I've seen him look at girls, like any normal boy."

His wife, still standing, crossed to a coffee table by the door and picked up a scruffy five-subject notebook.

Contrite, Nancy muttered, "I don't see any harm in her looking at it."

"I agree, Ted."

 "Goddamn! It's a matter for this family Julie! No one else!"

How could any woman put up with being spoken to like that? Still, Dr. Hart wasn't about to intervene in family dynamics.

 "I'm not trying to pry, Mr. Singer; however..."

He interrupted again. "It sure looks like prying; coming here uninvited, sticking your nose into other peoples' business."

"I was going to say, I might be able to confirm your observations are correct."

Mrs. Singer opened the notebook, flicking pages, increasingly distracted. She swallowed, sighed, and closed it.

"Ted, what if he tries again?"

"He won't! He has no reason to. Plus, we're on top of it."

Dr. Hart weighed leaving. Instead, she held out the HELP Parent Folder. "Why don't you and Mrs. Singer look through this, while I look at Brady's scrapbook."

She glanced at Nancy, hoping for support. It came swiftly, clearly difficult for her to counter Brady's father, her own son.

"You're convinced it's not important, Ted; I'm not so sure."

It was confrontational enough that Mrs. Singer exchanged glances with her mother-in-law, not colluding, not contradicting. Before her husband could argue, she exchanged Brady's scrapbook for Dr. Hart's plastic-encased folder and sat next to her husband on the three-seater couch.

Tentatively, Dr. Hart lifted the dog-eared vinyl cover. The first few pages were grubby notes on American History circa 1775. Two weeks into sixth grade, he'd scribbled in the margins to prepare for a quiz. To a lay person, the notebook looked like it belonged to a typical preteen, almost illegible scrawl.

After reading a few lines, she'd changed her mind—left-handed, well composed, thoughtful assimilation, no obvious mistakes.

A teacher's comments in red as much as said Brady Singer's daydreaming meant he wasn't motivated. Dr. Hart had seen that comment before.

Then, `STUPID FUCKING BITCH!' in black marker caught her attention. She turned the page, wondering why Brady had written it. A single glimpse was enough. Angry black scribbles covered the sketch, anatomically correct from testicles to meatus. She kept her thoughts to herself and turned to the next page. It was obvious the notebook had been `lost' by then. He doodled phallic symbols, hearts, and Cupid's arrows, with an abundance of `fuck' and `shit' surrounding `3 fucking days.'

"The goddamn program is set up for gay kids," Ted muttered from the opposite couch. "Brady's not like that."

It was loud enough for Nancy and Dr. Hart to overhear.

Mrs. Singer whispered, "But what if he is, Honey?"

Ted waved a page. "He's as straight as I am. Confused maybe, if you go by his haircut; however, he likes it like that. It's not worth a fight."

Dr. Hart nodded and kept her opinion to herself.

Ted went on. "His therapist said boys go through a phase. They grow out of it. Makes sense to me."

On the adjacent couch, Brady's grandmother shook her head in disbelief, her eyes all but closed.

Dr. Hart looked up. "HELP is for boys whose homosexuality is cause for severe depression if left unattended. It's not for boys who are going through a phase."

She turned pages, increasingly certain. Shane's iPhone diary had confirmed his homosexual inclination two years before he acted upon it.

Dr. Hart leaned towards Brady's parents, voice, expression, body language, all understanding.

"I understand what you're going through. Brady's scrapbook reflects a very confused boy. I know it's been difficult since the incident. Unfortunately, it will get worse before it gets better."

"How could it get any worse? He's already shouting at us," Mrs. Singer said, her hand muffling most of what she said.

"Acting out, moodiness, anger; they're steps towards mental depression."

"Brady got suspended for three days because he shouted at his teacher; although I'm sure she meant well," Mrs. Singer hastened to add.

Ted glared at her. Dr. Hart didn't waste time diverting attention.

"I think Brady is an ashamed, frightened boy. He needs affection and distraction, not persecution from his so-called friends about his emerging sexuality."

 "My son's sexuality is *not* an issue, Dr. Hart."

"I understand your concern, Mr. Singer, Ted. Regardless of Brady's sexual orientation, would you agree that having friends is good for him?"

Ted gestured ambiguously.

"Let's go the next step." Dr. Hart ignored his uplifted eyes. "Companionship is key to happiness. Anyone, gay or straight, young or old, benefits from a sense of belonging, even more if there is real affection. The more troubled someone is, the greater the need for love and understanding..."

He interrupted. "Brady gets plenty of love and understanding at home."

 "What if it's not the kind of support he needs? If he needs what the HELP program offers; what then?" Nancy demanded.

"You can't be serious, Mom!" Ted waved the folder in his mother's face. "Read this crap! It puts perverts in contact with suicidal gay kids, and expects their parents to sit idly by."

Dr. Hart fumed. "HELP doesn't do anything remotely like that, Mr. Singer. It encourages platonic relationships based on mutual need. I assume you know what `platonic' means. If not... "

She looked around the room, wondering if anyone was on her side.

"It is a close relationship between two people, one that is non-sexual. It's about understanding and wisdom, and at some level, a spiritual unity."

"How about you tell me what this means?" he sneered, reading from the second page. "'Being supportive and building trust with the partner is the parents' first task, and their primary responsibility.'"

"Is that so much to ask?"

"Oh, it gets better, Mom. It says, `Put yourself in your son's shoes. Wouldn't you want your parents to accept your older friend?'" Ted exploded. "Jesus!"

"Would you scream at Brady if he brought home a boyfriend his own age?" Dr. Hart posed.

"Goddamn it! We're talking about some man molesting my son, not a couple of kids fooling around in the attic!"

He jabbed his finger at the offending paragraph to prove his point.

After a few moments, Nancy said very quietly, "Being supportive doesn't have to mean what you think it does."

"Are you that naive? The partners are goddamn pedophiles. Listen to this. `We carefully select a partner well matched to your son's interests. More mature, capable, and established in society, he is a gentleman in every sense of the word, interested in boys and their activities, and equipped to provide a firm foundation for your son's emotional and intellectual development.'"

 "Ted, what would you like me to do if you were in Brady's situation?" Mrs. Singer said calmly.

"Take me to a shrink and call the cops, same as any decent parent would do."

Nancy shook her head yet again, blotchy arms folded resolutely, keeping an eye on Dr. Hart as she turned pages, scanning quickly, clearly distracted when she looked up.

"Anything involving the police, and Brady will try again," Dr. Hart said flatly. "You really don't understand, do you Ted?"

She held up the open notebook, all kinds of scribbles. It surprised her that Brady's mother hadn't spotted Brady's emotional decline, increased moodiness. However, a smart kid concealed, erected barriers, avoided contact.

"His mental state is termed Major Depressive. That's precipitous."

Taken aback, Ted muttered something. "That means what, exactly."

With a sigh, Dr. Hart retrieved Shane's cell phone from her jacket pocket.

"This is my son's iPhone, Ted. He recorded his sexual fantasies starting when he was eleven. Do you know what it means to despise yourself so much that manic depression takes over? He was susceptible to the first pervert who came along."

She navigated to one of Shane's many selfies he'd sent to Rye. Afterwards, he'd copied Rye's text message response into his diary, June 6^th, 2015. Beyond embarrassment, she held up the phone for Brady's parents to read.

"The man who sent this is not someone who should be allowed within a mile of a gay boy. My son wanted a man to love him, not the cruel self-aggrandizing son-of-a bitch who took advantage of him."

"Your point is what? You weren't supportive enough?"

"Mr. Singer, I missed all the signs of self-hatred. Had I been paying attention, I would've taken my son to a child psychologist. Antidepressants might've helped him get through, although I doubt it. What Shane needed was acceptance of his homosexuality, a couple of years to get used to it, and someone who loved him the way he needed."

"So, you would've lined him up with a child molester?" Ted jeered.

"Despite today's media hype, there are virtuous boy lovers," Dr. Hart said coldly. "However, Shane wanted more than platonic love. He wanted the other kind. By puberty, a boy is not only sexually capable, he's sexually motivated."

Mrs. Singer interrupted. "Dr. Hart, Brady's been on 10 mg Prozac twice a day since the accident. Children's Hospital just started him on five mg Symbyax."

"That's for Bipolar Disorder. It's rather presumptive." Dr. Hart rubbed her forehead. "Or Treatment Resistive Depression. Or they don't know..." She frowned. "Did you show the therapist his scrapbook?"

"Brady was so angry when I found it under his mattress, I thought it was better not to bring up," Mrs. Singer said.

"His therapist would have to know what to look for. Brady abbreviates like my son did on his cell phone. He used `SC' and `BF'; it's how he expressed himself without anyone knowing."

Dr. Hart stopped, looked at Shane's cell phone, and went on.

"Shane met a man at his school. Not the kind of person you'd want your son to be friends with. At best, he was extremely abusive; more likely, he was a sexual sadist. Mr. Ndung'u was also a coward. He was on a plane back to Kenya the same day Shane killed himself."

She cleared her throat.

"Your son is headed down the same pathway. He's interested; he just hasn't met the right man."

Exasperated, Ted exploded. "You're wrong! You don't know my son like I do."

"Look at his scrapbook, Ted. Already, his fantasies focus on men. It's not curiosity. He knows what turns him on."

Dr. Hart flipped pages, shaking her head.

"With each page, his urge gets stronger. He even says he's ready. `I wanna mf'. That's `man friend'. I don't mean to be vulgar. He writes next to it, `I wanna cos.' That's his shorthand for `suck cock.'"

"Not my son!"

"If I must, I'll show you the drawing where he's figuring out anal sex. He labels it `bufu.' That's `butt fuck.' I'm sorry to be so blunt. On the next page, he hates himself, that he isn't like other boys."

Nancy sniffed. "I don't know about you, Ted; I'd rather my grandson had a sore bottom than visit his grave every Sunday."

"From my experience, it won't be long, a few weeks, a month at most," Dr. Hart snipped.

She placed the notebook on the coffee table. It was open two-thirds of the way in, a photo of three men in red triathlon suits, six paragraphs of kid printing below.

"You've probably heard homosexuals tend to be promiscuous. It's an ugly word to describe behavior that is likely part of our evolutionary history."

Ted held out his hands, boorish, mouthing, `what?'

"Monogamous relationships are a relatively recent phenomenon, related to our environment and moral structures."

"It works just fine for my wife and me," Ted interrupted.

"If you read what your son has written about each man, you'll see indiscriminate sexual interest; in some cases, what he wants to do with them is quite descriptive."

Ted thumped his forehead. "Now, you're saying my kid's the same as an adult gay. He's eleven!"

Nancy wiped her eyes. "I've noticed him looking at men when we're out."

"You keep assuming he's gay, Mom," Ted countered. "A few dirty pictures and made-up stories prove nothing."

"Has he done anything to suggest he's gone farther?" Dr. Hart posed, mostly to herself.

"I quizzed him again this morning. My son doesn't lie, Doctor."

"I seriously doubt he's untouched."

She regretted it instantly. Easy to blame Ted; he was constantly jabbing, resisting commonsense every step of the way.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It's been my experience most gay boys are sexually active without their parents knowing."

"I would know if he was. We talk in the car on the way to swim practice."

"Nowadays, kids are exposed to sex at an early age, especially if they have access to the Internet. He won't tell you he's seen photos and videos of gay intercourse. At eleven, he's masturbating regularly. It's also likely other boys are attracted to him, and men, too..."

"Good God!"

"Go on, Dr. Hart," Nancy urged.

"Please, Ted; I am not trying to upset you. Hospital staff do the best they can; however, they can't do what I do." Dr. Hart met his eyes. "I work with boys like Brady every day. I've learned what works, and what doesn't. I know the pressure he's under all too well."

"You scare other parents with that?" Ted sneered.

"I'm honest in ways his therapist can't be. Brady's in the early stages of puberty. If he hasn't had sex already, it's highly likely he will soon."

"We'll deal with it when the time comes."

"I'm sorry; there is no nice way to put this. If it's not with a man he already knows, the usual way is he'll meet a pedophile in a shopping mall. You can't deal with it, other than make sure he's prepared."

Not surprisingly, Mrs. Singer took the initiative.

"Dr. Hart, this HELP program, what's really involved?"

"Starting off with what it takes to be `supportive,' as you put it," Ted interrupted. "I mean financially?"

Dr. Hart was pissed. She couldn't remember a parent who'd worried about money a week after an attempted suicide.

"There's a page in the folder detailing expenses. Basically, the Hartmann Institute pays all counseling and support services. Brady's partner is expected to contribute as much as possible, and to pay for outside enrichment activities."

"What's it cost for us?" Ted had a vaguely supercilious smile, certain he was about to be vindicated, or he was thinking about what those `enrichment activities' entailed.

"A thousand dollars up front."

"A thousand dollars; you hear that, Julie." Ted glared. "We just borrowed two hundred grand to rehab the house, plus our regular mortgage payment."

"Unfortunately, the Institute doesn't have a big budget. Brady will see a medical doctor every other month; Dr. Proctor of Boylston Family Group."

"He already has a doctor in Somerville," Ted snapped. "Boylston is an hour and a half away. There's no way."

Dr. Hart remained calm. "HELP covers his regular checkups. There are other medical expenses that you might be able to claim on your health insurance."

Ted nodded, mockingly thoughtful. "Such as?"

"He'll need a full physical and blood tests to get a time-release implant to inhibit puberty. Just the implant..." She hesitated to say it. "... is $35,000 a year. Some insurance plans will cover a large part of it, 80 percent usually."

Shocked, Mrs. Singer demanded," Why stop what's perfectly normal?"

 "This is crazy!" Ted exhaled, now tapping the couch armrest. "Why don't you just cut off his damned balls?"

"An implant is temporary and fully reversible, Mr. Singer. Resetting puberty gives his brain time to catch up. Emotionally, he's a timebomb. He already has homosexual urges. Despite what you think, he's physically capable of acting on them. Stopping testosterone gives him time to adjust and deal with his urges. It's not an option."

This time, it was Mrs. Singer. "Our son isn't gay, Doctor."

Dr. Hart merely indicated the scrapbook. "Everything I see in there tells me there is a high risk of a second attempt."

Ted grunted. "That your medical opinion?"

"Ted... Brady's luteinizing hormones are modifying his frontal lobe as we speak. Fantasies form in the frontal lobe. His fantasies are well-formed and focused on adult males. They will only get stronger."

"Jesus!" Ted started to get up, He was shaking, red in the face. "He's not a faggot!"

"Ted." Cold and controlled, Mrs. Singer wasn't in the mood.

Dr. Hart resumed. "Fantasies ignite the sex urge. Left unattended, his need will only get stronger. An implant won't reverse the changes that have already occurred; however, it will make them less intense. In older boys, it reduces the sex drive to manageable levels."

"Assuming he needs it, what does it cost us?" Ted pressed, antagonism seeming to fade with her explanation.

"Assuming your health insurance pays for the implant and surgery, his monthly examinations will cost $1,000 a year. He'll also need to be current with Hepatitis A shots."

"If the money's a problem, I'll pay for it," Nancy said quietly. "You have enough to worry about, Ted."

Brady's parents were so upset that no one spoke. Mrs. Singer kept her head down, so unhappy there were tears in her eyes. She kept wiping them away and sniffling.

"I'm sorry, "Dr. Hart began. "I knew I shouldn't have come today. It's best if the parents reach out to me. HELP should be the last resort for families searching for support. It's just when I heard about Brady, I had a bad feeling..."

Mrs. Singer looked up. "What?"

"As best I can tell, the precipitating event happened on Saturday. Usually, it takes weeks to fester. It must've been awful for him."

Nancy shifted on the couch, clutching an embroidered cushion. "What happened on Saturday night?"

"You don't know?"

The blank look on Brady's parents and grandmother was as distressing as it was reassuring. Dr. Hart drew a deep breath.

"It's best that Brady tells you. That's when you'll know he trusts you again. Talking about it is a sure sign you're supporting him, that he's making progress."

"He trusts us now," Ted snapped. "He knows his mom and I support him."

Instead of pointing out what was painfully obvious, Dr. Hart turned to Nancy. Brady's grandmother was nearly 80, her withered hands clasped, dark and splotchy, grey-white hair in roller curls. She nodded slightly; hopefully something was getting through.

"Dr. Hart, I know you'll do everything you can to help Brady," Nancy whispered.

Ted fumed, finally jabbing his finger against the couch armrest as if to make a point.

"So, assuming my wife's insurance covers the implant, the cost to us is $1,000 a year?" he said finally, brusque like his manner.

"He's eleven, so puberty is not precocious. Delaying it will be hard to justify for insurance purposes."

"So, we might have to borrow $35,000." Ted shook his head. "There's no way in Hell."

"I can help..." Nancy began.

She stopped when he glared at her.

"The Hartman Institute has requested trial offers in the past. We can try again. An implant lasts between 12 and 36 months. Brady will need treatment until he's 15. I'll be honest; he'll need at least two, likely three. Four is a possibility."

 "A hundred grand minimum!"

"Ted, if it keeps him alive, it's money well spent."

"Says you! A couple of weeks he'll be back at swim practice. After two hours he'll be too tired to do anything except shower and fall into bed."

Dr. Hart resisted mentioning her son.

"As far as I know there is no correlation between sports activity and stopping the suicidal impulse."

Nancy directed her gaze at Ted. "What will stop it?"

"Addressing causal factors. He must have the cognitive capacity to cope with his emotions," she went on.

"What emotions?"

Dr. Hart's patience about to go out the door.

"The shame of not living up to expectations, being despised by other kids his age, his fear of being..."

Ted interrupted again. "He needs to grow up. If he's got issues, he'll learn to deal with them the same as I did."

"Issues; what issues? You're convinced he isn't gay despite a scrapbook full of..." Dr. Hart caught herself. "I don't want to give him another opportunity to self-destruct; do you?"

She pocketed Shane's iPhone, zipped her shoulder bag, and stood up.

"I don't want to rush into something when all he needs is time," Mrs. Singer countered calmly. "At the same time, I'd like to be sure, Ted. Maybe this HELP-PT program will be good for him. It's intended for pre-teen boys."

 "It won't! More than likely, hanging around a bunch of gay kids will screw him up even more than he is."

 "A 10-minute assessment can find out if HELP is right for him. There's no charge for that, or my time today."

Before Ted could bluster on, Nancy pushed herself up from the couch.

"If you're wrong, Ted, you can put my $1,000 towards his funeral."

She choked, blinking tears, looking hopefully at Brady's mother.

"At least, she should see Brady since she's made the trip. Maybe she can get through to him. He won't talk with any of us."

"I'll try," Dr. Hart said. "Just Brady and me, though."

"I agree to your test," Ted relented. "Anything else will depend on results."

Dr. Hart unzipped her shoulder bag, withdrew a skinny black computer, three sealed plastic bags with sensor probes, and a handful of USB cords. She left her shoulder bag beside the coffee table.

00 00

Still dabbing tears, Nancy Singer accompanied Dr. Hart upstairs, leaving Brady's parents in the living room. His bedroom was in the attic, reached by a ship-style ladder. Nancy stopped, eyeing what was surely an unsettling climb at her age.

"I best not go up," she muttered. "He blames me."

Dr. Hart frowned fleetingly. "He's lucky you were there, Nancy."

"Don't say that to him, whatever you do." Nancy lowered her voice. "Poor thing, I know he's scared to death about being gay. I don't know how to put this. He needs you. He has to be in your HELP program. Please make it happen. He'll try again, I know he will."

"The depression will go away once he has something to distract him."

"Or someone to live for," Nancy ventured timidly.

Dr. Hart checked her surprise, just an empathetic nod. Having Brady's grandmother on her side was a baby step, potentially very useful.

"The important thing is you keep loving him, Nancy. Until his parents come around, you're his primary emotional support."

"I better warn him you're coming up," Nancy whispered. She cleared her throat. "Brady. There's a doctor here to see you. I'm going to send her up, okay?"

After prolonged silence, she gave a flustered headshake.

"Withdrawal is normal after an incident," Dr. Hart whispered.

"Are you decent up there, Brady?"

"No!"

The voice was a far cry from the melodic tone of a boy in early puberty, not a scratchy croak, a heart-rending screech.

Dr. Hart considered options, from gentle persuasion and relationship building to `shock and awe.'

"I'm coming up, Brady," she called.

Determined, firm, take-control voice; measured `tough love,' not to see how Brady reacted, but because he was used to that from his father. Once he depended on her emotionally, the shift to caring and considerate would be all the more effective.

"NO WAY!"

The panicky the way he shouted bothered her, an awful feeling that he was in the process of...

Still, she winked at Nancy and called out, "There's no reason to be upset."

"I'm not up-up-s-set! I h-have to t-take a sh-sh-shower, that's all."

"His mother laid down the law this morning," Nancy confirmed.

His hoarse voice was excruciating, worse than his stutter, worse than chalk on a blackboard. Instead of sympathy, Dr. Hart went the other way.

"I don't have much time. I've seen dozens of boy dicks," she said loudly. "I'm willing to bet five bucks yours is nothing special."

"You shouldn't tease him. He's tiny, the same as his father," Nancy confided nervously.

Dr. Hart mentally kicked herself—Brady's friends on the swim team had teased him before they attacked him.

"It's best if I wait in my room," Nancy went on. "I'll leave the door open so I'll hear if you call."

Sensing an opening, a chance to enlist her on Brady's team, Dr. Hart lowered her voice to match.

"Don't worry about tiny; with the right partner, he'll discover how lucky he is."

Leaving Brady's grandmother dumbfounded at the bottom of the stairs, Dr. Hart started climbing, cradling her laptop against her chest while tightly gripping the handrail. She emerged into a white-painted attic, low walls merging into a steeply sloped ceiling, four dormer casement windows without curtains.

It smelled stale, definitely musty, and something else, citrusy, like air freshener. Perhaps from the bathroom; there was no door, which seemed unusual. She peeked inside, a fiberglass shower enclosure with a clear glass door, a toilet, and washbasin.

Dozens of cardboard boxes lined one side of the attic, some with small pieces of wood, others with paint cans and tools. Someone had left a one-gallon plastic jug of `green' `citrus' paint stripper on top of one of the boxes, minus cap.

The other side of the attic was a mishmash of recycled furniture painted with primary colors. God only knew how they got it all up the ladder: an armchair with ottoman, a pre-LCD TV, a bright–yellow breakfast table with a desktop computer, several red kid-bookcases stuffed with paperbacks, two knock-off Harvard College chairs. Brady's blue twin bed was in the middle.

"Hi Brady," she called, not seeing him.

With no answer, she strolled to his bed, a tangle of khaki sheets, a grubby zebra-stripe comforter, a boy's grungy crimson sleeper. She tossed endangered-animal toys aside and sat down, the loud squeak from the old-fashioned spring frame causing her to glance around.

"I assume you're hiding because you're still naked," she teased, building rapport because preteen boys loved to tease. "Do you want me to close my eyes while you put on some undies?"

"I w-want you to g-go away!" came from behind cardboard boxes.

"Aren't you just the tiniest bit curious about why I'm here?"

"You're a sh-shrink, d-d-duh."

Hoarse now came with a husky tone; it would be sexy if it wasn't so sad.

"Actually, I'm a fée marraine."

"What's th-that?"

"It's French for fairy godmother, as in Cinderella."

 She waited for a comment, anything to show he was listening.

"I'm not like other shrinks; I can make your dreams happen."

Again, Brady didn't respond.

"I can help you because I know what you dream about. You don't have to tell me."

The evidence covered the wall next to Brady's bed, scattered among wall posters of swim icons, all men. He'd tried to erase it, muddying the surrounding white paint. Smeared pictograms, overwritten scribbles, vulgar words all but obliterated.

"I know how ashamed you are about being different, Brady."

Certain she'd heard a sniffle, she picked up a toy rhinoceros, black synthetic fuzz with a shiny plastic horn. It looked cheap, worn out, like a favorite toy should be.

"Does your black rhino have a name?"

Silence, except for a soft thud and a breathy rasp, likely shifting from kneeling to sitting down.

"They're very rare," she went on. "Only a few thousand left."

"They're r-rare b-because of th-their horns."

It was a good opening. "You're rare, too, Brady."

"H-h-how am I r-rare?"

His quick response made her smile. "You tell me. I know two ways you're different from other boys."

Immediately, she worried. Demanding too much, too soon. Yet, she knew. Instinct, gut, experience with other gay boys, whatever it was; he was drowning in self-pity. With luck, he still wanted a life-ring to hold on to.

"No! Y-y-you're the sh-shrink, you t-t-tell m-me!"

"Well, for one thing, you're endangered, like your African black rhino. You're not extinct, but very close to disappearing."

"His n-name is Th-Th-eo. H-he c-can be m-mean, s-s-s-s..."

She smooched black fuzz while he stuttered on; sniffing something slightly smelly, definitely not the freshness of citrus, wondering if the smell was Brady's. Feeling a moist patch. Oily, in fact. Something tropical? He must've been using it to stimulate, prudent for a circumcised boy, unusual for the natural variety...

"Theo might be mean, but he can be nice, too; can't he? I bet he has a friend in your endangered collection. Maybe a special friend," she added quietly.

Sweet-scented, it reminded her of coconuts.

"We all need someone, Brady. It doesn't matter how old you are, you need a special friend. A boyfriend, a girlfriend; it doesn't matter which, or how old. The important thing is you have someone you can rely on to be there for you."

She waited for him, absent-mindedly straightening out his bed covers, amused by the persistent squeak of the bedframe. Hidden under the top sheet was a bottle of coconut-oil hand lotion.

"The other thing that makes you different is your sexuality; whether you're gay or straight," she went on.

"My d-dad said I'm n-not g-g-gay."

"You're smart enough to hide it, if you wanted to." She let it sink in, as much as saying, `You are, but how would he know?'

"I know eleven gay boys, Brady. They all think I'm their fairy godmother."

"H-how d-do you know they're g-g-gay?"

"I've seen their test results."

"What t-test?"

"They've taken the HELP_ME test. It's how a gay boy gets into my HELP program."

Calling `HELP_ME' a `test' was far easier than explaining what it really was to an eleven-year-old.

Fifteen months in the making, Jeff Trent's father, a professor in artificial intelligence at MIT, created the Homosexual Mindset Evaluation. Ten HELP boys validated the HELP_ME beta version. The test adapted to their individual responses, making the inherent `subjectivity' of analyzing responses,' if not `objective,' at least reliably predictive.

"Wh-what pr-program?"

At least, he was curious.

"Some gay boys need special help, Brady. Especially when they're preteens..."

Brady interrupted. "M-my d-dad said I-I'll ha-have to s-see a sh-shrink if I'm qu-qu-qu... m-messed up l-like th-that"

"Some gay boys get counselling. However, what they really need is love and understanding from a someone who knows what they're going through. That's where my HELP program comes in."

Again, she waited, long tireless seconds, yet the rhythmic sound was a dead giveaway, faint, squelchy, even greasy. It wasn't the first time a boy masturbated with her sitting just a few yards away.

"C-could I t-take the t-test?"

"It's up to you." To be honest, she added, "It's not like most tests, Brady. HELP_ME is a type of lie detector test, only it doesn't matter if you answer the questions truthfully."

In a Freudian slip, she'd almost said `if you answer at all.' Polygraphs measured arousal, comparing physiological responses to determine the `truth' of a subject's answers. HELP_ME used answers to gauge `expressed degree of acceptance.'

"Why n-not?"

"It evaluates your body's responses when you see images on my laptop. Certain images cause your heart to beat faster; other images make it slow down."

"Th-that's all?"

"There are other parts of your body affected, too. Usually, a boy tries to hide them, but my computer sees them anyway."

"Wh-what p-parts?"

"Well, for example, a gay boy's penis gets hard when he sees naked men having sex."

Shock lasted a few seconds. "H-h-how?"

"How do I know what happened after the swim meet? Or how does my computer know when you have a stiffy? I'm a fairy godmother, Brady; I know all sorts of things about you."

"L-like?"

"You want proof of my super powers, huh?"

It was time to abandon medical health standards and create a connection. Other psychologists would call it unprofessional, or worse. Beyond doctor-patient trust, a kind of friendship so strong that Brady would depend on her until his partner took over.

"I know you have a stiffy right now."

She expected silence; in-your-face confirmation was shock and awe for a sixth grader. She upped the impact with experience from being around preteen boys; seeking rapport in a hurry.

"I know it bothers you that your dick isn't as big as your buddies'."

"So?"

No delay, no denial, acknowledgement. She would have done the same thing with her son had she known it would break through the `silence' barrier. All of his secrets bottled up, festering, brooding, no one listening.

"You want more? You jerk-off with hand lotion, otherwise Brady Junior gets sore."

"Y-y-you're em-embarrassing m-me."

"Every boy jerks off, not just you. The more they do it, the sooner they discover it feels better when it's nice and slippery."

He delayed responding, finally stuttering, "S-s-s-stop it!"

She'd expected initial resistance, and wasn't surprised.

"The truth hurts only if you're afraid of it, Brady. The boys in my HELP program, they aren't afraid of being gay. They used to be, though. Now, they're proud of it."

"Why?"

"They all have special friends, Brady."

"Sp-special h-how?"

"They're men. Really nice men who care about boys."

Dr. Hart smiled, precariously close to a laugh. It was funny, because all said and done, such a simple and effective solution was amusing, even absurd. Equally absurd, the closed minds of her academic and professional associates.

Then, Brady's head popped up from behind a stack of boxes. From a glimpse, she could tell he was cute, full red lips, silver-blond hair. Initial disbelief fleeted across his face; then, the fear surge. A moment later, he ducked down again.

 She'd seen the same look on other boys, easily imagining his heart rate zooming. She rubbed her lips, no longer uncertain. He was sexually aware, if not already active. Many years of experience and education said to be empathetic, yet she'd already gone much farther she would normally go at the first meeting.

"I could make it happen for you; however, it depends on your test results. Why don't you come out from behind those boxes so we can get started?"

"Y-you're s-sitting on m-my P-P-Js."

"Why, so I am!"

She held a handful of shabby crimson fleece with frayed cuffs. An upside-down cream-colored teddy bear plastered the back, hardly Harvard's Puritan minister mascot.

"Ooh, a onesie. So cute."

 Unable to stop herself, she giggled. The bear was goggle-eyed, almost deranged, its grasping paws tugging on the seam in the onesie butt. It was preteen-naughty, yet few preteen boys would wear it.

 "Are you brave enough to come and get it?"

She was certain he was thinking about it. Would he take the bait?

"Th-throw it."

"None of my other gay boys are embarrassed when I see them naked."

"It's n-not th-that."

"What did I say before I came up the steps? Boy' dicks come in all shapes and sizes. Five bucks says yours is nothing special, other than being small, of course."

Brady grumbled, "F-fuck you."

Disrespectful got her attention. With more time, or a different boy, she'd back off, revert to the polite professional and medical standards.

"How about instead of five dollars, after the test, you can shower, and I'll take you for ice-cream? Ben and Jerry's in the Square."

It took Brady only a moment to think about it, awkwardly standing up, his head tucked down, while using a flap from a cardboard box to shield his privates. Dr. Hart immediately averted her gaze to her laptop, initiating startup while trying not to smile.

 He nervously took a step closer. "Don't l-look."

"I thought you were kidding about being naked."

Before he could duck back to his hideout, she beckoned, not impatiently, encouragingly.

"The sooner you get your butt over here, the sooner you take the test, and the sooner we go get ice cream. I don't know about you, but I'm getting cookie dough in a waffle cup."

He was a `cutie,' no doubt about it. He stopped before her, reaching for his onesie with his left hand, his right hand protectively cupping his crotch.

"You have a very nice body; why cover it up? You'll only have to take it off again to shower."

Playfully, she took his extended hand, tugging him closer until she looked up and saw his neck, still swollen. Shocking purple bruises encircled it. Crimson welts were rope burns.

"Oh Brady! I'm so sorry. No boy should ever have to hurt himself like that. I know what you've been going through. I can help."

He swallowed, readying himself to say something. Before a single word left his mouth, he winced, clasping with his right hand. She saw a red blotch between his fingers, not blood, something else.

"Brady, are you okay?"

He winced again as he tried to back away, lips clenched, his fingers grasping so tightly she'd have to pry them off.

"Sweetie, please, I can help you."

Brady shook his head, kept shaking it as he pulled against her much-stronger grip.

"L-let m-me g-go."

"You can trust me, Brady. Please?"

He yanked abruptly, again and again, gritting his teeth, almost hysteric.

"Stop it, Mister!" She didn't want to raise her voice; tough love demanded it.

Of his own volition, he nervously lifted his hand a few inches, allowing her to see. His groin was inflamed, everything swollen.

"H-h-hurts."

Stunned to silence, she fought tears until she had to close her eyes. The citrusy smell was sufficient to know what caused it. He'd used coconut-scented hand cream to try to stop the burning sensation.

When she opened her eyes again, she focused on his chest, resisting the impulse to look down. His nipples were tiny dots on hefty pectoral muscles, defined abdominals with a big innie belly button.

"I was wrong when I said you have a nice body. Nice doesn't come close." She hesitated, afraid to pry. "You want to tell me what happened?"

"M-my d-d-dad s-said I'd t-t-turn g-g-gay if I-I d-d-didn't s-s-stop t-t-t-t-t..."

When she couldn't stand to hear his scared, stumbling explanation, she interrupted.

"He doesn't want you touching yourself. I got it."

"I-If I d-d-don't h-have a-any-th-thing to t-touch, I c-can't b-be g-gay."

She took a frustrated breath. "Sweetie, it doesn't work like that. Enjoying your body doesn't make you gay."

"M-my dick's s-so f-fucking t-tiny, it's l-like h-having n-nothing. I m-might as w-well be g-gay."

With a sigh, she looked past his middle. At first, she thought his penis was just shriveled. Perhaps he had a micro-penis; it was rare, less than 0.5 percent of males. Being uncircumcised made it look longer.

"Honey, the size of your penis has nothing to do with you being gay. Both were decided long before you left your mom's womb."

"H-he said I-I c-can ch-change if I w-want..."

"He's wrong, Brady." She looked up and smiled encouragingly—no reaction, just misery face. "The only thing you can change is how you deal with being gay. You can accept it, or you can hate yourself; it's up to you..." She always delayed. "...and your family."

"I-I d-don't want t-to b-b g-g-gay."

"No boy wants to be gay, Brady."

"B-but if, if h-he is? C-can he s-s-stop?"

He sniffled, avoiding her eyes, detaching, all part of depersonalization; disassociation was highly correlated with suicidal tendencies.

"I don't know why he'd want to. Nothing says a gay must be unhappy." She had a twinkle in her eye as she added, "Personally, I think gay boys are way more fun."

Brady forced a kind of a smile. It lasted seconds, disappearing as he smeared tears from his cheeks, sucked his bottom lip, and reached for his onesie, again.

"You don't need to get dressed because of me. Besides, with your penis all swollen up, you'll be more comfortable without it."

He glared back moodily, hand still extended.

"Brady, I want to take a photo to send to a doctor. Is that okay?"

Even though he shook his head, she extracted her cell phone from her jacket pocket, leaning closer.

"Either I take a photo, or I take you to the Emergency Room."

He avoided her steady gaze by looking down. "One, o-okay."

Calm as can be, she positioned her cell phone in front of his groin. She pressed, and held up her cell phone to show him. Red raw flesh filled the screen. It looked worse than it was.

"Are a-any of y-your other b-boys th-this t-tiny?"

She followed his gaze from cell phone to real life. Even swollen, his penis was uncommonly small for an 11-year-old boy—Caucasian mean-average stretched length of 2.5 inches (63mm). Normal range was plus and minus one standard deviation, 0.4 inches (10mm).

"I'd have to stretch it out to be sure."

Instinctively, she reached for her oversized shoulder bag, only to remember she'd left it downstairs. At any other time, she'd scour her hands in hot soapy water before touching a patient. With Brady in pain and on the verge of breaking down, this wasn't the time.

"Unfortunately, I didn't bring gloves with me. May I touch it?"

He nodded, not reluctant, not willing. Slipping her cell phone back into her pocket, she pinched prepuce, her finger and thumb squeezing the overhanging nozzle before inching back, carefully in case there were adhesions. There was so much foreskin, she tried twice before finally getting the excess skin behind the flared rim. From natural to retracted was fascinating, though unattractive with copious wrinkles.

"Well, look at you," she murmured to herself when the bulb peeked through his greasy foreskin.

Brady's penis was chubby and warm; his glans was delicate, as small as Shane's when he was in diapers.

"I'm going to pull on the tip very gently, okay?"

She pulled timidly, worrying that she'd hurt him, yet applying enough strength to stretch it out. Less than two inches; fully erect, it might be 1-3/4 inches long (44 mm)—two standard deviations from normal didn't qualify as a micro-penis.

Embarrassed, she jerked away her hand a moment after restoring his foreskin to its usual position.

"You're the smallest."

His shoulders slumped, crestfallen.

"I won't ever lie to you, Brady." She lifted his chin with her other hand. "Once we find you a man who likes small ones, you'll be glad; trust me."

His hand strayed, replacing hers, instinctively fondling as if he needed to prove it still functioned despite being tiny. His penis responded instantly, extending, thickening, stiffening, poking out between his fingers.

"Wh-what d-do you m-mean?"

Surprised at his lack of inhibition, she shook her head, wishing she hadn't said it. His penis was cute in a babyish way, not eye-catching like a preteen boy's sex organ should be. It would never be imposing, yet she hadn't lied. The right man would worship it.

"We'll talk about it after you take the test, and I've talked with your parents."

She looked down again. There was nothing wrong with his ability to achieve erection; it reacted like flicking a switch. If ever there was a case for aesthetic circumcision, it was Brady's penis. About the same size as his thumb, it seemed too small to masturbate. The excess skin would also get in the way.

His scrotum was disproportionately large; however, it was likely less than average when the swelling went down. At that moment, it was horribly bloated, splattered with ugly crimson welts, a half-dozen blisters; she dared not touch to ascertain actual size.

Seeing him aroused, stirred her curiosity. Her interest was persistent, utterly shameless, and totally unacceptable. Gently, she moved his hand aside.

"Your penis looks awfully sore," she murmured, her fingertips barely touching ruddy skin, still oily. "Does it hurt a lot?"

"It-it's okay. T-touching it feels n-nice," Brady murmured back.

She giggled unprofessionally. "It should feel nice when it's as stiff as this."

"Y-y-your f-f-fingers... feel c-c-cool."

She glanced up to find he'd closed his eyes, mouth breathing, his taut chest rising and falling. His penis flexed, twitching between her index finger and thumb. She caressed tenderly, not rubbing, telling herself she was `cooling it.'

"You have a nice hard penis, Brady. Yes, it's small, but for the right man like I said, it'll be perfect. Whatever the size, it's very enjoyable," she murmured, vaguely aware she was repeating herself.

It was stubby, hot, slippery enough that her fingers kept slipping, even as the surplus skin glided up and down the rigid core within. Without thinking, she leaned closer. Inevitably, her lips pushed out.

"Wh-what are y-you d-d-doing?"

"I'm blowing on it."

"If th-this a b-blow j-job, it-s really n-n-nice."

She was certain her face was the color of his crimson onesie.

"Wait until your boyfriend gives you one," she teased, giving his penis a tender squeeze.

She felt the hot hardness of boyhood, tenacious throbbing, or merely his pulse; either was encouraging.

"Y-yeah, wh-when I'm gr-gr-grown up."

 "It could happen sooner than you think."

She drew her finger and thumb-tip carefully, soothingly, along his stubby sex organ, easily restoring his foreskin to its normal position. It completely concealed his glans with enough left over to form a nipple.

"C-can I-I t-take the t-t-test n-now?"

She scooted sideways, making room for him to crawl onto his bed, rearranging his pillows so he could sit with his back to the wall. He climbed slowly onto the bed, barely a squeak from the springs as he settled. His plump scrotum was a scarlet ball between his slim thighs. However, when he moved his legs apart, it looked very painful.

"I-I h-hate m-multiple ch-ch-choice t-t-tests."

 "There are no right or wrong answers. All you do is look at some pictures and touch the screen if you like one."

"Still m-multiple ch-choice."

"The way this works is these three sensors measure your body's responses and the computer reacts accordingly."

Dr. Hart picked up the first sensor, a button with a Velcro strap.

"This one measures the change in your heart rate. You know when you get excited, your heart beats faster? That's because when a boy experiences certain thoughts or sensations, some of his muscles respond. The heart is just a complex muscle."

She took his right hand and positioned the sensor on his wrist. Then, she untangled the USB cords, separating the sensors to ensure they went to the correct connections before she went on.

"The next one is a probe. You put it inside your bottom."

"In-in-inside?"

"Uh huh. It'll slide right in if we put some hand lotion on it first."

She inserted the sensor into a nitrile sheath, lubricated it with coconut lotion, and held out the cord, the slicked, sheathed probe dangling before him.

"It measures the temperature inside your body. It's also a kind of pressure gauge for your sphincter muscle as it clenches, or relaxes."

Dubiously, Brady regarded the sensor. It was as thick and long as a Sharpie cap, rounded on both ends.

"W-will it h-hurt?"

She smiled, ready to point out that bigger things could fit inside him, wondering what he would think if he knew how large a man's erect penis was. Of course, he already knew.

"If you've ever put your finger in your bottom, it feels about the same; a bit strange at first."

Brady blushed, even more reluctant to take it.

"All my other boys assure me it feels very nice. Of course, they're gay, so you'd expect that."

"Wh-why w-would th-that m-m-make a d-d-difference?"

"If it didn't feel good, gay boys wouldn't have sex back there, would they? Given how often they do, it must feel extra nice for them."

"K-kiddin', r-right?"

She gave him an exasperated look. "Score 70 plus and we'll talk over ice-cream. Well, lift up your bottom. If you won't put it in, I'll have to," she added with a wink.

He snatched the cord from her hand, the probe dangling between his slim thighs. It was visibly bigger than his still-erect penis. He craned his neck to look down. He couldn't see where to insert the probe, so he felt underneath with his right hand, a single fingertip ascertaining location. The opening felt moist, hot, crinkly, tingly.

"It's so b-big."

"Push gently and try to relax."

He felt resistance slowly giving way, the opening into him tentatively accepting the domed end of the probe. There was almost no pressure needed, just a peculiar sensation of something sliding in. Suddenly, he was red-faced.

She nodded approvingly. "Is it all the way in?"

Brady nodded, instinctively clenching. Part of him wanted to giggle. What wasn't amused felt violated, but in a nice way.

"I'm surprised it went in so easily. It didn't hurt, did it?"

Another abstruse nod, very aware of its presence, yet making himself settle back against his pillows. He twitched as his sphincter clenched again, pulling it deeper into his rectum.

"Now, the next sensor goes around your penis."

"I-I-ll d-d-d-do it!"

She chuckled at his panicked grab for the last sensor.

"Just wrap it around and close the Velcro tab. Not too tightly." She winked. "Near the base is best. That way you can play with your penis if you want to. It doesn't hurt, does it?"

"It's okay." Brady looked up hesitantly. "N-now wh-what?"

"You lay back on your pillows and look at pictures on the laptop. You'll see two at a time, so touch the one you like the most."

She waited until he settled back before she placed her laptop on his belly. She touched `enter' and the first images appeared, a cat and a dog. Brady frowned, shrugged, and poked at the dog.

About to smile, Dr. Hart stood, looking down as he decided on the second pair, scruffy American Water Spaniel and American Pit Bull.

"My favorite, too. While you're taking the test, I'll call Dr. Proctor. He's a friend of mine. He'll know what to do to make Brady Junior feel better."

Brady glanced up, mischievous, still not ready to smile. "Y-you c-can al-always b-blow on it."

Husky voice and playful teasing, it was more than reassuring. Still, she lifted her eyes upward. Retaining control was essential with preteen boys, gay or straight.

"Boys always want to flirt with older women! It doesn't matter if they're gay or straight."

She winked and headed towards the stairs, checking the label on the paint thinner container on the way.

00 00

Dr. Peter Proctor clicked on `search' and promptly switched his focus from his laptop screen to his cell phone, where Dr. Hart's snapshot filled the screen.

"Chubby little thing, isn't it? Garrett's is way bigger," he teased.

Surprised, yet it was mostly deliberate distraction, anything to avoid the reason for the phone call—it was too depressing.

Garrett Carter was Dr. Hart's first `success' of her three HELP PT boys. He overdosed on his mom's Vicodin, 11 pills the day after his eleventh birthday. Two years later, Garrett and his partner B.J. still held the pre-teen libido record, five times in one night.

 "The rest of Brady is on the small side for his age." She wasn't amused.

"Small is good for some men."

"I looked it up to be sure." She looked at her cell phone screen. "His parents are about average so he should be 80 pounds. He's lucky if he weighs 70."

"He's still within normal range. How tall?"

"I haven't measured him; he's short. Average for his age is 57 inches. I'd say..." She looked at her other hand, thumb and index finger stretched apart. "... four inches less."

Dr. Proctor examined the photo. Brady still had a boy's penis, smaller than most five-year-olds. The overhanging foreskin was particularly bothersome.

"He'll benefit from circumcision," he observed.

"It retracted easily. No adhesion."

"So, he's already masturbating. High and tight would preserve the sensitivity plus emphasize what's there."

"I think he's near Tanner stage two. He's got plenty of time to grow," she allowed.

However, she'd already decided to raise it with Brady's parents when the time was right.

There was no hair on his groin, whether the pigmented hair of puberty, or peach fuzz. As for the essential increase in testicular volume, there was no way of telling--his scrotum was too swollen. He doubted stage two had started; it was almost always delayed when boyhood was so small to begin with.

"Am I wrong in thinking Brady is ultra-good looking?" he parried.

She smirked. Explicit appreciation was par for the course with HELP partners, expected if not encouraged, although it was hardly `gentlemanly' in front of her.

"He's a cutie, Peter. Dimples, blue eyes, and his hair is like silver."

 "Nice body?"

"Like Garrett's. He's into triathlons. You know what that means."

`Dynamo' was Garrett's official nickname. It was redundant, yet he nearly murmured it as he returned to his laptop screen.

"Helen, I'm looking at the safety data sheet online. It could be a lot worse. Citrus-Strip Gel is a Category Two for skin irritation."

"Wash thoroughly with soap and water, right?" Dr. Hart verified, her voice low.

"It says, 'Expect mild skin irritation with redness, burning, or rash.'"

She glanced at her cell phone, Brady's photo still on her screen.

"He has all three, Mark. He's been putting hand lotion on it."

She looked up, keeping an eye on the end of the corridor. The door to Nancy's apartment was ajar.

"It'll help. The primary active is a solvent, N-Methyl-2-pyrrolidone. Dermal penetration is rapid. Similarly, hydroxylation is rapid. Most of it will be out of his system by tomorrow morning."

She exhaled, another peek at the screen. "He's hurting a lot."

"I'm not surprised. There are lesions all over his scrotum. Scrotal skin has high permeability. There's also the possibility of an allergic reaction."

"Thank God he didn't use regular paint stripper."

He shuddered at the possibility. "That kind of damage would require surgery."

The type of surgery was a boy's worst nightmare, reconstructive skin grafts at a minimum, bilateral orchiectomy at worst.

"Load him up with antihistamine, Helen. Triple the recommended pill dose for allergies, and lots of ointment, Anything that works for poison ivy; over the counter will do. Call me in the morning."

She smiled despite herself. "Thanks, Peter."

"You sound worried. He's doing okay, other than trying to emasculate himself?"

She sighed inwardly and whispered, "He jumped from his treehouse. The rope came loose. His grandmother got the noose loose and gave him mouth to mouth until the paramedics arrived."

"Lucky boy."

"Bad rope burns, crushed larynx, maybe some brain damage; it's hard to tell. He's exhibiting the usual post-incident mindset. Scared, very depressed, and resisting interaction. He's also disassociating."

"Enough to be a problem?"

"I'm worried. It's hard to tell if his mom's up to the task. She's a nurse; the major breadwinner."

She took a step towards the ladder, distancing herself from Nancy's open door, listening for sounds from the attic before she continued.

"His father is very antagonistic, maybe the worst I've seen. He works part-time at a woodworking store. The grandmother told me he's trying to start a TV show about woodworking."

"So frustrated Alpha-asshole who can't deal with having a gay son."

"Frustrated, definitely. I'm going to talk with Grandma after this call. She's his best hope until he's in HELP PT, assuming his parents agree."

"You need help finding him a partner? I'm ready, willing and able."

"You're definitely the gentleman for the job, Peter. Only one problem; Jeff would never share you."

"Drat!" Dr. Proctor chuckled. "I could ask around?"

`Asking around' was an in-house joke, in the same category as advertising on Craigslist: `Perverts need not apply.'

"I'd love to have someone as capable as you on standby."

He could tell she wasn't joking.

"HELP needs a shortlist, Helen. Men who can start picking up the pieces at a moment's notice."

"I'll put it in the strategic plan."

Dr. Proctor, HELP Advisory Board Member, chuckled. "This is one of those times when swift action is crucial, huh?"

She reflected, still listening for sounds from the attic. "That, and I suspect he's going to be a major commitment."

"If it helps, Jeff can babysit until your newest recruit takes over."

Another in-house joke. Dr. Hart always ended meetings with, `If you know someone who's good with boys and babysits for free...'

"I might need to take you up. I have exactly one potential lead, and he's a long shot. I only have him because of Andy. He's my new assistant. You'll meet him at Mid-Week HELP. He spotted a man ogling a boy at Star Market."

"Assuming you have a name, can I ask who?"

She hesitated until she heard Brady's soft whimper. It was faint, yet she lowered her voice further.

"Jack Broche. If you find out anything, let me know. My assistant said he's a chef..."

"Garçon!"

 Dr. Proctor said `Garçon' with such panache that she laughed.

"That sounds about right."

"We ate at Chez Votre Garçon last Sunday. Fabulous French food, admirable ambiance. It's like a stage set where everything has a story. Jeff thought the shouting back and forth was a bit over the top."

"He has a cooking show, too." Not about to correct him—the restaurant was Garçon! À votre service. "I watched it last night. Not what I expected."

"The show, or him?"

"Both. With the `Garçon' thing, who knows; he might be a candidate," she ventured.

"He's a bit flamboyant. Very self-centered. Likeable though."

 "He strikes me as straight."

"That's true for all of us gentlemen, Helen. He scrutinized Jeff when he came to our table. Very complimentary, maybe a bit too complimentary."

Dr. Proctor wasn't indifferent, just used to his boy-lover drawing attention from other men.

"I'm not sure that proves fitness for mission; it sounds encouraging, though."

She was about to tease him by asking about the `compliments' when Nancy popped her head out her door, gave a nervous wave, and pointed up. She nodded automatically, lifting a finger, mouthing `a minute.'

"If I can get a Garçon reservation for this evening, are you up for a meet and greet?" he said.

Dr. Hart tried hard not to laugh. "You really want to drive all the way from Boylston for dinner?"

"If you must know, Jeff and I are in Boston for the weekend. Old Ironsides yesterday, the Freedom Trail today."

"You're braver than I am, Peter."

"He's recovering in the hot tub. I was about to join him when you called."

"I can only imagine. Are you sure you want to be involved in this part of the process?"

"You said time is crucial, right? Besides, I owe you for the best thing to come into my life. I'll text you when I know what time."

She thanked him, ended the call, and started towards nervous Nancy.

"He's taking the test," she began, certain that Nancy had been crying.

"Is he okay?"

"He's very depressed, but you know that already."

"Will he...?" Nancy gulped.

"More than likely he'll try again. I was just talking to Dr. Proctor..."

"I told Ted that Brady should still be in hospital. He worries about money, especially now. The renovation cost nearly twice what was estimated. The building inspector required all new wiring. Something about it being aluminum..." She caught herself, an awkward smile.

Dr. Hart sighed inwardly, met Nancy's sorrowful face. There was no easy way, zero patient confidentiality.

"Brady slathered paint stripper on his privates."

"Oh my God! Why?"

"It makes paint bubble up and peel off. He wanted the same for down there, everything gone."

"Is he...?" Nancy couldn't bring herself to say it.

"It could be worse, a lot worse. It was one of those green products, not overly toxic; bad enough, though."

"Is he is hurt down there?"

"It's very swollen and he has an awful rash. No internal damage as far as I can tell. It was a few hours ago."

"When I took up his lunch, he shouted at me; said he wasn't hungry." Nancy trembled. "He sounded really panicked."

"Was he crying?"

"He might've been. My hearing's not what it used to be."

"Nancy, it might be best if you let me tell his parents about the paint stripper."

"If you think I shouldn't... I told Ted about him shouting at me. He was busy gluing bits of wood in his workshop. He said..." She swallowed. "I should stop babying him. Brady will get over it; his exact words."

"If it helps, shouting at family members after an incident is normal. He's frustrated, angry, and scared. He doesn't know it yet; he needs you, Nancy; now more than ever."

Nancy sniffled. "He won't even talk to me."

"He'll talk. You just have to know which buttons to push. He's a very bright boy."

"He always beats me in Scrabble," she said, her voice faltering. "Last time, I was ten points ahead, and he put his last letter, a `q' on a triple-letter score. `Qi.' He was so smug. I made him look it up. Of course, he already knew what it was."

"Most 11-year-olds wouldn't." Dr. Hart forced a smile. "You wouldn't have an antihistamine handy, would you? It's used for poison ivy, insect bites, that sort of thing. Ointment or pills, both would be good."

00 00

 There was a definite bounce in Dr. Hart's step as she ascended the steep attic stairs, clutching three Benadryl pills and a tube of Benadryl Extra Strength anti-itch cream—Nancy was very allergic to poison ivy.

Brady was already in the shower, a small pink blur behind steamy glass, water streaming down his lean back, bulbous bottom, sturdy thighs. His right-hand rinsed shampoo from his hair.

She stepped through the doorway, watching him go through the motions, thinking he seemed less moody, not happy. It was time to up the ante.

"I want you to wash the weenie; lots and lots of soap, especially under the skin."

"Al-already d-did."

She ratchetted up on social interaction, making herself more approachable, pushing towards friendly communication. Along with openness and honesty, it was the fastest way to build trust.

"Wash it again, buddy. Either you wash it, or I'll do it."

 "G-go a-a-w-way."

"You've got nothing to worry about. I've seen Brady Junior. He's not that scary."

Snickering, Dr. Hart opened the glass door, reached up, and directed the showerhead against the opposite wall.

"That's better. Anyone ever say you look like Tintin?"

`Tintin' got his attention. He turned side-on and made a face, scrunched up mouth and nose, his left hand cupping his crotch.

"Of course, you're way cuter," she teased, yet looking him over with more than professional interest.

"H-how d-do you know a-about T-T-Tintin?"

"My son's ninth birthday party was at the Tintin movie. It was bedlam; a big mistake on my part."

"Y-you h-have a s-son?"

"He rode his bike into a truck three years ago."

Strangely, she didn't have the usual numbness. Sometimes, despair kept her awake through the night. Thinking about him was worse than talking, an awful sinking sensation; then, nothingness.

"Like you, he wanted to kill himself." Always shockingly calm, it bothered her. "Unfortunately, he succeeded."

"I-I'm s-sorry."

"He was depressed about being gay."

Immediately, she wished she hadn't said it. It sounded straightforward and unemotional, as if gay boys just got depressed and killed themselves.

Brady groaned. "L-like m-me."

He sagged against the shower partition before she grabbed his arms, shuddering as she pulled him close, wet and naked, his head pressed tightly against her wind-breaker jacket.

"It's okay, Sweetie. It's okay," she whispered.

She pushed her fingers through his bristly silver-blond hair, cow-lick quiff sticking up.

"Now, you really look like Tintin. What you need is your own Captain Haddock."

He was sobbing as she took the soap from the dish, gently lathering boy parts, undersized very-stiff penis and puffed-up balls.

Somehow, she managed to stay mostly dry as she rinsed him and turned off the water. Out of the shower and standing on a tatty bathmat, she dried him off, and wrapped a white bath towel around his shoulders and chest. Down on her knees and close up, made bile rise from her gut.

"Is it okay if I touch your penis again, Sweetie?"

He nodded.

With a flick of her wrist, she exposed his glans, copious overhanging foreskin deftly repositioned in miniature wrinkles along his stiff shaft. It retracted far too easily for a boy barely into the initial stage of puberty. She flipped the excess skin back and forth, wondering how often he masturbated. It had to be frequently.

Only one finger and an opposing thumb could fit, which would likely leave his other fingers diddling balls. Amused, she tweaked the tiny exposed knob.

"I'm glad you didn't put paint stripper on this little guy."

"Th-that w-would really h-hurt, huh?"

She looked up, catching him unawares, dreamily enjoying her tender caresses. It would feel even better touching the nerve-filled skin inside his prepuce.

"Your mom ever tell you you're very good looking?"

Brady shrugged.

"You are. You're also..." She whispered the rest. "Very sexy."

"W-was y-your s-son g-good l-looking?"

"Shane was a beautiful boy, just like you, only your opposite—he had dark curly hair and brown eyes."

She removed the cap from the ointment and squeezed a long bead on her finger. Over the years, she'd seen all of the HELP boys sexually aroused; even the smallest of them had an erection much larger than Brady's still-erect penis.

He tensed when she began to smear it on, yet he didn't jerk away.

"I'm sorry it hurts."

It would be generous to say his erection was stubby. More toy than boy organ, it jutted out obliquely, begging her to play with it. Instead, she avoided rubbing in the ointment, adding more until it was white and greasy from base to tip.

Brady whimpered softly, "B-burns."

"The good news is it will only hurt for a minute or two. The bad news is it'll be worse when it goes on your balls," she said, honesty again.

She squeezed more ointment onto two fingers side by side, brought them up, her other hand now between his thighs to hold him steady. He flinched when she touched his scrotum, tenderly smearing slippery cream onto wrinkled, blistered skin, very aware of the eggs within, still a long way from dropping.

"Have you noticed your testicles getting bigger?" she said, partly to take his mind off it.

"Wh-what about m-my b-b-balls?"

"Most boys before puberty have testicles about the size of wren eggs, that's 1.5 ccs."

"Wh-what's a-a cc?"

"A cubic centimeter is a measure of volume. One teaspoon is about five ccs."

"We d-did m-metric last y-year. She n-never s-said `ccs', but."

She separated his bigger right testicle. "This one's almost a sparrow egg. So about twice the volume of a wren egg. Pretty to look at, but a half-a-teaspoon is still too tiny to scramble."

She got him to smile. He had dimples. Still, no complaint.

"H-how b-big are r-r-robin eggs?"

"Between five and six ccs. You in a year, Tintin." `Or four years if you get an implant.'

She gave his slimy scrotum a final fondle, wondering whether he'd ask.

"H-how b-big is a m-man?" His voice was raspy, sexy if it wasn't so sad.

"How big do you think?"

Brady giggled nervously. "L-like ch-chicken eggs?"

"We talking large or extra-large?" she joked; anything to get another dimply smile.

"H-hurts n-now," Brady whimpered.

To get his mind off the burning sensation, she went on. "In terms of volume, chicken eggs are about two times too big. Your average man has testicles the size of pheasant eggs. Ever seen one of those?"

He winced, shaking his head, left hand reaching to his middle until she grabbed his wrist.

"It's okay, Honey. I promise it'll stop hurting in a minute. Let's count back from 60. I bet I'm right."

Brady stopped at '22.' With a hand on his shoulder, she guided him out of the bathroom. He went over to a sunshine-yellow chest of drawers to get clothes. She sat on his bed, putting sensors back in plastic bags before reviewing Brady's results on the laptop.

"H-how d-did I d-do?"

Startled, she glanced over her shoulder. He was delving through the top drawer, still naked except for the bath towel around his shoulders. His butt was rounded, small, pale, and as smooth as hand-polished marble. Was it darker in the divide? She couldn't be sure. She turned to the laptop, suddenly curious.

"D-did I p-p-pass?" came from behind her.

Shocked by consistency as much as surprised. 

"You don't pass or fail this test. You scored over 75 on four factors."

"S-so l-like a-a-a C?"

"You qualified for HELP, Brady; that's the important thing."

Brady wandered over to his bed, looking down at her laptop screen.

"That r-rainbow blob, th-that's m-me, huh?"

"The colors signify the intensity of various factors underlying sexuality," Dr. Hart explained.

She pointed at the center of the star.

"See how the top part of the graph is small compared to the bottom? It means you're curious about girls around your age, with absolutely no attraction to females otherwise. Of course, most gay boys are the same way. You're also curious about boys your age. What's important is when the factor turns yellow. That means you're sexually aroused. Red and orange, you're very aroused."

Brady pointed at the three biggest factors, grouped together, too embarrassed to ask.

"Those mean you're going to make your partner a very happy man. Now, go get dressed."

"D-does it c-count if I-I p-put th-things up m-my b-b-butt?" he blurted suddenly.

After eleven HELP boys, Dr. Hart was beyond shock.

"You weren't too keen on putting my probe in there."

He scowled, bottom lip out.

"Of course, it's different when you like the person doing it." She winked to reassure him. "Right now, what counts is the next stage, convincing your parents to let you join."

"G-good l-luck on th-that."

"We'll see. How about I go downstairs and talk to them while you get dressed? Wear something comfortable. A tracksuit would be good, if you've got one."

Laptop in sleep mode and closed, Dr. Hart stood up. He was still delving, bath towel on the floor and totally bare, not exhibiting, no sign of inhibition; it was confusing.

"No underpants so you're cooler down there. And brush your teeth, Tintin. They're in dire need."

00 00

When Dr. Hart returned to the living room, Mrs. Singer and her mother-in-law were sitting on the couch, side by side, looking through Brady's scrapbook. Ted had resumed what was likely his permanent possession of the recliner.

"There are some things I need to say before Brady joins us," she began, still at the doorway.

She hadn't intended to sound confrontational; however, seeing Ted relaxing, with his feet on the coffee table was the last straw.

Ted gestured, a crude `bring it on.'

"Right now, Brady doesn't trust you."

"Where in the hell do you get off!"

Mrs. Singer exhaled. "Ted, let her finish."

"He thinks you won't love him because he's gay. He's full of self-doubt. Self-loathing is tearing him apart. He's insecure, and he's very afraid."

Ted rubbed behind his ear. "We hear the same thing from his so-called therapist, the meddler who comes here twice a week."

"Suicide is an avoidance of overwhelming emotional pain."

"Thank you for explaining that, Doctor."

"He feels betrayed. I expect you also feel betrayed."

 Ted nodded at his wife as if to say, `I told you so.'

"Your son is attracted to men, Mr. Singer. His Mindset Evaluation confirms what is obvious from looking at Brady's scrapbook, and from his room, too. And I don't just mean the posters on the wall."

Dr. Hart ignored his grim glare until she was sitting in the two-seat couch across from Nancy and Mrs. Singer. With her laptop beside her, she leaned forward, fixing her gaze on Ted.

"It's not some childish phase he's going through, or a fleeting infatuation with a boy down the street; it's the start of a powerful sexual urge that he will live with until he dies. Unless you respond with more understanding and acceptance, he will pull farther away from you..."

"... Says you!"

"Ted, I'd like to hear what she has to say."

Dr. Hart nodded respectfully at Mrs. Singer.

"The good news is that you can rebuild the bonds, starting with better communication. To do that you will need empathy. Not sympathy; it will only make him pull farther away. You have to put his interests before yours, and accept who and what he is."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

She returned Ted's cold look. "It means coming to terms with a sexual attraction you find objectionable."

"Unfortunately, I suffer from toxic masculinity. That's your psychologist terminology, isn't it?"

"I can only advise you, Mr. Singer. What you do with my advice is up to you." Dr. Hart took a breath.

"So, advise me."

"My advice, start listening to what I say. Your son is a fast learner. You were lucky the first time."

"There won't be a second time," Ted said airily. "We're on top of it."

Mrs. Singer closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she took a deep breath.

"I agree with Dr. Hart. What can we do, besides putting him in your HELP program?"

"Love him as his mother. Look out for his well-being, and offer encouragement. Once you're talking again, look for ways to grow his relationship with you. Just keep in mind it's not the relationship he wants and needs."

"Which is?" Ted interrupted.

"Brady believes you have dismissed him because of your prejudice. A few supporting words from you, a few moments together, will help. However, it will never be what he really needs."

"Which is?"

Dr. Hart looked him in the eye. "Mr. Singer, what makes HELP different to other suicide avoidance programs is it nurtures relationships between gay boys and men."

"Meaning a man grooms my son for sex while I pay for it."

Dr. Hart ignored him. "This is about nurturing Brady, whatever it takes to keep him alive until his mind catches up and he's able to deal with the emotional issues."

Silence, except for Nancy's persistent turning of pages, back and forth, scanning Brady's scrapbook for the umpteenth time, trying to make sense of it. Brady's mother stared at the HELP brochure.

Finally, Nancy glanced up. "You're saying we should be nurturing, too?"

Mrs. Singer picked up. "Your HELP brochure says we should be supportive. How?"

"Once Brady has a partner, invite him to dinner, family vacations, events at his school..."

Ted made a face, exhaled, shaking his head. "This man, whoever he is, grooms Brady in his house, and mine, and you're okay with it?"

"The more you involve Brady's partner in your family, the happier he will be," Dr. Hart said with the quiet confidence of experience. "I realize it sounds unpleasant right now. It doesn't have to be."

"It doesn't have to be unpleasant, Julie." Ted's sneer was unmistakable.

Dr. Hart continued. "At times, you'll worry yourselves sick about what is happening between them—he'll keep a lot of it secret."

"What you mean is his partner, some unidentified pervert, will have sex with him. I'm not doing *that* to my son!"

"I'll be honest, Mr. Singer; a young boy having sex with a grown man upsets me too, just as it would upset any parent. I certainly don't advocate it; however, given the close relationship that develops, I'd be foolish not expect it. Sex will happen, sooner rather than later..."

"So, it's okay by you?"

"If you'll allow me to finish. Having Victorian-era social conventions does not mean a man-boy relationship is unnatural or wrong. Brady's test results indicate a strong inclination towards men. It's a matter of time until he acts on those inclinations, if he hasn't already."

"What exactly, are you saying?"

"Man-boy relationships persist despite laws to the contrary. Once Brady has had sex, he will seek out other men."

Dr. Hart paused—one look at Ted's grimace was enough.

"There are benefits from Brady having a HELP partner, Mr. Singer. He'll enjoy being with someone he thinks highly of. They will be very attracted to each other, which means sex is a strong possibility; however, his partner will also be his role model, his confidant, his teacher, and his sponsor. He'll also become part of a very supportive community."

"You're saying he might have a promiscuous tendency, aren't you?" Mrs. Singer said nervously.

Hearing that word, Dr. Hart took a breath. Understanding was crucial.

"With his test results, Brady's urge will be overwhelming at times. It won't go away; however, it can be controlled by being in the HELP community."

"How do you come up with that conclusion?" he sneered.

"After thousands of years, Mr. Singer. The Ancient Greeks knew pederasty bonded a man and a boy with a very special love, strong enough to die for each other if need be. A few weeks from now, perhaps even days, suicide will be the last thing on Brady's mind. That's because he'll have someone to live for."

"Why don't you tell us what happens between my son and his so-called partner? Not your broad generalities, exactly."

"I'm surprised. If you'd looked at his notebook, you'd know."

Catching Mrs. Singer's abrupt twitch, Dr. Hart stopped. She turned in her seat. Brady waited in the doorway, avoiding his father's challenging gaze.

"Come sit with me, Brady," she said, scooping up her laptop, opening it.

She patted the seat beside her until Brady approached, eyes averted, calm yet cautious. Gingerly, he lowered himself onto the cushion, close enough to her that he could see the laptop screen.

 "Th-those are m-my t-test r-results."

"What did your speech therapist say, Brady?" Ted snapped.

"Th-think. D-deep br-breath. S-say it."

"Go on, then!"

Brady went through the motions. "Th-th-th-those are m-m-my t-t-t-t-t-test..."

Ted shook his head. Brady fumed in silence.

Dr. Hart rotated her laptop so Mrs. Singer and Nancy could see. Nancy leaned closer, peering, blinking, even though the image covered most of the screen.

"This is an overview of Brady's internalized preferences. Think of it as a chart showing which way the wind blows, and how strong."

On a whim, Dr. Hart rotated the laptop towards Ted, only a few seconds before it returned to Brady, far more interested than his father.

"You're saying your pretty chart is my son's sexual orientation?" Ted interrupted.

Dr. Hart nodded. On the positive side, at least Ted had noticed the similar chart in the HELP Parents Handbook.

"Sexual orientation is multi-factor, so it can be difficult to understand. Essentially, the computer monitors Brady's responses to pairs of photos. Everything from time spent, finger movements on the screen, pulse rate, even his eye movements."

"What about other responses? The rest of his body?"

"How other responses are measured is Brady's personal business, Mrs. Singer. Depending on his responses, the photos change. If we can move to the primary measures, Brady's Orientation Scores."

Dr. Hart pointed to the bottom right of the screen.

"Before I discuss them, you need to know that Brady's scores do not prove he is homosexual, just his propensity, where his inclinations lie." She let it sink in. "His Gender Preference is 75. That's average for sexually active gay boys, with a woman in the house. He's significantly ahead of where he should be."

"Meaning?" Ted snapped.

"He's past the gender curiosity stage. For Brady's age, his gender preference is strong and consistent. As his fantasies develop, it will only get stronger. By the time he's a teenager, his Gender Preference Factor will be over 90. Over 70 is an exclusively homosexual male."

Ted scowled, breathing slowly and deeply.

"His Age Preference is between 30 and 50 years, with a high arousal correlation, 0.93. Maybe you've noticed how he looks at men. He'll be distracted, even dreamy; or he becomes agitated? The reason is gay boys quickly learn to conceal their interest if they sense parental disapproval. Guilt and shame contribute to the suicidal impulse."

Ted's expression darkened.

Dr. Hart continued, again turning the computer towards Mrs. Singer and Nancy.

"He places largely in the Submissive Factor, correspondingly less in the Dominant Factor."

"No surprise there," Ted muttered under his breath.

"Is Sub-sub-submissive b-bad?"

She looked up. "Don't worry, you have more than enough dominant in you to make life interesting."

Brady stared at his furry slippers, very aware his father was glaring directly at him.

"Lastly, his Responsiveness is 0.95. That's very high for his age and experience."

"S-so, l-like an A p-plus?" Brady peeped without looking up.

"What does Responsiveness measure?" Mrs. Singer asked.

"How he reacts to sexual cues; his sex urge, basically. Anything over 0.80 is strong. At his level, once his urge initiates, it will be fulfilled. His libido is demanding, to say the least. The implant I mentioned, it's essential."

Dr. Hart regarded the two Singer women, wondering if they had any idea what `demanding' meant. Their gay boy would be just like Garrett Carter, a `firecracker' in bed, instigating sex at every opportunity. Perhaps Andy's, `Every time, everything in moderation' would change that?

"In a nutshell, what's it all mean?" Ted grumped, nodding at the laptop.

"You want a summary? There is an extremely high likelihood that you have a submissive homosexual for a son, a one in 1,000 chance he is not. At his age, being attracted to men comes with certain difficulties. He'll be frustrated, despised, and ridiculed for starters. That's why HELP provides companionship, education, and a supportive community."

Dr. Hart folded her arms, body language for effect.

"In a nutshell, Mr. Singer, he can be happy and fulfilled, or rejected by his family. You'll decide what sort of life he has."

"We won't reject him!"

"Do I need to remind you what happened after he experienced rejection by his friends?" She glanced hopefully at Nancy and Mrs. Singer. "It'll only get worse. There's a high probability he'll be bullied."

"I don't want him to go through life being miserable," Mrs. Singer said quietly. "Are there alternative programs, Doctor?"

"We live in what some psychologists call a `procrustean era', Mrs. Singer. The myth of Procrustes comes from Ancient Greece. He forced people to fit beds too long or too short for them, stretching them, or cutting off their legs. Despite what you hear from the media, nowadays, we have arbitrary standards to which we force exact conformity. It helps society avoid certain complications."

Ted looked uninterested, if not bored.

Dr. Hart continued nonetheless, a constant struggle against ignorance and mass-media manipulation.

"It's important that as his parents you understand the social forces at work. Forcing Brady to conform to what is unnatural for him will be emotionally destructive."

Ted spluttered. "So, he's getting therapy. What else is there?"

"There are a few programs for gay kids in the New England area, none remotely like HELP. Brady will get health and wellness care, and not much else."

"Any tough love programs?"

She turned to Ted. "There's an idea; send a beautiful, young, easily tempted gay boy to boot camp. If you search on the Internet, you'll find religious programs to drive out the devil. However, they won't change Brady's sex urge. They might kill him, though."

"However, your HELP program will save him; I got it. I love my son, Dr. Hart. I love him too much to turn him over for your pervert partner to get his thrills."

Dr. Hart pressed her thumb and index finger into her eyes, tiredly shaking her head. Slowly, she reached into her jacket pocket, extricating her cell phone.

"Mr. Singer, today, while you were busy gluing bits of wood in your basement woodshop, your son tried to emasculate himself."

"N-no, n-not n-not that. Pl-please d-don't show h-him," Brady begged.

She placed her hand on Brady's slim thigh, squeezing tenderly as she held out her phone, one touch of her thumb restoring the screen.

Ted stared, disbelieving. Finally, he murmured, "Jesus!"

"What is it, dear?" Mrs. Singer asked wearily.

Ted shook his head, staring at his feet on the coffee table. "I don't know what to say."

"Well, I do!" Nancy said. "He thinks you despise him. That's why he did it."

Dr. Hart took over. "Something must have happened to cause him to slather his sex organs with your paint stripper."

She turned her cellphone. Mrs. Singer gaped, mouth open. After a few moments, she glared at her husband, who was frowning at Brady, slowly shaking his head.

"Just be glad he used the green one," Dr. Hart continued. "Anything stronger and he wouldn't have genitals. As it is, his scrotum is badly blistered. I've already talked to a doctor. With luck, it won't get worse. If it does, he'll need surgery."

Mrs. Singer shook her head, still scowling at her husband. "Brady should be able to have children, though?"

 "Seriously, I doubt having children is in his future. However, the damage is bad enough that I'm worried. I told the doctor I'll buy him dinner if he'll take a look at Brady tonight."

"Shouldn't he go to Children's Hospital right away?"

"Mrs. Singer, a suicide attempt and a self-mutilation within a week will qualify Brady for state intervention. According to the Massachusetts Department of Child and Family Services, you and your husband are unfit parents." She let it sink in. "Putting Brady in foster care would be a huge mistake. Even temporary care is very inadvisable."

"He's going to be okay, right?"

"Mr. Singer, are you not listening to me? Your son tried to emasculate himself. Do you really think he's going to be okay without outside help? Even with serious intervention by professionals, he's at risk until he resolves his homosexual urges. As far as I know, there is only one way to find resolution."

"Dr. Hart, what do we have to do to get Brady into HELP?"

"Julie, we need to discuss it first!"

Nancy heaved an exaggerated sigh. "I'm beginning to think I raised a fool for a son!"

Brady cautiously raised his hand. "C-can I-I s-say s-s-someth-thing p-please?"

His mom frowned at his father; her slight headshake was a clear warning.

"I w-w-want t-to j-join."

"It's not your decision," Ted snapped.

Mrs. Singer muttered something to Nancy. After a moment, she leaned towards him. "It's not your decision either."

Nancy regarded her grandson fondly. "I think this is one time when the end justifies the means."

After a muffled exchange between Mrs. Singer and Nancy, Ted took a breath.

"It seems I'm the only responsible one here." Another breath. "Letting him join might be helpful, I suppose. Dr. Hart, I'll agree to a two-week trial, longer depending on results. I see anything I don't like, it's finished right there."

"Two weeks! That's a no, right there!" Nancy was adamant. "You'll find an excuse even if Brady is benefiting."

Brady stared at her, surprised or confused, who could tell?

"Nancy's right," Mrs. Singer continued. "Everything I know tells it's wrong, but if HELP saves his life, I'm willing to take the risk."

"I understand your concerns, Mr. Singer. A trial basis will work just fine."

Dr. Hart squeezed Brady's knee, nodding confidently when he finally peeked up at her.

"He'll join three other boys in HELP PT, for pre-testosterone. It's important to keep him prepubescent until he can control his urges. I assume we have your permission to start him on a nasal spray."

Mrs. Singer glanced at her husband and nodded. "I'll check with my health insurance tomorrow."

"The Institute will cover the cost for two weeks. I'll also try to get Brady qualified for assistance, just in case."

"Thank you, Dr. Hart."

"Just so you know, if Brady's in HELP, I'm Helen from now on."

"And I'm Julie. Call me Mrs. Singer one more time and I'll withdraw him on the spot."

"I can work with that, Julie. Ted?"

"Count me in. Two weeks, I'll evaluate."

Beaming, Dr. Hart ruffled Brady's bristly blond hair. "See, I told you fairy godmothers have awesome powers."

"Now what happens?" Ted asked, sitting back in his recliner.

"Now, comes the hardest part, finding Brady a partner in less than two weeks." Dr. Hart's voice faltered. "I'll be honest, that probably won't happen. It takes a very special person."

It was the hardest part for the parents, too. The proverbial pin-drop as she regarded Brady's parents; certain that Nancy and Julie would do whatever was in Brady's best interests.

"He'll need to be understanding and nurturing, with the necessary interest in young boys. If there's someone in the family, an uncle or close friend, that would be best."

Ted shook his head. "Not in my family."

"There's a building manager at the nursing home where I work," Julie began. "I think he's... attracted. He always looks at Brady when he visits with me."

"First I've heard of it," Ted said under his breath.

"However, I wouldn't want him near Brady. He's uncouth, rough on the edges, if you know what I mean."

Dr. Hart picked up. "That kind of input helps Brady more than you realize."

Ted grimaced, hand out, gesturing `why?' as he scratched a bristly neck.

"HELP doesn't accept predators, Ted."

"They're all pedophiles. Why would you care?"

She considered not answering—Andy was clear on the difference.

"We look for partners who are gentlemen. Gentle men, Ted. Despite what you think, they're protectors, the opposite of predators."

"You're confusing me," Ted interrupted.

"You don't want someone taking advantage of Brady, and neither do I. First and foremost, partners are kind and caring. They must be interested in Brady for himself. They're hard to find; however, it's worth the effort. The right person is crucial."

Nancy glanced at Brady, a cough to clear her throat. "What if you can't find someone?"

"Brady will have friends all around him, Nancy. Just being part of the HELP community, you'll notice a difference."

Mrs. Singer smiled, clearly relieved. "So, we fill in the forms and send you a check. You start looking for a partner for him. That's it?"

Dr. Hart laughed. "It gets the process officially underway. Unofficially, Brady's a member of HELP PT as of now. Our first priority is for Dr. Proctor to examine him. With your permission, I'd like to take Brady to dinner this evening. And Nancy, too, if she wants to come," she added, although it was far from an afterthought.

"You need his grandmother to tag along because?" Ted prodded with a kind of perverse pleasure.

"Brady needs support, someone he trusts. Until he settles down, he'll require constant supervision. That means home-schooling so he doesn't fall behind. Under no circumstance can he return to his previous school, or his swim team."

"Now, you're saying he's so unstable he needs a babysitter?" Ted interrupted.

Dr. Hart returned a cold look. "A small private school with good after-school programs would be best. The average tuition is $32,000, plus programs; say $35,000 a year."

"Sounds like $35 K is the going rate for implants and private school fees," Ted griped.

"We can't afford it right now," Julie said.

"A Catholic school would be cheaper, but I don't recommend it for obvious reasons. Unless either you or Ted can take a few months off work, Nancy is your best choice. If Brady agrees, I hope she will take it on. I realize it's a lot to ask."

When Brady didn't object, Dr. Hart smiled at Nancy, receiving a warm smile and a grateful nod in return.

"As to having her at dinner, Brady needs to have a familiar face sitting at the table, someone who he can rely on. Of course, all this is assuming Dr. Proctor can get a reservation. If not, I already promised Brady ice-cream in the Square."

Episode 4: Sunday Evening, October 28^th

 

"Shouldn't he be dressed properly," Nancy whispered nervously from the passenger seat.

Dr. Hart had to smile, not because Nancy was whispering--Brady was semiconscious with ear buds and cell phone in hand. Despite her worst fears, everything seemed to be coming together just fine. Ted had given his reluctant approval for HELP on a two-week `trial basis.' Dr. Proctor had texted her to say he'd secured a Garçon reservation for 6:00 pm, the so-called chef's table, an alcove inside the kitchen. He'd meet them there.

"If my instincts are right, he could get away with wearing pajamas to dinner."

She glanced in the rear-vision mirror for the umpteenth time, this time wondering if Brady somehow lacked the sense of attire of her other HELP boys, or maybe `grunge' was his thing: loose fleecy blue pants, shiny red sweatshirt with `YMCA Barracudas' and the collar folded up to hide his neck. On top of that, a grubby denim bomber jacket.

"I told him sitting at the chef's table was a badge of honor," Nancy went on.

They were running late because Nancy insisted on getting dressed up, an ankle-length gown and an embroidered coat with a faux-mink collar.

"I told him to dress comfortably," Dr. Hart confessed. "He's cute enough that our chef won't care what he's wearing."

Nancy wasn't sure what to make of that.

Dr. Hart waved after catching Brady's eye in the mirror. Cute was an understatement whenever dimple-boy smiled. Lovable, gorgeous, and blasé about dining at Garçon! À votre service.

"I told him it was one of the best restaurants in the state. I looked it up on the Internet," Nancy countered, speculating why `cute' would make a difference.

"Not to worry. I have a sneaking suspicion that everything will turn out just fine."

Dr. Hart had been speculating, too, ever since receiving Dr. Proctor's text message about securing the chef's table. Perhaps the master chef remembered him from his previous visit and invited him into the kitchen. More likely, it was Jeff's influence—he was the kind of boy that filled certain men's fantasies.

 "There is one thing you should know, Nancy," Dr. Hart said quietly. "If this works out, what happens over the next two weeks will likely test the boundaries of your relationship with Brady."

"I've been worrying about that. What do I do if he starts, you know...:" Nancy mouthed, `having sex.'

"At his stage, anything is possible. Between us, I'm hoping it's not if, but when."

Dr. Hart paused, reflecting on what Brady's grandmother would think if she knew what was being planned for her grandson. Ideally, he'd be sexually active within two weeks. Assuming Jack Broche worked out, oral sex could start in a week; which left another week to achieve...

"Tell me about Brady. His assessment indicates a slight assertive tendency. However, he's mentally alert enough to fake the test."

"Brady assertive? He's always so meek except..."

Nancy looked around nervously, giving Brady a wave. She turned back.

"...I hear him upstairs, jumping on his bed. It squeaks, even in the middle of the night," she confided.

"As physically active as he is, maybe he's burning off calories."

Dr. Hart tapped the turn indicator on the steering wheel. Over three years, she'd learned it was easy to jump to the wrong conclusions, better to switch gears.

"My job is to match Brady's profile with the appropriate person. From what I've observed, he's not assertive. Most passive boys his age are shy about their bodies. He's compliant, not shy."

"He's changed. He used to be talkative, maybe too much. And he was fun to be with. He never had problems keeping friends, not until this."

"Understandable. Anything else?"

"He's always been sensual; he loves getting his back rubbed. It helps him calm down."

"Hobbies, interests, things like that?"

"He's an avid reader. He had a garden over the summer..."

Nancy made a strange sound, abrupt, not quite a giggle, almost as if his having a garden was indicative of something she wasn't prepared to talk about.

"He's not into computer games, not like his friends. It's all they wanted to do when they visited."

Dr. Hart reconsidered while stopped at the light, ready to turn left onto Massachusetts Ave. There was a steady stream of cars headed to Harvard Square, no more than usual for a Sunday evening.

Checking the rear-vision mirror, she lowered her voice.

"Have you noticed any other abnormal activity lately? Spending a lot of time alone, on the computer, that sort of thing?"

Nancy nodded slightly. "While he's watching TV, he puts a blanket over himself. It's obvious what he doing. If I say anything..."

"Boys and their sex urges; as sweet as can be until they get excited."

"He does other things since the incident," she began uncomfortably. "He puts things in his bottom."

"Inserting is common among young `bottoms.'"

Nancy looked as if a load had suddenly dropped from her shoulders.

"It's normal then?"

"Bottoms practice penetration, starting with fingers and progressing to whatever feels good. It's satisfying and reassuring, so a confirmation of their sexual role."

Conflicted, Dr. Hart checked the overhead mirror. Self-penetration was a key indicator that Brady would soon be actively homosexual. Meanwhile, he would use whatever was readily available, easily inserted, long enough to reach his pleasure place, and thick enough to make a difference...

"I know he uses his hair brush. His hair is so short it's not like he needs a brush. I'm always finding it around the house." Nancy hesitated. "He's not good about cleaning it."

She seemed to have no problem with it; however, Dr. Hart wanted more than tolerance, ideally outright acceptance.

"He can't do too much damage with a hair brush. Once he discovers the feelings get stronger with size, he'll use something bigger."

Nancy tensed, checked behind her seat, her voice low. "He has a toilet brush in his bathroom. It's not like he uses it to clean the bowl."

"I'll have Andy talk about hygiene and what not to use during HELP PT counseling."

"Brady hates going to counseling."

"This isn't like his therapy sessions. The PT boys call it `fun-time.' It's right before `playtime.' They get to play basketball with the older boys afterwards. It's a gay free for all."

Nancy fidgeted with her handbag. "What if Brady wants more? I mean if he's already practicing?"

"He won't tell you. Still, if you pay attention, there'll be signs."

Dr. Hart checked the overhead mirror; it was as good a time as any.

"Nancy, I have to be frank. With Brady's looks and age, he's a target for predators."

"So, it's true what they say, about there being a lot of them out there."

"Not all men are predators. Some will love and care for him like a son. However, being troubled about his sexuality makes him an easy target. If he meets the wrong person, it won't end well."

Nancy swallowed.

"Learning to lie convincingly is key part of grooming. He'll conceal his movements. He won't take or make phone calls when you're around. Anything out of the ordinary, let me know as soon as possible."

"So, it's like Ted said; Brady's being groomed for sex?"

"We don't encourage lying, Nancy. In fact, we'd much prefer he talk openly with you. He'll start doing that when he knows you accept him, and his sexuality."

Nancy thought about it. "I wouldn't be comfortable talking about sex with him."

"Once he has a HELP partner, you won't need to. There's a lot of mentoring that goes on. Nurturing is part of developing a close relationship. Even then, it's likely that Brady will experiment. Hopefully, it'll be with one of the older HELP boys."

"Why hopefully?"

"It's much safer for him if he stays within the community. If one of the older boys becomes his buddy, I recommend you ignore it. Assume all they do is talk and play videogames."

Nancy stalled, looking out her window, telling herself she was doing what was best for her grandson.

"Once he has a partner, what then?"

"If he's happy, do nothing. Just keep an eye on him. If he's nervous or worried, I'd be very surprised. If he's anxious or acts like he's sore, don't stress out. Talk to his partner."

Nancy nodded awkwardly.

"Another thing; if you think he's going outside the community, call me immediately."

"You really think he'll be promiscuous?"

The word no psychologist wanted to talk about; however, it was front and center for a lot of gay kids for good reason.

Dr. Hart looked at the rear-vision mirror again. She wondered how long Brady had his headphones off. As soon as their eyes met...

"Wh-what's pr-promiscuous m-mean?"

"It means having sex with multiple partners, Brady. Sometimes a person has sex with someone to feel good; sometimes it's because you like them; either way, there isn't commitment."

Nancy took a deep breath, let it out slowly. She'd grown up in Maine, stolidly Catholic.

"When you have sex for fun, Brady, it's not the same as when you love the other person."

Dr. Hart bided her time; conflicted with so much at stake. At least, Nancy hadn't devolved into `God's Plan.'

"Brady, less assume you have sex with someone and experience a powerful emotional and physical connection with them. It's not love; however, by sharing something so profound, you bonded with them."

"Um, that's k-kinda d-different, right?"

"Many of the higher-order animal species do exactly that; dolphins and some monkey species for example. It might be part of our evolutionary path as well, only we've gotten away from it."

Nancy ahemed, distinctly displeased.

With only a two-week window, Dr. Hart continued. There was no other option.

"Brady, behind the seat, there's a welcome-to-HELP kit for you."

Before she could finish, he'd scooped up the misshapen package and ripped off the paper.

"You can open it now if you want," she added, glad she'd taken Mary's advice and taken it with her.

Inside, was a kid's dark blue nylon backpack with `HELP' embroidered in neon pink on the top flap. He held it out to show his grandmother.

"It's hand embroidered, and very nicely done, too," Nancy admired, disapproval still lingering.

"Jeff's sister did all 12 of them. You spoke to Mary on the telephone when you called to set up today. You'll meet Jeff tonight. He's a hoot." Dr. Hart lowered her voice. "He's sexually extroverted. If it makes you uncomfortable, it's best to ignore it."

 Brady opened the top zipper, lifted the flap, and...

"It's a ch-chimp-p-p-panz-z-zee!"

"It's a Bonobo. They're related to chimps, only much rarer."

Already snuggling, Brady muttered, "En-endangered rare, or rare l-like m-me?"

"Both, actually. Remember what I said about you having a special friend? Your monkey will help you practice for him."

"H-how?"

"Well, all monkeys groom each other to develop social relationships. You need to get used to touching and being touched in a loving way so you bond with your special friend."

"W-weird, b-but o-okay."

"Bonobo monkeys bond by having sex, Brady. People who don't know better would say they're promiscuous. Bonobos have sex, not for the hell of it, to strengthen the community."

Nancy jerked, giving Dr. Hart a deer-in-the headlights look.

"You can also learn with your bonobo, Brady. Look underneath it and you'll see what I mean," Dr. Hart said slyly.

Brady looked. He started to giggle, like music, even though he was hoarse.

"I-I'm g-going to c-call him Tu-tu-tan-kh-kh-khamen c-cause he's g-got a k-king sized w-w-weenie."

Nancy was about to say `not appropriate' when Dr. Hart shook her head. After a suicide episode, any communication was worth pursuing. Humor, even off-color, was especially treasured.

"Nothing else down there?"

Brady giggled again. "H-he's g-got r-robin s-sized eggs."

"It's an inside joke, Nancy," Dr. Hart explained, scarcely smothering a laugh with her hand.

"He's so soft. Y-you r-rock, Doc."

Giggling and dimples, a changed kid was emerging even as he smooched Tutankhamen, burrowing his face in a dark brown butt, not glossy synthetic fur like a plush toy, bristly like a goat.

"Just remember to bring him with you to every HELP PT meeting. The next one's on Wednesday," she went on. "I had a dozen hand-made in Morocco. Yours is the last one, so don't lose him."

"I-I w-won't. Th-thank y-you."

He wasn't about to point out that his toy bonobo also had a thumb-sized hole in its well-defined crack. His index finger was already embedded. Inside was warm, secure, and reassuring.

"You're welcome. There's also a pouch in the backpack, Tintin," Dr. Hart resumed.

They were just passing Harvard Law School, and she was already scanning for a parking spot—it was too far to walk without being really late. However, she did glance in the overhead mirror to see Brady bring his finger to his nose. The smell was faint, vaguely familiar, inoffensive—instinct was working as nature intended.

He rummaged through the backpack. "G-got it."

The pouch was grey leather with a silver zipper. Inside was a manicure set, finger and toenail clippers, a nail file, a tiny pair of scissors, and a metal comb.

 "Bonobos groom each other with their fingers, so you need to make sure your nails are properly clipped."

"Wh-what are the s-s-cissors and c-c-comb f-for?"

"Who knows; you might want to trim his hair." She hid her smile. "Start practicing, Tintin."

She glanced in the mirror and gave a thumb's up to Nancy.

"It's anatomically correct for a reason. He needs to learn how things work," she whispered, omitting that `anatomically correct' was real goat-kid genitalia, supple and soft.

00 00

 

Garçon! À votre service was a block off Brattle Street, a single story of Art Nouveau wrought iron, glass, and Vermont marble, with cornice and pilasters squeezed between Boston-red brick Georgian edifices. The entrance canopy was reminiscent of Hector Guimard's Paris metro station, Abbesses, very elaborate compared to the adjoining panorama windows.

The lanky long-haired teenage boy waiting beneath the canopy was as ostentatious as the wrought iron and glass above; carpenter-style blue jeans, red Nike sneakers, and a Canada goose down jacket, metallic grey, slim sexy fit.

The teenager waved vigorously at Dr. Hart, who waved back as she accompanied a suddenly very nervous Brady and his grandmother across busy Mt. Auburn Street.

"Jeff, you look happier every day," she enthused.

She gave him a hug, nuzzling curls and inhaling Hugo Deep Red.

"We just arrived, Ma'am. Peter's inside, buttering up the owner." Jeff turned his attention to Brady, not a cursory look, in-depth.

Dr. Hart sidled close to Nancy, and whispered, "Sucking up is more likely."

Jeff kept looking at Brady. "Sucking works, but buttering up is better; exactly where and why I can't say. I bet you can guess, though."

Brady wasn't sure why he clutched his monkey to his chest. It was the sort of thing a kid would do when he was nervous, not an eleven-year-old boy.

 "Jeff, this is Brady and his grandmother, Mrs. Singer," Dr. Hart said before lowering her voice. "Dr. Proctor is Jeff's partner in HELP."

Jeffery James Trent was a gentleman. He gently took Nancy's withered hand, his tone sincere, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ma'am."

"As I'm pleased to meet you, Jeff." Nancy smiled, absorbed by vibrant youth. "You bear an uncanny resemblance to a certain young actor of the early 70s."

Not surprised, Jeff grinned. "I look like Björn Andrésen, huh?"

"Put you in a 19^th-century sailor costume, you'd be the spitting image of Tadzio in Visconti's Death in Venice."

Jeff grinned. "Peter, Dr. Proctor, keeps threatening to buy me one."

He turned to Brady, now dangling his bonobo by two arms.

"I see you're officially one of us. Dr. Hart said you were blond. Is that the understatement of the year!"

He stuck out his hand, grasping Brady's reluctant hand, holding it, not shaking, regarding the much smaller boy with the kind of confident indulgence that comes with maturity.

Brady opened his mouth to say `hi.' He froze, unable to form even a single syllable without stammering. He nodded nervously and hoped he didn't appear rude.

 "He's barely eleven, Jeff. Go easy," Dr. Hart cautioned.

Paying no heed, Jeff twirled Brady around to see him from all sides.

 "For a P-T-er, you make a cute homo. Cute tush, too." He winked at Dr. Hart, causing some flutter as he added, "He'll be popular."

Brady didn't know what to do; he smiled anyway. Perhaps it was luck that he didn't see the look on his grandmother's face.

Jeff appraised him. "Kinda young to come out... I wasn't much older."

He released Brady's now sweaty hand, stepped to the side, and opened the door with a flourish.

"Entre, madames, et mon joli garçon!"

Nancy entered, then Brady, so embarrassed that his gaze remained on her heels. The last thing he expected was to feel a hand squeeze his butt as he walked by, his first overt act from an older male. He was sure his face was bright red, equally certain he'd made a complete fool of himself.

Dr. Hart noticed and scowled at Jeff as she passed; then, turned and winked. It was far better for Brady's homosexuality to be out in the open. Acknowledgement had to happen eventually, sooner rather than later.

The interior of Garçon! À votre service employed ornamentation fit for a Parisian bordello, more Viollet-le-Duc, elaborate wrought iron, abundant mirrors, polished brassy statuettes, and floral wallpaper.

"It's eclectic as Boston restaurants go, stylistically as well gastronomically speaking," Jeff enthused as he swaggered down a gallery, unzipping his down jacket to reveal a taut, neon-blue T-shirt.

He hung his jacket on a spiraling brass coat hook, and stepped behind Nancy to assist her. With his free hand, Brady tugged off his blue-denim bomber jacket, and stood on tiptoes, barely reaching a coat hook. With Jeff's butt within easy reach, his heart hammered. It was all he could do not to giggle as he squeezed.

Jeff pivoted, eyes wide with shock, stepping closer. Brady cringed until he blew a kiss, mocking, and full of fun.

"I bet I enjoyed that even more than you did," Jeff whispered.

Brady shivered with excitement. He had no idea why he did it other than playful retaliation; yet somehow, he managed to shake his head and hold up his monkey. However, his smirk matched the grin on his make-believe culprit, his cheeks never so dimpled.

"You're a playful pansy, aren't you?" Jeff whispered. "You're blushing. The first time you grabbed a guy's butt, am I right?"

He turned back in time to take Dr. Hart's jacket, before continuing down the hall. Flustered, blushing Brady followed close behind.

Along the way, Jeff gestured flamboyantly at paintings, photographs, wine bottles, and pottery.

"I got the personal tour from Monsieur Broche last Sunday. Over there is Gascony, and Aquitaine, and Brittany is tucked in the rear; that's where they shoot the TV show. See, the table behind the waiter statute?"

Brady craned his neck and saw a scrawny red-jacketed waiter with a bushy moustache.

"I had Duck Terrine Mousquetaire for my appetizer," Jeff went on. "Fabulously fattening, only I couldn't finish it. Peter wants me to stay svelte."

Nancy exchanged looks with Dr. Hart, who hid her smile behind her hand. Jeff grabbed Brady's hand again, all but dragging the young boy after him.

"That' s him, the owner, Jacques Broche, only everyone calls him Jack."

They'd stopped before a framed magazine story, extolling `Boston's Finest', with a photo of Jack, chef attired, tasting a sauce.

"You're sexy for a kid," Jeff confided. "Stay like you are, for as long as you can. You won't regret it."

"Um, I'll try."

"I went off a year ago. Puberty rocks, except you don't look as young."

Brady was still flustered as they flounced past the maître d'.

"They're guests of Monsieur Broche," Jeff declared. "I'm to tell you there'll be five at la table du chef this evening, not four."

Smirking, he pointed at another photo.

"Jack won the bronze medal at the Bocuse d'Or in Lyons. His mussels are to die for."

In the next photo, Jack was on horseback in Normandy. Next to it was another photo labelled, `Pheasant hunt at the Chateau du Lude.'

"He's a hunk, don't you think?" he whispered to Brady.

Brady examined all three photos, deciding the man was better than average looking, though bulky, and middle-aged. He was definitely not a hunk, not like his namesake from the New England Patriots, or the Barracuda's head coach, who he adored from a safe distance.

However, if the teenage extrovert standing beside him thought the man was a `hunk', he had to be missing something. He gave the photos a second glance. There was something interesting about the man, maybe his dark hair, receding yet still without grey made him look distinguished. Or the way he slouched on the horse, one hand holding the reins—totally in control. Perhaps the casual manner he received the trophy...

 Before Brady could decide how to answer, Jeff was on the move again, going on about French mussels; the absolute best were Moules Marinières. Brady trotted after him, clutching his monkey, turning to look back at his grandmother and Dr. Hart, who'd also stopped to look at the photos. However, they were looking at a different photo, one of the owner nose to nose with a scruffy dog, white with black patches, longish floppy ears, and a bobbed tail. It looked playful.

"Does Brady like dogs? Apparently, Jack has a Brittany Spaniel, from Brittany," Dr. Hart said.

"He's gay, isn't he?" Nancy whispered as Jeff swooshed through the nearest kitchen door.

"He's been playing catcher since he was Brady's age. He nearly 16."

"He's not what I expected."

Dr. Hart smiled. "He has chameleon tendencies."

"He's very worldly."

"That's Dr. Proctor's influence. They were in Europe most of last summer."

Nancy hesitated. "I thought all gay boys were the same way, submissive."

"It's a convenient stereotype for western society."

"You said Brady's test scores indicated he was submissive..."

"Jeff's the same way, Nancy. Boys who are attracted to men are usually submissive in bed. It doesn't mean they're weak or effeminate."

"Tell Ted that."

"He needs to deal with his own insecurities and start supporting his son." Dr. Hart stopped, took a breath. "Be glad Brady is passive. Starting so young, he'll not only accept his sexual role, he'll enjoy it."

"The sex is the main thing I worry about," Nancy whispered.

"You're right to worry. My view; there's a tradeoff between morality and reality. The potential for self-harm and repeated suicide attempts overrides what happens sexually."

"I understand and I'm trying to accept... When I grew up sex came with marriage; it's not easy."

"I've nurtured eleven boys over the last three years. All of them are survivors. They're the nicest kids you can imagine. Putting Brady with them will affect his psyche the same way."

"He practically skipped down the hall just now."

"Given the chance, most gay boys enjoy being the center of attention. Wait until Brady starts flirting," Dr. Hart added.

She took Nancy's arm, and headed towards the kitchen doors.

"During dinner, we'll talk openly. It's something I encourage. Please don't be embarrassed, for Brady's sake. Listen and learn, and ask questions. Then, he'll know you're on his team."

"I'm trying, Helen."

"Keep telling yourself the sooner, and the more openly Brady talks about his homosexuality, the less likely the chance of a second attempt."

Brady quickly discovered that a restaurant kitchen had almost nothing to do with the fast-food kitchens he'd seen behind the counters of restaurants he was familiar with. He dodged waiters, swarthy young men bustling about with loaded serving trays, and a flustered sous-chef checking soups and salads before they went out the door.

Their table was in a private alcove on the far side of the kitchen. Cooking utensils hung from the wall obscured colorful photographs of lobster, snails, mushrooms, and broccoli transformed into gourmet delicacies. A high bookshelf held French cooking books. Both bench seats had cushions with a fleur-de-lis pattern.

Jeff nudged Brady as soon as he meandered over, utterly fascinated by frenzy, yet somehow keeping out of the way.

"That's Jack over there with the toque. Last time I was here, he wore a beret."

Brady barely heard him over the constant chatter of staff and the clank of pans. He managed a nod.

"He's one sexy dude, huh?"

Flustered, he stammered, "H-h-h-h?"

Far from surprised, Jeff evaluated options on the fly. On a whim, he raised an eyebrow, and held out a pretend-microphone.

"Mon-sir, vot do you zink about eating ze dinnar in ze kitchon?"

Brady cupped monkey paws over his ears.

Jeff laughed. "Yeah, it's noisy. They've just started serving. It'll quieten down soon."

He lifted his hand and slowly stroked, caressing silvery bristles on the side of Brady's head. He smiled, too, his steady gaze fixed on the younger boy.

"It feels like carpet." He wavered, still stroking. "Don't be scared, Brady. You're safe."

Brady's head barely came to his breast.

"You're worried because you think it's bad. It's not. Once you're used to it, being gay is the best thing ever."

Brady blinked, again and again, a sure sign he was going to cry.

"I'm pretty s-sure I am... only... I h-haven't... you know, d-done stuff."

"It'll happen, probably sooner than you think. I started looking at men when I was eight," Jeff went on. "Most kids are certain around your age."

He stopped abruptly when Nancy and Dr. Hart arrived, along with Dr. Proctor, who looked pleased with himself.

"Peter, meet Brady. Brady, meet Peter," Jeff announced. "Okay, that's over. Next, I've got the seating worked out. Peter, you slide in first, then Dr. Hart, and then me."

"A gorgeous guy either side, am I lucky or what?" Dr. Hart teased.

Jeff shrugged nonchalantly. "Mrs. Singer, if you could sit opposite Peter, and Brady is opposite Dr. Hart, then Jack can sit next to him when he comes to chat."

Discarding a cashmere sportscoat, an amused Dr. Proctor slid across the bench seat.

"The way this works is Jack selects the food and wines. That way we get the full Garçon experience, without bothering the kitchen."

"I was telling Brady how I joined HELP," Jeff resumed after taking his seat.

Dr. Hart glanced up.

 "I think that's better left to later," Dr. Proctor countered.

Unexpectedly, Jeff reached across the table and took hold of Brady's hand, long thin fingers entwining with much smaller fingers.

 "If Brady and I are going to be HELP buddies, he has to know what we all have in common."

"Nancy, last year Jeff and Peter wrote a book, about growing up gay," Dr. Hart explained.

Dr. Proctor leaned toward Jeff, his voice low. "Big brother, remember?"

Jeff took a deep breath, still hand in hand with Brady, his thumb rubbing the smooth unblemished back of the smaller hand.

"The short version of Jeff Trent is Gay. I fell in love with a man when I was nine, only it was one-sided. I got the brush off and never got over it."

Nancy gulped, glancing at Brady.

"By the time I was 12, I was doing sex shows on live chat. My best friend lived across the street. He recorded me jerking off for middle-aged perverts. I didn't do it for the money. I only did it because I wanted to show *him* what he was missing. It was the second dumbest thing I've ever done."

It took a year before he could joke about it.

Dr. Hart nodded encouragingly. Hang-ups gone, acknowledging openly and without shame, Jeff was not only a survivor, he was an ambassador.

"I don't know why my friend reported it. Guilt I expect. Some cops came to the house. I thought everyone hated me because I was gay, so I tried to choke myself on aspirin. A hundred tablets or thereabouts."

Nancy winced, nauseated even though she'd been warned a few minutes earlier.

"Overdosing was the dumbest," Jeff went on. "By then, I thought being dead was better than being queer. I was so wrong, so wrong."

Brady glanced up at the change in tone. Jeff met his eyes, reassuring, encouraging, offering understanding.

"Brady, why don't you tell Jeff what happened to you?" Dr. Hart prompted.

Brady shook his head, one arm wrapped around his bonobo, avoidance response, negative reinforcement.

Nancy cleared her throat and plunged in, hoping she was doing the right thing.

"Brady tried to hang himself. We're very lucky the rope came undone when it did."

"Pretty stupid way to end it, dude," Jeff remarked.

It sounded offhanded; it wasn't. It got Brady's attention; he twitched, looked up.

"You could've broken your neck and not died. Being gay and spending the rest of your life in a wheel chair would be awful."

"Wh-why?"

Jeff blanched at hearing Brady's voice for the first time. Dr. Proctor exchanged glances with Dr. Hart. He rubbed his neck, extending a finger toward his head.

She shook her head slightly. "It'll months before we know if the damage is permanent."

She nudged Jeff. "Tell Brady why what he did wasn't smart."

Jeff ignored Nancy sitting across the table. "No sex, duh!"

"Jeff, remember what I said," Dr. Proctor said quietly.

"He needs to know." Jeff winked at Brady. "I met Peter in HELP, okay. Being in love makes life worth living."

"Wh-what h-h-happened?"

"The first day, he drove me home. My dad was cool with him; my mom not so much... Anyway, I showed him my bedroom..."

He smirked at his partner.

"Enough already," Dr. Proctor protested. "He doesn't need to hear everything."

"Seeing as you brought up everything, the next time it was even better. In fact, we went all the way. It was awesome." Jeff caught Nancy's eye and stopped.

"Brady's barely eleven," Nancy said, awkwardness growing and confidence shrinking. "I'm not sure he's ready..."

"He's tried once, Nancy. He's ready," Dr. Hart said quietly.

Jeff picked up. "It doesn't matter if he's nine or nineteen, Ms. Singer. Done right, it'll make a big difference, you'll see."

"Jeff," Dr. Hart interrupted.

"I'm not ashamed of what I do with you. When Brady's with his partner, he shouldn't be ashamed either."

Flustered, Nancy muttered. "I don't want him to be ashamed..."

"He'll suck and take it up the butt, the same as we all do. There's nothing shameful about it, not for a gay boy, Ms. Singer."

"Jeff has a point," Dr. Proctor interrupted. "Nancy, our society denies childhood sexuality, yet it's a normal part of human behavior."

Jeff raised his hand. "Ms. Singer, I respect religious values; however, Brady tried to kill himself because he thinks having sex is wrong."

Nancy reacted with a lifetime of dogma. "You think it's right for a boy Brady's age?"

"It's not a matter or right and wrong," Dr. Hart began. "Males reach their maximum libido in their early teens. Many boys are ready, willing, and able to go the whole way before they're preteens."

"Peter isn't a predator, Ms. Singer." Jeff reached for his partner's hand. "My father loves me. He's okay with me marrying Peter because he loves me as much, if not more."

"Your father knows you have sex?"

"He's on side, only he can't know. He'd be breaking the law, too. What we do is good; I mean really good. The only problem is we have to hide who we are."

"I don't want Brady going through life, always being ashamed."

"My role is to protect and nurture Jeff," Dr. Proctor said. "I take the responsibility very seriously."

"Nancy, if Brady has as much sex as he wants, is that so bad it makes him happy?" Dr. Hart posed quietly.

"I don't want him being harassed at school."

"He'll learn to deal with it," Dr. Proctor continued. "When gay boys are with people who support them, they thrive; don't they, Jeff?"

Nancy ventured a smile. Jeff nodded, grinned, and sat back.

"Ms. Singer, please don't take this the wrong way." His subdued tone got her attention. "When you can tease Brady about being gay, and he laughs, you'll know he's safe. And happy."

"I'm beginning to understand," Nancy allowed. "You really are on Brady's side."

"It's a shock, isn't it?" Dr. Proctor posed. "Society's worst of the worst is Brady's best hope."

Jeff lifted Brady's arm, clasping hands, not arm wrestling, a symbol of unity. Across the kitchen, a chef in a white tuque stopped stirring sauce, watching closely.

"Your bonobo got a name, gay boy?" Jeff winked to lessen the impact, upfront recognition of Brady's sexuality.

"T-Tut."

"Tutankhamen, how cool is that. Mine's the first bonobo. He's Plato."

"P-Plato; I r-read a-about h-him."

"He was into boys. Seriously; he wrote books about it."

"His theory of platonic love is the basis of HELP," Dr. Hart added.

Jeff squeezed Brady's hand. "We're going to be best buddies, aren't we, Brady?"

Nancy watched her grandson chew his bottom lip, worrying. After eleven years, she had a good idea of what was going through his head. Jeff was charming, gay, and flirtatious; yet it didn't bother her.

She nodded considerately. "I'm beginning to understand, Brady. It's a big step, so it'll take me a while. You'll have to help me."

She was of a mind to say more, all the things she'd bottled up since the incident; however, Dr. Hart reached across the table, taking her hand.

"Nancy, you're doing great," she affirmed. "We're trying to do in two weeks what should take several months."

"I'll try to talk Ted into more time."

"It would help tremendously. Right now, we're working on resisting negative feelings, which is why Jeff is here tonight. He's the most outspoken person in HELP, except maybe Garrett."

"I wasn't always like this." Jeff glanced at Brady. "Most gay kids who try suicide are sexual introverts, right Dr. Hart?"

"Concealing sexuality is about shame and guilt, a big part of the impulse. Resilience and self-esteem are the best defense."

Nancy hesitated, still uncertain she was doing the right thing.

"I'm sure Brady's shyness doesn't help his situation."

"Shyness internalizes emotional issues as anxiety. We need to change that as quickly as we can." Dr. Hart gestured toward Jeff.

She was about to say more when the head chef abruptly abandoned his sauce stirring and came to the table. Two immaculately attired waiters with trays followed close behind him.

"Welcome to Garçon." he began. "I'm Jacques Broche, aka Jack."

About then, words failed Jack, despite having given his introductory talk about French gourmet food countless times. It had something to do with a small blond-headed boy with a stuffed monkey, looking up at him.

"Um... where was I?... Here at the chef's table, I decide what you eat... and drink. Everything is French... well, not everything..."

The boy was close, so close he could reach out and touch him, not his face—it was too perfect. His glossy red sweatshirt was like a cape to a bull...

As the waiters placed dishes on the table, he hurriedly searched his breast pocket. With a slip of paper in hand, he looked around the table, desperately avoiding adorable blue eyes.

"Peter and Jeff, I already know. Dr. Hart and Mrs. Singer, it's a pleasure to meet you."

Again, his gaze stopped on Brady. His throat parched. The small blond-headed boy stole his breath, ripped every sane thought from his mind except one, so outrageous that he denied its very possibility.

"Platinum blond and bee-stung," he murmured.

Nancy picked up, more his wistful tone than anything else, tilting her head, with one eyebrow raised.

"What are the chances? A boy version of Jean Harlow, except his hair is short and straight," she chided in good fun.

Jack caught her eye, and smiled self-consciously. "A quiff and no curls, but a minor infraction of the original."

For the first time in his life, Brady Singer confronted a man, smitten, besotted, completely infatuated... with him.

Wary, yet not at all scary. He peeked up.

"Hi."

His croaky voice was so soft, Jack may not have heard. He did see angelic blue eyes and very faint eyebrows.

"His eyes are perfect."

"For a femme fatale, it's all in the eyes," Nancy agreed.

For some reason she felt strangely connected to the rather large man who towered over her petit grandson.

The size difference of some 20-plus inches and 170 pounds was disturbing, and unexpected. With her hopes for the first meeting simultaneously exceeded and shattered, Dr. Hart nudged her neighbor.

"Houston, we have a problem."

Dr. Proctor lifted an eyebrow, his voice faint. "I'm thinking delayed lift off, maybe a course correction."

"Okay, who's Jean Harlow?" Jeff asked, as dubious about femme fatale as Brady, given his frown.

"Other than being the sex symbol of the Great Depression. A Jean Harlow's also a cocktail, equal parts light rum and sweet vermouth," Dr. Proctor joked.

He leaned toward Dr. Hart and whispered, "Two weeks, there's no way. Two months maybe."

A rush launch was possible. A few days with progressively larger trainer plugs took care of the biggest problem. Then, a dozen practice runs beginning with minimal insertion, all very careful. The last resort to replace patience and practice was Amyl Nitrite—it was medically unethical.

Dr. Hart nodded. "She was an MGM star in the Thirties."

"Beautiful, though not a particularly good actress," Jack added, feeling inexplicably ebullient all of a sudden. "She did have a sense of humor, though."

Dr. Hart smiled. "I think Brady has a question."

"Wh-what's a f-f-femme f-f-fatale?"

Despite Brady's raw husky voice, Jack chuckled. "In movie lingo, a femme fatale is a man-eater."

Not to be left out, Dr. Hart quipped, "Oh, like Jeff, then."

"I'd never eat Peter; though, we sure as heck practice a lot," Jeff guffawed.

"See what you've got to look forward to, Brady?" Dr. Proctor added gleefully.

For a few moments, Jack tried to convince himself he'd heard wrong, or simply misunderstood; however, the three shared smirks on one bench were enough to send his heart racing. On the other bench, Ms. Singer seemed surprised, or was she acting confused?

Beside her, Brady Singer forced a cautious smile, doing his best to participate in a grownup world. He was definitely shy.

He was everything that Jack had ever dreamed about. He cleared his throat and went through the motions.

"This evening's repast will start with petite portions of Escargots a la Bourguignonne. The escargots are from Burgundy, the sauce, Provence."

Unable to stop himself, he winked at Brady, who actually smiled back. His rush of euphoria vanished when he glimpsed red contusions and dark bruises under Brady's turned-up collar.

It took all of his willpower not to look again. It was awful, impossible, immensely disturbing... In a rush, Jack decided there'd been a terrible car accident, both parents dead, just his grandmother left to take care of their son...

"As tasty as the sauce is, I must ask, please do not suck the shells. It can get very messy."

He stopped there, realizing he sounded like an idiot. Everyone at the table was staring at him. He took a breath, clumsy fool.

However, he was already hooked, committed to do whatever it took to make the boy happy. Everything he had, his entire life dedicated, anything the boy wanted...

"The wine is a buttery Chardonnay from California. Our usual Burgundy Chardonnay, which is always superb, is simply too crisp."

Another look at Brady's sweet face, and Jack felt worse than an idiot, snooty, overbearing, and demeaning, not at all the sensitive person he wanted to be.

"Next, are two types of tarts, Pissaladieres, which are made from onion and anchovy, and Porcini Mushroom..."

Now, he had an erection. Above table height. Shamed to his soul, he shuffled table accoutrements, wine bottle, glass-crystal vase of colorful nasturtiums, a woven cane bread basket. Instead of hiding his prominent bulge, Jack's awkward rearranging drew Jeff's attention.

"Escargots are really delicious, Brady. Not slimy at all."

For a moment, adult and teenage eyes exchanged awareness, explicit, primal, not condemnation. Jeff nodded, the last thing Jack expected.

"I cook the snails in garlic-parsley butter. They're a house specialty."

Brady was wide-eyed. "Y-you cook sn-snails?"

"I could whip up some French fries."

Then, Jack caught Nancy's eye. He panicked; certain she'd noticed his engorged state due entirely to her grandson. Her expression; however, was far from stern, at best a warning of sorts.

"Don't you dare fatten my grandson."

 His relief was profound, palpable; besides he despised frying potatoes. He much preferred Croque Madame Casserole, sliced Yukon Gold, garlic, gruyère, mozzarella, and heavy cream, as thick as his semen...

"Madam, I would never do that to such a beautiful boy."

Beautiful! How silly to say such a thing, but her grandson was beautiful, a perfect boy-angel. What terrible thing had happened to hurt his neck?

"Might I suggest he try a slice of escargot on a baguette." He jiggled his belly, winking at Brady. "I bet you'll like it."

As soon as he departed, Nancy whispered, "I think I like big bad Jack. He's not at all what I expected."

Her emphasis on `big' seemed to go unnoticed.

00 00

Jack was desperate, still engorged and trying to concentrate on stirring a cognac Dijon cream sauce for five smallish lamb chops. He dared to peek sideways, across his kitchen domain. Brady nibbled on crusty French bread dipped in garlic-parsley sauce and a tiny portion of his grandmother's escargot.

In all of Gaul, surely there had never been a more beautiful boy...

Jack clutched the whisk handle, years of self-restraint acquiescing to images of a smooth young erection. He fantasized, oblivious to stirring jerkily, holding a hard core veiled with softness, olive oil for slickness, sliding his fingers up down...

"They're done with the snails, Jack."

Jack abandoned his flowing caresses of Brady's lean brown belly, pimpled like the skin of a plucked goose...

"The cheese puffs should be ready to come out. Five, and a half of Limoux, as quick as you can."

When a waiter arrived at the chef's table with a small platter of cheese balls in puff pastry, and another half-bottle of wine, Jack bustled across the kitchen.

"Gruyère Gougères are a specialty of Burgundy."

He proffered what he hoped was an indulgent smile at Brady. However, he trembled inside. He couldn't help but notice the boy was interested in the teenager across from him, exchanging glances as if they'd consumed whole glasses of Chardonnay rather than sips. And they'd taken to whispering all of a sudden; in fact, it started the instant he'd arrived at the table. He had a sinking feeling they were joking about him.

"The wine is Brut Blanquette de Limoux, from the Languedoc region. It was a favorite wine of Thomas Jefferson..."

He rambled on about its crisp dry flavor, its Benedictine heritage at the Abbey Sainte-Hilaire. It took all of his concentration not to peek at the slight silver-haired boy.

"Now, the Gruyère. It is a hard Swiss cheese named after the town of Gruyères, with a nutty flavor, sweet yet slightly salty." 

Just a few feet away, Brady was staring right at him, his angel's head tilted, smiling divinely, if strangely. Across from him, Jeff, who was very good-looking, and surely as gay as any of his waiters, paled in comparison.

"I should add that I blend in Beaufort Cheese to balance the taste," Jack blurted.

Jeff smirked and leaned across the table to whisper in Brady's ear. A very impressionable 11-year-old, Brady raised both eyebrows and very slowly licked his lips, exactly as Jeff had instructed.

Moments later, Jack Broche ejaculated into his boxers, his mind having exploded with erotic images of himself and the boy, out cold, after a very stressful pelvic massage on his fabulous green velvet and Butternut fainting couch.

Having soiled his crisp white-linen trousers, he hurried from the kitchen, slowing only to tell the sous chef he had to deal with an emergency, and to take excellent care of the kitchen table.

"That's your fault!" Jeff teased as the kitchen doors swung back and forth.

"Wh-what is?" Brady murmured.

His attention was elsewhere. For a brief moment, his gaze had locked on the chef's white trousers, the place where all men bulged. He'd never seen one so large. He gulped a mouthful of saliva; he'd never had that much spit.

Then, his grandmother looked at him strangely, as if she'd been party to Jeff's silly suggestion. Luckily, she didn't draw attention to his reddening face.

Brady panicked, almost incoherent. "Wh-what d-did I d-do wr-wr-wr-wrong?"

"Are you sure you're up to one that big?"

Jeff's teasing whisper didn't go unnoticed. Dr. Proctor scowled; mostly in play, still a warning not to go too far.

If Brady had learned one thing because of his suicide attempt, it was the situation would get worse if he pretended innocence. His own small penis was erect and throbbing; and he couldn't stop trembling inside. He stalled until he had to say something.

"WH-what's b-b-big?"

Across the table, Jeff was unaware of the other boy's inner turmoil, enjoying being Brady's big-brother. He laid it on extra thick.

"Seven inches minimum; all because of you, maneater."

Brady didn't dare look up, not now. "N-no w-way I d-did th-that."

"Be a little bitch about it, why don't you!"

It was supposed to be funny. Garrett would've cackled and told him to STFU...

Jeff took one look at the hurt, confused kid, scooted around to the other side of the table, and plopped onto the bench beside Brady. Sitting that close, with the din of the restaurant, no one would hear them.

"Hey, I'm sorry. `Bitch' was a joke. You really don't get it, did you?"

Brady blinked, his eyes blinking as he shook his head. Jeff clasped his hand, both of them stroking Tutankhamen.

"At your age, with your looks, you're hot. I mean really hot, Brady. Like red hot. A man like Jack has no defenses. None!"

"Huh?"

"He's into boys. You're gay as a Gascony duck. He wants his hand in your pants. It could be any better! All you have to do is..."

"Enough, Jeff!" Dr. Proctor interrupted, finally catching on.

Jeff snapped his fingers, grinning at Brady.

"Teaching him how to flirt isn't you job," Dr. Proctor cautioned.

"Whose job is it, then, if not Tadzio's?" Nancy said with a shameless snicker.

If she hadn't seen it for herself, she would never have believed her precious grandson could flirt like a teenage girl. She looked sideways, casually glancing down. Jeff was guiding Brady's hand, steadily inching closer to monkey privates. Strangely, it didn't bother her. It was only a toy, after all.

Dr. Hart sighed. "Jeff, I appreciate your intentions; however, jumping the gun is never a good idea.

"I didn't jump. It's obvious what Jack likes." Jeff glanced at Brady. "... and who."

"He was all over you last week," Dr. Proctor interrupted.

"He was not!" Jeff protested. "Well, a little. I was only flirting to annoy you."

Dr. Proctor shrugged it off. "You've always had good taste."

Jeff leaned to whisper in Brady's ear. "Guaranteed he came in his pants because of you."

Any sixth-grade boy knew `came' was the verb from `cum', the ejaculation of semen. How he'd caused it, he had no idea. All he'd done was what Jeff told him to do; stare and smile. It had to be just right, not a big smile, a smile like he had a secret.

Jeff's voice was just loud enough for Brady to hear. "As sexy as you are, he's lucky he didn't have a heart attack."

Instantly, Brady buried his face in Tut's fur. No act; confused, agitated, embarrassed by an insistent penis poking into his tracksuit pants; he blushed as crimson as the rope burns on his neck.

"Every time, everything in moderation," Dr. Hart murmured, not ready to revise her estimate.

She gestured at Nancy, no words necessary. With true grandmotherly affection, she promptly placed her arm around Brady, pulling him closer, settling his bonobo between them, both of them caressing its head.

When no one was paying attention, Nancy leaned and whispered, "Don't worry about Big Bad Jack. I expect he's quite capable of dealing with any situation."

Dr. Hart switched to her stern, no-nonsense voice, volume turned down.

"Your gaydar is right, Jeff. It would be different if we knew more about Mr. Broche. I'm not risking everything by bringing in the wrong man."

"If you think he's a predator, you're wrong!"

"Jeff!" Dr. Proctor shook his head, looking at Dr. Hart for support.

"Not every man is as kind and gentle, and as considerate as Peter. It took me two months to recruit and train him."

"And I thought I trained him." Jeff switched seats again, playfully sucking up to Dr. Hart. "You groomed him to do me?"

"I wouldn't put it quite like that, `Tadzio'," Dr. Proctor hedged, smiling at Nancy and Brady.

He reached behind Dr. Hart, oblivious to the rest of the world, fondling his boy's long chestnut-brown hair.

"I always knew what I wanted; I just never acted on it."

"That's the best kind of partner!" Dr. Hart reached around Jeff's slim shoulders and hugged him. "I have to be sure all my boys are as safe and happy as you are."

Nancy settled back, the flaky remains of Gruyère Gougères dotting her plate.

"What comes next, I wonder?"

Dr. Proctor smiled, his gaze returning to the boy sitting across the table.

"I've seen what I came to see."

Dr. Hart sampled Brut Blanquette de Limoux, also watching Brady. The wineglass distorted reality, a few pondering moments before she answered, very carefully.

"Tomorrow, I'll have my assistant check Jack's background and ask around. If he's what we're looking for, I'll try to meet with him as soon as possible."

"I hope Mr. Broche works out. He's awfully nice." Nancy turned to scan the kitchen. "It's a pity he's so big."

Dr. Hart winked at Brady. "Maybe we can work something out."

"Or in," Doctor Procter added under his breath.

Episode 5: Monday Morning, October 29^th

 

"Boy, go away. I can't deal with you right now."

Jack Broche pushed at the nosy spaniel's head, its big brown moist nose burrowing against his arm.

"No Boy! Go!" He waved vaguely, getting agitated as his dog nudged him again.

Flecked snout, long curly soft ears, persistent, playful, endearing, ever-faithful; Boy was not about to take no for an answer. Jumping onto Jack's lopsided green-velvet couch was a definite no-no. Instead, Boy, planted his front paws on Jack's left arm and looked down at his master.

"I ought to ship you back to Brittany."

Grumpy now, because he was certain Boy wanted to go `potty,' and the last thing he wanted to do was get up from his fainting couch and take the dog outside.

"Long night," he muttered, gravelly voice, blinking, trying to remember another voice, young yet husky.

He closed his eyes. Stammer notwithstanding, he'd never forget the breathtakingly beautiful boy asking, `What's a femme fatale?' He'd been a mere second away from saying `you;' instead, Jeff asked about Jean Harlow.

"You must think I'm crazy as a loon going on about Jean Harlow," he said wearily, his imagination raging.

At the time, his observation seemed so fitting. It wasn't just the color of the boy's hair, it was everything, from quirky dimples to licentious eyes that seemed to follow him around the restaurant kitchen.

"You're my `garçon fatale,'" he mused aloud.

He fondled soft spaniel ears, dissembling. Garçon fatale was a fitting description: a mysterious, beautiful boy, young yet entirely capable of ensnaring a man and leading him into compromising situations.

He sighed as `situations' flitted back and forth, all provocative, some even dangerous. With Halloween right around the corner, he pictured `his' boy, still in his red sweatshirt, roaming Boston's streets in search of candy, saving `his' boy from roaming gangs of zombie teenagers.

"He'd make a fine demon, dressed all in red, wouldn't he Boy?"

He smiled at the thought, a boy-demon with tail and mini-trident, irrepressible, demanding, shamelessly seductive, platinum-blond and blue-eyed.

His penis, which he was certain had been erect all night, stiffened yet again.

"Even better, I'd dress you up as a vampire. A cock-sucking vampire... You can suck my cock anytime, any place," he snickered, reaching down to white chef-pants.

His zipper was still open, soiled boxers shoved down. He grasped, his thumb mashing the exposed glans, excreting even more slippery juice.

"I could put this in your butt if you wanted," he whispered. "I bet you'd be tight; so, so tight."

He began squeezing, simulating rectal muscle spasms, wondering how tight it would be beyond the sphincter. The boy was so small, his pelvis so slender, it only stood to reason that he'd be constricted inside.

Still sleepy, he sighed, his eyes closed. "What would it be like in your hot little body. So-so tight, or really tight?"

He squeezed harder, quivering, the thrill surging.

"What if you were loose?"

His grasp relaxed, until his hand slid easily.

"Nice... I like so-so tight better. Does it hurt?" he crooned tenderly, dreamily. "Not too much; that's good. You like it, right?"

Guiltily, he drew back his hand. He sighed again, tiredly, frustrated, rejecting that a boy could ever enjoy having a man's erect penis thrust into his bottom. Denial lasted nearly a minute.

 When he opened his eyes, Boy was a few inches from his crotch, smelling his aroused, drooling manhood. He closed his eyes, imagining Boy was a boy, that the smell wasn't canine...

 The pressure faded, still not enough to stop the throbbing in the back of his head; clenching his eyes shut nearly stopped it. Just one glass of cognac, or was it two; he couldn't remember. Now, a blond head bobbed over his middle, constantly peeking up at him to see if he was doing it right.

"Oh my God," he whispered.

Beautiful bee-stung lips stretched wide; he could see them so clearly, sucking willingly. Encouraged, he kept going, slowly, rhythmically sliding his hand up and down his engorged shaft, already glistening wetly. Soon, he held his hand steady and thrust, trembling with excitement, imagining sensations, slippery, spongy soft, hot inside that pretty mouth. No longer thrusting as gently as he could, increasingly erratic, faster, harder, sodomizing a boy's perfect mouth. He grasped, abruptly jerking his pelvis, driving deeply, all the way.

He grabbed for his white handkerchief. It was damp and starchy-stiff from two emissions during the night. It had been beside him; now, Boy grabbed it from his hand, playing with it on the floor. He groaned, spitting a few miserable droplets onto his white chef's coat.

Disgust reared up, squelching joy in a few heartbeats. Every precious moment of his imaginary pleasure vanished, leaving an awful, shameful sinking feeling. He dragged a blanket to cover this middle and reached for his bottle, not cognac, Lunesta, one mg. tablets, pale blue, `S190' imprinted on one side. The prescription said `no more than two per day.'

He'd already taken several. He swallowed many more, and washed them down with cognac.

Dimly he was aware of his cell phone's incoming-call tune, Les Bicyclettes de Belsize, which had nothing to do with France. He wasn't even sure how it got there; perhaps one of his waiters did it for a joke.

00 00

Dr. Hart placed her cell phone on her desk.

"He's not answering. So much for thanking him for dinner."

She went back to flicking through her assistants' hastily prepared research. Four pages summarized awards and reviews of Jack Broche's restaurant, books, and cable TV show.

"It seems our chef de cuisine, learned his craft the hard way," she remarked.

After finishing high school, he'd started a four-year apprenticeship with a master chef in Burgundy, Pierre Bombardier, personally trained by Auguste Escoffier.

"It helped that he lived in France. In one article, it said his mom worked for the U.S. Embassy," Andy pointed out.

"He's not on any sex offender list," Mary Trent added. "Either he's stayed out of trouble, or he's been lucky. A few parking violations, expired plates last year, and one speeding ticket. He drives a Jaguar, 2012 XKR." She added, snippily, "Fifteen mpg is not what I'd call green."

"He has a nice house to go along with it," Dr. Hart said, studying Google' street photos.

"Both his house and car are paid for. In fact, the financials look great. I'd marry him for his money. He can keep his boyfriend, too," Mary joked.

"Any pedo travel?" Dr. Hart inquired, her monotone concealing hope that Jack Broche was, in fact, a suitable candidate.

"Five trips to France during the last ten years. Three to Italy. None to Southeast Asia or Eastern Europe that we can find."

Andy waved a finger. "One, how do you know where's he's been? Two, why is Eastern Europe important?"

Mary returned a disparaging look.

 Dr. Hart chuckled. Andy's first day on the job, and already his enthusiasm verged on competition for the long-suffering Mary Trent.

"Mary has her sources," she said, not about to reveal hush-hush details about one of her HELP partners.

"Men who like boys go to where boys are available," Mary said smugly. "Bulgaria is popular right now. In Asia, the best action is in Cambodia, and Laos."

"I've always heard pedos went to Thailand and the Philippines?"

"They did, last century." Dr. Hart flicked through the pages again. "Nothing stands out to me."

"Or me, only he isn't my type," Andy ventured, smirking at Mary. "So, his `Garçon' and what I saw at Star Market might mean nothing at all."

"Oh, he's a boy lover. After dinner last night, I'd guarantee it; as would Dr. Proctor; Jeff, too."

"Well, Peter would know," Mary snickered. "He's had plenty of practice with my little brother."

"Now, now, let's not get petty. We both know Jeff's never been happier."

Mary lifted up her eyes and shook her head; however, it was all in good humor.

"I've got a good feeling about this one," Dr. Hart rambled. "Except for one problem."

"He's a big guy," Andy said flatly.

"His partner's eleven. He's small for his age."

"My dad was big where it counted." Andy glanced at Mary, not about to say more with her sitting at the table.

"Everything, every time; but with more moderation?" Dr. Hart posed.

Andy nodded a few times. "Either that, or you're doing it all the time. He was really careful, though."

She looked at Mary, then, Andy. "Okay, I'll put out an enticer, see if he bites."

She redialed Jack's cell phone, studying the four-page report as the phone rang. Eventually, the call went to voicemail.

"Maybe he's buzzed," Andy suggested.

"He doesn't do drugs, not even pot," Mary said coldly.

Dr. Hart left a short message to call her back when he had the time. She looked at her cell phone.

"Ten-thirty is too early for him to be at his restaurant."

"Somewhere, I saw his restaurant was closed on Mondays," Mary said.

Andy grinned. "Maybe he's at Star Market, buying Halloween candy for the neighborhood boys?"

Mary gave him a dismissive glance, picking up her writing pad from the desk. "This new boy, should I go ahead and schedule an appointment with Dr. Proctor?"

"Brady Singer. We need to take action fast. His idiot father agreed to a two-week trial."

"I don't know how to say this... He's on the edge, right?" Andy posed.

"If he's close, it won't take much for him to try again."

Dr. Hart tensed at Mary's tone. She flipped through her interview notes. She shook her head.

"So many signs and his loving parents missed every one. He's already self-inserting. You'd think he'd have acted before now."

"Poor kid's probably too scared. He needs homofied fast."

Mary tensed, magenta lips compressed, blinking. "Meaning his ass is too tight. He just turned eleven, damn it!"

Dr. Hart nodded sympathetically. "Mary, he's going to be a lot safer once he's partnered up. Until then, let's get him implanted."

Mary looked at Andy as if it was somehow his fault. "And if we can't get him hooked up with Jack?"

"Why not just come out and say it?" Andy said queerly.

Dr. Hart regarded him. "You've been there. What do you suggest?"

"I wish I could do it. I can't tell a kid I love him, when I don't. If we want Brady to have a sore ass, we better recruit Monsieur Broche."

Mary sighed.

 "Even if I sign him today, I doubt two weeks is long enough to make a difference." Dr. Hart rubbed her forehead. "Mary, set up a physical for Brady as soon as possible. I'll call his parents. Meanwhile, we'll start him on a nasal spray beginning tomorrow. Bill it to the Institute if we're out of samples."

 She caught Mary's frown; $450 per day for Synarel nasal spray was high, not prohibitive with so much at stake.

"Mary, how's the planning going for Saturday's outing?"

"Okay. I have maps of the Kancamagus Highway in New Hampshire, like you suggested. And I've booked a restaurant for four o'clock."

"We have an annual scavenger hunt when the fall foliage is at its best," Dr. Hart explained to Andy. "The two of you can figure out what they're hunting. No nuts after last year."

She waited until Mary was out of her office.

"She had them photograph different nuts." She shook her head at the memory. "Ten very-gay boys photographing nuts in Vermont; we're lucky there were no arrests."

"You want me to do what?"

"Andy, imagine you're 13 again," she began. "You're constantly horny. Instead of screwing all day, you're with your boyfriend, in his car, out looking at colorful leaves. I want a scavenger hunt they'll never forget because it was so much fun. However, if anything sexual happens, they're safe."

Andy grinned. "Enough said!"

"Next, I want you to start planning for Wednesday night's HELP PT session. Focus on how to introduce your 'every time, everything in moderation' approach, keeping in mind the Platonic ideals. Mostly, direct it to Brady, and his new partner, if I can talk Mr. Broche into it."

"If Brady's as cute as you said he is, convincing Monsieur Garçon should be so easy even Mary could do it."

She considered ignoring his jibe. After all, he'd shaved, trimmed his hair, and purchased new clothes to make a good impression on his first day.

"Just so you know, Mary found her brother after his incident. Over-the-counter aspirin, about a hundred 325 mg. tablets. A toxic dose for a kid is 350 mg/kg. He weighed about 50 kg. He was in a coma for two days. He still has kidney problems. She's here for a reason; we all are, Andy."

"We're a team; I got it."

"Make your class interactive so you don't bore the other kids."

"They're gay; why would they be bored?"

She shook her head. "They could probably teach the class for you. As far as I know, the only virgin is Brady." After a moment to let it sink in, she added, "I suspect Jack's the same."

"Maybe I'm presuming too much. With Brady on a two-week schedule, homofied is a problem."

She raised an eyebrow. "You want to explain homofied?"

Andy hesitated. "It's when you truly know you're gay. There's no turning back after you've joined the queer club."

"I never said this, Andy. After Brady's appointment with Dr. Proctor, the lack of experience shouldn't present a problem. I'm counting on you to make sure he's on board beforehand."

Andy smirked. "Showing him videos is okay?"

"It's okay for the mentors, not us! No porn ever! Besides, you won't need it. Use the other kids to expand Brady's awareness. They love talking about sex, especially if they can demonstrate with their bonobos."

"Bonobos are what, exactly?"

 "Their bad twins." She chuckled. "They use anatomically correct toy monkeys to disassociate."

"And that's a good thing?"

"In our situation, absolutely. They grow up in families with homosexual prejudices, everything from `the anus is dirty' to not touching their bodies. Having a bad twin enables them to openly express their sexuality without worrying about what other people think."

"A kind of counter alter ego, huh? I bet it's a hoot to watch."

Dr. Hart looked down her nose. "Try to stay professional, Andy. What you said about your dad preparing you naturally versus using sex toys, this is as a good time as any to introduce it."

"We still used toys, Dr. Hart, only after sex."

She rubbed her lips and gestured for him to continue.

"When, you're already stretched from doing it, certain toys help keep you that way. After a while, things get elastic inside. It's important, essential even."

"Off the record, Andy..." She took a breath. "HELP PT boys use silicone training plugs."

"Really flexible so they can stay in longer, right?" Andy said quietly.

She nodded. "They're for exercise more than stretching."

"Um..." He hesitated. "The longer it stays in the better."

It was all she could do not to smile. "Go on."

"There's one we used; a trainer with balls, not too big, just right for a kid. It has a T-handle so it fits really close. You can't see it under your clothes. Sometimes, I wore mine to school."

She winked. "As I said, the Institute can't be involved; however, yours sounds rather familiar. Again, off the record, Dr. Proctor will set Brady up with what he needs to physically prepare himself. We'll use your approach for mental prep."

Andy grinned.

"Introduce `every time, everything in moderation' as the basis for a homosexual lifestyle; only don't talk about it as sexual activity. Lifestyle as a way to develop bonds is less provocative. Do it right and the boys will have lots to say, and show you."

"I'll get some ideas down on paper."

"One more thing. I didn't want to go into it while Mary was here. I figure Brady is about 65 pounds, 53 inches. Jack is six-three, two-forty, maybe more."

"You're worried he'll get squashed."

"I know Brady's underendowed. What if Jack's not?"

"From what I saw at Star Market, he's well endowed." Andy smirked. "Like I said, taking a big one is not impossible. Boys stretch with practice, if that's what you're asking."

"If we use your father's method for foreplay, what's the likelihood for orgasm?"

 "Once Brady's stretched and in the right frame of mind, sure. A boy has to want it inside him, really want it."

She gestured. "Assume he does. How do we get him there?

"For his first time, I'd plan on a couple of hours getting him used to the sensations, slowly increasing the amount of penetration. Done right, he'll be begging for a repeat performance, the same as I did."

"Brady's father gave me a deadline. Between us, I want a sexually active, highly motivated gay boy in two weeks; am I asking too much"

"From now to wow in a fortnight; that's pushing it. I suppose, if Jack's got what it takes, and Brady wants it..."

Andy glanced out the window; Sert's massively boring-1970s Science Center, the gaily striped roof of Harvard's Memorial Hall half hidden by oak leaves. He had Advanced Statistical Analysis in an hour.

"Okay, let's lose his virginity. Once he's into playing, 24 hours with your trainer plug. Then, poppers. They'll need to be alone, at least for a few hours." He smirked.

She nodded. "Let's hope Brady's eager. They spend time getting him stretched; they consummate. Then, what?"

 "Longer would be better; a night would be great." He smiled. "Practice makes perfect."

 She smiled, too, rubbing her lips. "They need to connect emotionally as well."

"That'll happen once they're sexually active. The more my dad and I did it, the closer we became. For the `motivated' part, they'll need to be together regularly; at least an hour a day, every day. Building a relationship isn't hanging out on the weekend stuff."

Of the same mind, Dr. Hart nodded.

"I'd bet the farm Brady's ready, willing, and able. Let's give him a push in the right direction. Bring up first times in Wednesday's class; they'll enjoy talking about it."

"A little envy to spur temptation."

"If you don't need me..." Dr. Hart pondered. "... I think I'll go for a drive."

00 00

A block off Brattle Street, Dr. Hart pulled to the curb. Regrettably, the once-grand, 1880s' Colonial Revival mansion across the street had fallen victim to developers; however, an exceptionally well-done conversion all but concealed the switch from a single 10,000 square-foot three-story residence to five villa-style mini-mansions. Sadly, the landscaping was not well done. With the driveway converted to parking, and an impenetrable hedge, the carriage house in the rear of the property was effectively cut off from the street.

Again, she called Jack Broche's cell phone. While she waited, she checked the Google photo to make sure she was at the right house. She could see the carriage house. It was of no particular style at first glance; a mish-mash of rough creamy stone-block walls and chimney, a red metal-ribbed roof, and a very large window of small 19^th-century glass panes. A green Jaguar sports car was parked in a brick-paved court, adjacent to the coach-house doors.

"There has to be a way to reach him," she muttered.

She left her car where it was and walked to the next intersection, turned left, and left again, into a narrow service alley. Telling herself Cambridge was safe in broad daylight, she walked quickly, scanning from side to side, just in case someone was hiding behind a fence. With no way to announce her presence, she unlatched the side gate, stepped into the court, and closed it behind her.

"Hello! Anyone home," she called, carefully making her way across uneven brick paving.

A bronze statue partially hidden among lilies caused her to stop and stare. The statue was life-sized, a chubby toddler holding a goose by the neck. She'd seen a copy of the Hellenistic original marble in the Louvre, by Boëthus.

She glanced about, curious if there were other statues. Of course, for a chef, `Boy with Goose' was entirely apropos, although risqué—the toddler had a penis about the same size as Brady's. Now, that was amusing.

"Might as well put up a sign, Jack."

Wondering what the neighbors thought, she stepped to what she reasoned was the front door. Once a wide-hinged door for horse-drawn carriages, it was now three panels, all with glass in the upper section. The left one had an old-fashioned bronze ship's bell beside it. She gave the plaited rope a tug, enough for the clapper to whack the lip, sending a single very-loud clang reverberating through the neighborhood. No response, except for a distant dog bark.

"Hello!" she called again, knocking knuckles on the glass panels.

When no one answered, she peered through the glass. Inside, was a gourmet kitchen and dining room, doubling as an eclectic Art Nouveau gallery, a collection that might've come from the British Museum. A frieze of tiles encircled the space, verdigris and salmon-pink glazed lilies against pastel green. Below were tiled panels, decorative mosaics of fish, fowl, and field. No cheap modern knockoffs for Jack Broche, the mahogany cabinets were pure Mackintosh Hill House, severely geometrical, and glass-gridded. Extraordinary skill incorporated modern kitchen appliances, a stove and sink set into dark-red granite...

She was looking for the always-obtrusive huge refrigerator when a dog barked directly below her. She jumped and glanced down through green-tinted glass at a very agitated Brittany Spaniel, standing on its hind legs. Bothered by all the yapping, she hammered on the glass again.

The dog bounded off. She got out her cell phone and redialed. A moment later she heard a faint few bars of a late-1960s tune. It sounded French, almost happy. As soon as the music stopped, she could hear barking again. Moments later, the dog reappeared at the glass. It had something in its mouth, a piece of white cloth, perhaps a handkerchief.

Hoping the dog wasn't vicious, Dr. Hart tried the door handle. It turned, and she opened the door.

"Hello? Is anyone home? Mr. Broche? It's me, Doctor Hart. We met last night at your restaurant."

Hearing nothing, she stepped inside and closed the door. The dog approached warily, and sniffed. Smiling, she extended her hand for the dog to smell.

"What's your name, boy?"

Immediately, the dog wagged its tail.

"At least you're a friendly dog. You are friendly, right boy?"

The dog trotted off. She followed. The Mackintosh Hill House influence extended to the dining table and eight high-backed chairs, black, geometric, and gridded. Again, more tile panels filled the walls, mostly floral patterns in murals, one with pairs of storks, another with peacocks. Persian rugs covered a checkerboard marble floor.

Apparently, Jack Broche collected Art Nouveau statue lamps. He displayed seven of them on a long sideboard, all nubile brassy girls holding up white glass globes, except for a gilded spelter of a young boy. It was badly chipped, yet she could still make out `Aug Moreau 1902.' Gilded draped cloth shielded the boy's groin, yet one fold revealed underlying form.

Yet another confirmation; it left her smiling as she continued into a sunlit living room; at one end, a fireplace; three burgundy leather couches, at the other end, a glass wall looking onto the courtyard. Then, she spotted Jack Broche through the doorway, a blanket partly over him, his dog crouched by his side.

 She checked for a pulse in his neck; it was slow, weak, like his breathing.

"How's his blood pressure normally, boy?"

The dog twitched, trembling, whining softly as she shook Jack's shoulder, checked his pupils.

"Nonresponsive," she murmured, fumbling for her cell phone, looking around. "Lunesta, huh? I wonder how many?"

She scanned the prescription on the bottle. Thirty pills, maybe a dozen or so missing. The plastic seal lay on the Persian rug. She called Dr. Proctor.

"See if you can get him to wake up. I'll call 9-1-1."

Again, she shook Jack's shoulder, shoved. He muttered something.

"Wake up. Jack! Wake up, goddamn you!"

She got in his face, slapped his cheek.

"WAKE THE FUCK UP!"

He groaned, absently pushing away, so uncoordinated he might've been drunk.

"Any other drugs he may have taken?" Dr. Proctor asked distantly.

She scooped up her cell phone.

"He's responding, Peter. I can't see any drugs; just a bottle of cognac."

Jack groaned and tried to sit up. He fell back, knocking his blanket aside, gasping from the effort.

"He's starting to come around."

"Twelve mg. is an acute overdose, Helen. He's a big guy, but he still might go into a coma. You need to keep him awake. With six mg. he'll have euphoric effects, hallucinations, maybe some amnesia."

"He's acting groggy."

"Beautiful, beautiful boy. Boy, you, you need to go potty..." Jack blinked, tilting his head from side to side. "Know you."

"I'm Helen Hart. We met last night at your restaurant."

"You, you, you were with him. You his mom... He's sexy..."

"His name is Brady. Don't go to sleep on me!"

Jack swiped at his eyes and peered at her. "Brady. Brady. Brady. He's a cutie."

Dr. Proctor's voice came from her cell phone. "Now, he's sounding like a gentleman, Helen."

"Yes, he is." She smiled, wondering what Brady would think. "He's sexy, isn't he?"

Jack nodded. "Brady... Rrrreally, rrrreally sexy."

"Helen, keep him talking. Don't let him stand. With the cognac, he might have extreme dizziness."

"Yeah, he's sssssexy," Jack slurred. "Sssssexy gay boy."

She prodded his shoulder. "Do you like boys, Jack?"

Jack nodded vacuously. "Don't tell, okay. Brady. Sssexy Bradyyy. Is he a nice boy? Brady."

"I think he'll live, Helen. I'll call your office and have Mary contact his restaurant. Just keep him talking about Brady."

Relieved, Dr. Hart smiled at Jack. "He's nice; a bit shy."

"He snuck up on me. People like me don't fall in love. Merde!"

"I understand, Jack," she said quietly. "Sometimes love happens when you least expect it."

Jack sniffed, folding his arms, hands wedged in his armpits, trembling. "It's all so perplexing."

She noticed tears on his cheeks. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head abruptly. "If he was older..."

"A few years, or a dozen years?" She winked at his startled look. "Age doesn't make a difference if you love someone, not really. Would you like to get to know, Brady?"

Jack nodded perkily, despite rubbing pale knuckles into his eyes.

 "Would you like to talk to him on the phone?"

"I could never... I wish... NO!"

She placed a finger to his lips. "Shhh... Trust me."

She located Nancy Singer in `Contacts' and dialed the `home' number.

"Dr. Hart here. I'm sorry to bother you, Nancy, but something's come up. Is Brady able to talk on the phone?"

Nancy said something about Brady being in his attic bedroom, and needing to call from the bottom of the stairs because his father wouldn't allow him to have a phone.

Jack tried to sit up again. He fell back, shuddering.

 "I can't talk right now." He lifted his head and looked down. "I'm not dressed."

She followed his gaze down. His exposed sex shocked her. His limp circumcised penis protruded through the gap in his white chef trousers. The head resembled a plum, plump and purple.

"Damn!"

It was much too big to fit through Brady's anus. The possibility depressed her as much as lots of curly dark hair at the base, and testicles that looked as big as chicken eggs.

"D-D-Doctor H-Hart, it's m-me, Br-Brady."

 "Honey, remember Jack from last night? Well, he's been thinking a lot about you. He wants to tell you something."

She handed her cell phone to Jack. He stared at the phone, blinking tears, gulping, shaking his head at her.

"I can't!" He held the phone out to her.

"Why not?"

"He's he's, he's, you know, so young."

"He's a boy, Jack. A beautiful, lonely boy. He'd love for you to talk to him on the phone. Just a few words?"

 When she didn't take back the phone, Jack slowly brought it to his ear, just in time to hear Brady's tentative, husky voice.

"Hi, J-Jack."

Jack drooped as if he'd emptied his lungs for the last time. His spaniel barked sharply, breaking through a lifetime of self-hatred and denial.

"I love you."

He ended the call in a heartbeat, not certain of anything. He was red-faced when he handed back the phone, shaking, unable to look at Dr. Hart, completely overcome at having said the three words he'd only ever said to his dog.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Dr. Hart teased.

On a whim, she glanced again at Jack's middle. He was erect, considerably more endowed than the average man, even considering his bulk—he filled the couch, lengthwise and crosswise.

"I shouldn't have said it," Jack went on, unaware. "He's a kid."

"He is, but so what?"

"I can't... can't love him, not that way."

"What way do you have in mind?"

"It's impossible."

"It's entirely possible to love an eleven-year-old boy and not have sex with him. If he wants to have sex, that's also entirely possible, assuming you're very careful about it."

He shrugged, and then shook his head. "I should be dead. The world would be better off."

"I don't think you broke any laws, and if you did, I really don't care."

Jack looked up warily.

"You and Brady have a lot in common," she said quietly.

"We do?"

"For one thing, you both tried to kill yourself. For another, you're attracted to boys, and Brady's attracted to men..."

"He's... he's homosexual?"

"He tried to hang himself because of it."

Dr. Hart was about to explain what happened at the swim meet when her cell phone beeped for an incoming call.

"Dr. H-Hart, it's m-me, Br-Brady S-Singer."

She was beginning to appreciate his odd voice, his nervous stammer, too. It was who he was, what he'd been through.

 "Gr-Grandma s-said t-to c-call."

"Is she there with you?"

"Uh uh. I-I'm up-upstairs."

"You sound worried. Is everything okay?"

"M-my th-th-thing is h-hard," Brady whispered. "R-really h-hard."

Dr. Hart smiled, picturing him on his squeaky twin bed, one hand busy, fingers stroking, pulling on his overhanging foreskin, pushing it down, making skin wrinkles all the way to the base of his stubby penis.

"I'm sure I heard Dr. Proctor say to leave it alone for a few days," she chided.

Still, it was a good sign, a very good sign.

"What's up, Tintin?"

"C-can J-Jack be my HELP p-partner?"

"Ask him yourself."

With a smile, she nudged Jack and handed him the phone.

"Try to stay awake. He wants to ask you something important."

Afraid of the answer, his voice quivering with uncertainty, Brady blurted, "I l-love y-y-you."

And ended the call.

 

 

Episode 6: Tuesday Morning, October 30^th

 

A window-seat at Café Magique was always in the public eye, morning, afternoon, and evening. Parisian-style coffee, front and center in Euro-design, and adjacent to the Harvard Subway entry; it was a logical venue for someone who wanted to be noticed. Not Jack Broche, gourmet maven and restauranteur. Café Magique was crowded, which meant fashionable, not superior; however, that was only part of the problem. After the events of the previous day, he would've much preferred somewhere less visible.

Jack loathed embarrassment of any kind, yet agreeing to meet Dr. Hart halfway between his restaurant and her office could only mean confronting humiliation head on. It was only two blocks, and it had to happen sooner or later. His shame wasn't about him, or losing his reputation, or his miserable attempt to kill himself. His problem was that she'd misunderstood what he'd said to Brady, just three simple words.

"Totally inappropriate," he murmured after handing $5 to the cashier.

He needed to apologize, and politely disengage. However, the important thing was not hurting Brady's feelings—he'd said the same exact words.

He carried his Arabica Press Special to her table, and, after greeting, took the opposite seat.

"Thank you for being there for me yesterday, Helen." He thumbed through all the sugar substitutes before he continued. "I want to apologize for anything I may have said. I'm sorry. I'm sure he's a very sweet boy, but..."

He was considering `Sweet and Low' when he stumbled magnificently, lost for words despite good intentions.

"... I was hallucinating."

There, it was done. However, she seemed to ignore it. Perhaps it was a nightmare after all. Then, after a sip of her mocha-coffee latte, she had her turn, hoping it wouldn't make the situation worse.

She lowered her voice. "As I said yesterday, Jack; Brady's attracted to men."

This time, he didn't believe her, although he wanted to, really wanted to. He'd spent the last 30 years dreaming, fervently hoping such a thing was not only possible, that he would eventually find a boy who was attracted to him, sexually as well as the rest.

"I'm really not like that..." he mumbled.

As always, he denied; this time covering up with a frown. A gay boy who loved men; what were the chances of that?

"If he is... well, whatever he is, it's none of my business."

It still didn't come out right, not even close. How did Dr. Hart put it yesterday? `Is it destiny, or what?'

At the time, he was certain she was trying to be funny, anything to distract and keep him awake; or maybe she was still digging around inside his head, trying to find what precipitated his attempted suicide.

"Coffee's not as bad as I expected," he muttered after taking his first sip.

The problem, when he'd finally woken up, was he'd bumbled on, mumbling about the boy who'd visited his restaurant with her the night before. At some point, she'd said he, Jack, was `infatuated with a cute boy.' It was true. Hearing it scared the crap out of him.

"It bothered you yesterday." Her clipped accent embodied the best private schools in New England.

"If he is gay, so what? It isn't a big deal nowadays."

 Now, it sounded as if he wasn't interested.

"Why would an eleven-year-old boy try to kill himself because of it?" When Jack didn't respond, she added. "The same as you did."

"Because I'm lonely!" Jack intended a rebuke, not quite so abruptly. "I couldn't sleep so I took a few pills."

"Tell me that not being able to sleep had nothing to do with Brady."

"My dog is only thing that's important to me." He shrugged. "He's a nice boy; I hope he's happy."

Better, yet still a long way from what he wanted to say.

"He looked sad on Sunday night."

She raised an eyebrow, a moment before a faint knowing smile. As he cleared his throat, her gazed followed the bustle of Harvard students beyond the broad glass window. The male `mix' had changed since her day. Nowadays, the `gay' look competed with `college casual' and `preppy,' definitely more frequent among undergrads. She could spot them, lanky, affected, impeccable attire...

"Brady wants to go to MIT," she remarked.

"He'd be better off there than here, or Princeton."

She contemplated his reaction. "If he survives high school, he stands a chance, assuming he can get a scholarship," she said, her voice cold.

"I'm sure he'll do just fine. He's a little shy right now. He'll eventually come out of his shell. He struck me as a very bright boy."

So much more he wanted to say, beginning with how blue his eyes were and how his quirky smile made him feel quite... what was the word, `enervated.'

"He's as lonely as you are, Jack. And just like you, there's nothing he can do about it on his own."

She waited a few moments until two undergraduates strolled past, all but holding hands.

"What Brady needs, he can't have alone." She gestured at their backs to drive home her point.

Jack followed her gaze. Freshmen or sophomores, jaunty swagger in skin-tight jeans, body aware, affected gestures...

"Almost a parody of Weimar Berlin," he remarked. When she didn't respond... "Cabaret.... my favorite movie; the Kit Kat Club, divine decadence, grotesque sleaze, provocative homosexuals. It was naughty when it was made in 1972."

He ran out of steam, feeling foolish; no one cared about queer Cabaret in Harvard Square.

"A boy like Brady deserves the best out of life," he allowed.

"Based on what I've observed, he'll try again," she said softly. "Will you?"

"Will I what? Try again?"

"You wouldn't be the first..." She lowered her voice. "... boy lover to kill himself."

"Who me?" He looked about.

"You're as infatuated as he is, Jack. Perhaps more than infatuated."

"Destiny has its ways of taking care of misguided fools!" he said, more bitter than angry.

"If you mean the Gods preordained that you and Brady meet and live happily ever after, this is anything but that."

"What is it, then?"

"This a major commitment with a few perks if you're lucky; a lot of frustration if you're not, and a great deal of worry either way."

 "I work 12 hours a day, six days a week. The only perk is sometimes I get to eat at my own restaurant. I know all about frustration, Helen."

She smiled; he'd fit right in with the other partners.

"Yesterday, I didn't tell you the truth."

"This is when you tell me it wasn't an accident that Dr. Proctor invited you to dinner? I assume you're some kind of cop, rooting out pedophiles."

"I am what I said I am, Jack. I'm a psychologist."

"Who runs a program for homosexual boys; I remember."

"The program is called HELP. It's highly selective. The boys must have a 100-percent probability of suicide, meaning they've tried it at least once. For the most part, they're sexually attracted to men, however, it isn't a requirement. Two are attracted to younger boys."

"And you're telling me this because..."

"It takes a special kind of man to provide what boys like Brady need."

She watched his eyes as it sank in—sincerity, distress, self-disgust, yet caring enough that he persisted in putting the pieces together. She took Shane's cell phone from her jacket pocket, turning it on.

"I've never done anything with another man," he disputed.

"I'd be surprised if you had, Jack. At the same time, it's all poor Brady thinks about. Don't you wonder if millions of years of evolution somehow created a balance?"

"Some balance!" Jack's voice broke. "I've lived in shame all my life. I don't know where my dark side came from; Hell most likely. I didn't choose to be what I am. I try not to encourage that part of me..."

"My son..." She turned the cell phone towards him. "Shane loved black men. I also don't know where it came from. I do know it backfired and killed him."

"Such a beautiful boy... What would I give?" Jack caught himself.

"With the right man beside him, he'd still be alive."

"I understand what you're saying. I don't want to spend the rest of my life in prison."

He rubbed his forehead, talking to the table, unable to look at her, or her cell phone. One glance was ample. The boy, her son, was a curly dark-headed Adonis. His smile was magical.

 "Do you know what it's like to never be able to love?" he whispered. "I can't even talk about it. At night, it's all I think about."

"You don't have to be lonely, Jack."

He sipped French-press coffee with beans from Sumatra.

"It's better than any mass-market product. A bit strong on the after taste. Arabica richness with the price."

It was a veiled compliment, yet he still savored the flavor. Comparing it to Garçon's House blend enabled him to put off responding. Finally, he coughed, trying to clear the persistent awkward tremor whenever he spoke.

"Can I ask what happened to his voice?"

"Brady tried to hang himself."

Again, she watched his reaction; horror, disbelief, compassion, all very reassuring. It only confirmed her initial assessment.

"He was lucky, Jack. No spinal cord damage, minimal asphyxiation, enough damage to his larynx that he won't get his voice back, even with surgery.

"So, no Boston Boy Choir. What about sexy voice overs? A cartoon character perhaps? An evil Peek-at-You."

"I think you mean Pikachu."

"Right. From the Poke-a-Man series."

She smiled. "It helps that you have a sense of humor. Yours is dry; a tad sarcastic; you'll have to work harder."

He shrugged.

"The boys in HELP tend to be raunchy. Even if you're not, you can still make a good partner. Have you been around boys much, Jack?

He shuddered, tempted to strike up a conversation every time he as much as looked at a boy at the supermarket. He went out of his way to avoid them when they ate at his restaurant. Except for Thanksgiving and a family reunion every July 4^th, he even avoided his sister's twin boys, and they were outside his age of attraction.

"No coaching, Big Brothers, that sort of thing?" she pressed, just in case her staff had missed something.

 "Of course not!" After a moment, he sighed. "I used to think about adopting. One of my restaurant patrons runs a charity that finds homes for Haitian orphans." He shook his head. "I could never take advantage like that. It wouldn't be right..."

"Jack, please don't get upset; I need to ask," she began cautiously, barely a whisper. "Some men who love boys believe that love doesn't include sex."

"I'm already afflicted, Helen. Please don't make it worse."

He was beginning to open up. She took the bait, small as it was. "So, you would consider sex?"

"I don't know." He tried to shrug it off. "I might with the right person, if an opportunity presented itself..."

"On the phone, you told Brady you loved him? How would you love him, Jack; by taking him to Patriots' games; worshiping the ground he walks on; or by giving him orgasm after orgasm?"

"Is two out of three an option? If it is, we'll skip football."

Dr. Hart chuckled. He was really `opening up.' "I think he'd prefer you went to his swim meets."

"I thought he might, you know, be into sports."

"He has a nice body, doesn't he?"

Jack nodded slightly, his heart speeding up, erectile tissue engorging. He was certain it had never happened so quickly. More than ever before, he longed for a small soft hand to clasp, tease, stroke...

"He'll be great in bed; that is what you're thinking, right?" she whispered.

Jack spluttered, "Jesus." He swallowed nervously, opened his collar, and stared at her.

"I'm not blind, Jack. Besides, I know what to look for after three years."

She glanced sideways, and down, winking when she raised her coffee cup. While he wallowed in shame, she took a breath, thinking `now or never.'

"Jack, what I'm about to say is in the strictest confidence. One of the things I do for HELP is recruit partners for boys."

"Go on."

"Not just any man, someone like yourself, a true, if rather nervous gentleman." She affirmed with a nod. "Sunday night was an evaluation. It's not only my opinion; Dr. Proctor and Jeff also agree with me."

"About what?"

"You're instinctively protective. The ideal partner for Brady."

Jack just gaped. Finally, he blinked, shuddering as if suddenly waking up from a nightmare covered in sweat, or a dream with a heart-surging finale.

"I'm honored. I really do love him, Helen. I know that sounds trite. Maybe I'm crazy. After meeting him for only a few minutes, I can't stop thinking about him."

"So, I can sign you up for the job?"

"He's such a nice boy, I wish I could say yes." He closed his eyes, slowly shaking his head. Then, he sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Because it's too dangerous?"

"All it takes is one mistake and word gets out. I've worked too hard to lose everything, but mostly, it's Brady I'm worried about. I don't want him subjected to medical examinations, being dragged through the legal system..."

"When I set up HELP, safety was my prime concern. We have very strict rules you'll be required to obey. One wrong step and you'll be asked to leave."

"For example?"

"For starters, HELP promotes a purely platonic relationship, nothing more. Nothing!"

"I understand."

"As far as anyone else knows, you and Brady are friends. You joined HELP in order to help him, not hurt him. That said, what you and Brady do in private is up to you."

"Nothing will happen."

"My research indicates that a sexual relationship has a positive correlation with reducing the suicidal impulse."

"You're saying I should?"

"Nothing of the sort!" She winked deliberately. "Bonding with him physically and emotionally will stabilize his condition, and likely improve the outlook. Am I being clear enough?"

"Got it."

"Just make sure any extra activities stay private. You can share your experiences with other HELP partners; however, not a word to any outsiders, no sharing photos or videos. Absolutely, no social media."

"What about his parents?"

"His grandmother, Nancy, is onboard. Don't look so shocked."

He smiled.

"On the way home after dinner, she said you were `refreshing, not at all what she expected.'"

"That's a start, I suppose."

"His mom is worried sick he'll try again. I'll be honest, Jack. Without you, he probably will. His father is convinced that HELP is not in Brady's best interests, to put it mildly."

Jack glanced around; the lunchtime crowd would soon fill Café Magique. The fare was ordinary, French bread sandwiches, soups, and quiche—the prices weren't any lower than the lunch specials at Garçon. Success was all about perception and the best location in Cambridge.

"Meaning he doesn't want a pedophile within a mile of his son."

"I want you to meet him, on your turf so he appreciates what you can do for his son. This evening if possible."

"It'll have to be at 6:00 pm. We're booked solid after 7:00 pm; the AMA Convention has us as the number two must-try-restaurant." He grinned. "The Garçon table would be best, I think."

"Now, I'm lost."

"It's where we shoot the close of each TV show. It's out of the way and less distracting."

"Six pm will work. Maybe, I'll bring them here for debriefing afterwards."

Dr. Hart opened her shoulder bag, retrieving her cell phone to send a brief text message to her assistant to arrange dinner with the Singers.

"That's unusual," she remarked, noticing a recent message. "Mary never texts me during meetings. She runs the front office. You'll meet her tomorrow evening," she explained.

"A problem at work?"

"I'm sorry, Jack. Something about checking my email. It might be important."

She scrolled down, skipped back a screen and checked her email.

"What does he want?" she murmured, opening an email from Professor Thrall.

After reading a few lines, she shook her head.

"It's from a junior professor. He's up for reappointment. Apparently, the Department Head thinks he's short in service." She looked up. "Faculty are required to contribute in three areas; teaching, research, and service, and excel in two of them," she explained.

"And?"

"His teaching is okay, his research is about the angst of being stereotyped, rather commonplace. He has next to nothing in service. Senior faculty are expected to mentor junior faculty. Personally, I'd rather work with someone more qualified," she added with an implied sneer.

"I don't understand."

"He wants to work with HELP, clinical research and community service; he gets two for the price of one."

A dismissive shrug and she withdrew a folder from her bag. Mary had filled it with papers, reports, forms to fill in, and five legal documents.

"The rules, I presume?" Jack joked.

"I err on the side of safety. To be honest, becoming a partner is almost as difficult as being one. Last chance to change your mind?"

"As tempting as it is to say I'm ready, willing, and able; I'm not. I have no idea what's involved. Frankly, I think I'm the wrong person for the job."

She raised an eyebrow. But you'll do it?"

"If there's no other choice."

"There's not."

She placed a selection of pages before Jack.

"Mr. Singer's allowed Brady to be in HELP on a trial basis, two weeks. There'll need to be rapid improvement if Brady's going to continue."

"Two weeks isn't much time. You need someone experienced."

"The right motivation is far more important."

"You really think I'm ready?"

"No, but you'll learn as you go."

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Brady's father thinks he needs tough love. What he needs is you to love him; you, Jack." She looked him in the eye. "And you need Brady. You'll have to be careful; in fact, very careful; but all things are possible."

Jack half-smiled, wondering whether he was mistaken. Surely, she couldn't be suggesting... intimacy?

"This is unbelievable! Except you're so believable. What if I hurt him?"

"You won't because you'll be as patient as he's eager. I'm sure you know, just about everything is possible with practice. Plan on spending an hour a day with him, perhaps longer."

Jack gulped, certain his face had turned bright red as she implied, if not outright suggested sexual intimacy with an eleven-year-old homosexual boy. What else could she mean?

"He'll settle down once you've become close," she added.

"Okay, I'll give it my best shot." Jack smiled. "How hard can it be?"

"It depends on you. He's ready, willing, and able."

"So am I. Assuming I can arrange it, how, exactly, am I going to spend time with him without people getting suspicious."

"You'll think of something." She winked at him. "You'll need to adjust your schedule to fit his. Still interested?"

"It won't be easy." He gestured at the table. "Let's do it."

"Starting with the simple stuff, you need a full medical examination, plus blood tests, and hepatitis shots. We use Dr. Proctor's office in Boylston. Brady's appointment is on Thursday, 10:00 am, right before yours."

She proceeded through the rest of the documents, HELP Partner Manual, selections from A Boy's Guide to Growing up Gay, HELP's overview of Brady Singer, Age 11, with a postcard-sized photo of Brady in his blue and white triathlon suit...

"He's a cutie, isn't he?"

Speechless, his mind in a whirl, Jack nodded.

"There is one more issue we need to talk about." She lowered her voice. "Given how big you are, you'll need to talk with Dr. Proctor before anything happens between you and Brady."

"Okay..."

"Peter's the go-to person on matters I can't discuss. Also, my assistant, Andy, will be helpful." She hesitated. "Maybe more than helpful. You'll meet him tomorrow evening, too."

"Wednesday is a busy night," escaped before he could stop it.

"The session officially ends at 8:00 pm. What you do after that is up to you," she added with a smirk.

Again, Jack nodded, unable to drag his eyes away from the photo.

Some kind of elasticized cloth fit Brady's athletic body like a glove. Each bump and hollow of ribs and abdominal muscles, firm flat breasts with tiny Braille dots, belly button mostly hidden by the zipper in front, a tapering `V' of lower belly and thighs, leading down to his crotch.

"He's small for his age," she said distantly.

Still speechless, Jack swallowed saliva, licked his lips, and stared at a miniature mound of pubis and balls. The actual protuberance was well defined under Lycra, minimally male, harmless, really.

"He hasn't been circumcised. Dr. Proctor thinks he should be. I agree."

"I am; but why is it a problem for him?"

"It's strongly recommended for homosexuals. It's far more hygienic."

"I read somewhere that circumcision reduces sensitivity."

"That would be typical of the anti-circumcision lobby. Part of the negativity is due to anti-Semitism in Europe; the rest from the feminist-progressive lobby. The truth no doctor wants to admit is done the old way, they'd be right. The new way retains all the inner skin, leaves almost no scar, and maintains sensitivity."

Jack pushed back his hair, wondering if a bit of skin made that much difference. More hygienic, he could accept—it stood to reason. Far more interesting was how small Brady's penis appeared under his triathlon suit. Fully erect it would still be smaller than his thumb, maybe as small as Brady's thumb. Everything `boy' would fit in his mouth with room to spare...

Images of tiny gourmet delicacies occupied his frontal lobe, tender crab leg with a piquant ginger sauce, chili-lime shrimp in coriander-yogurt sauce, a spear of asparagus slathered with Hollandaise...

He savored every delicious morsel until Dr. Hart started going through the legal documents. A few pages needed his signature; the rest went back in the folder after often-prolonged discussion.

 

 

Episode 7: Tuesday Afternoon, October 30^th

 

"Brady, get off the road, now!"

Brady turned at his grandmother's voice, catching her frown. He stepped back, balancing on the very edge of the curb, meeting the `letter of the law.'

"It's d-d-down th-there, r-right?"

He pointed down Mt. Auburn Street. Swim-warm-up jacket and pants, casual, stretchy, comfortable. Faux Harvard crimson was still attention-getting, especially when other kids were in school.

"What is, Honey?" Nancy inquired, pretending she was unaware.

"J-Jack's r-restaurant."

Brady peered around a woman waiting to cross the street. It had been dark when they walked the streets of Cambridge, four blocks from Dr. Hart's office to Garçon. He remembered passing THE GARAGE; single file, because even on Sundays, people packed the sidewalk, and the outside tables and red umbrellas took up so much space.

"Honestly, I don't remember. We were in rather a hurry."

"W-we could h-have l-lunch at T-Tasty B-Burger?" he suggested, hoping she didn't notice the Subway nearby.

"We could, but we won't. A half-hour is probably enough time to spruce you up."

Distracted from searching for Jack in a sea of faces, Brady looked up at her.

 "Huh?"

She looked him in the eye, hesitating, her slight smile reassuring, even conspiratorial.

"You're a very good-looking boy, Brady Singer."

He shrugged it off as he always did. "S-so?"

"You'll be even cuter after seeing a proper hairdresser."

"I l-like m-my h-hair the w-way it is, Gr-Gramma."

"You want to look your absolute best for Jack, don't you Sweetie?"

He muttered something about never seeing him again. She gave a grandmotherly sigh.

"I think it's time for a change. You're way too overt. We need to tone it down, or you'll scare Jack off. More sporty with a hint of Tintin. That way he'll know what he's in for."

Before he could ask, she took his hand and started down the street. Three, four shops, until she stopped before a unisex hairstyling studio.

"I hope we don't have to wait. We're supposed to meet Dr. Hart at two pm."

Brady's face lit up, hope renewed. "Wh-why?"

"She said something about promising you ice-cream."

"With Jack?"

Nancy gave a curt head shake and quickly looked up so he couldn't see her smile.

Inside, a disappointed Brady took one look at the stylists and lost interest. For a straight boy, it was a fantasy come true; six, sexy, slim women in black leotards, all in their early 20s, flawlessly styled hair, half of them gushing `Welcome to Monique's' when Brady and Nancy walked through the door.

It was unsettling; not only because they all sounded the same.

"I hope we're in the right place," his grandmother whispered in his ear.

He was ready to suggest they leave. Instead, his grandmother insisted on dragging him around the waiting area, taking in mirrors, chrome and black seats, signed black and white photos of celebrity customers. She divested him of his jacket, leaving him with his shirt collar turned up, and looking at a rack of fancy fashion magazines. She went over to speak to a very-fake-blond receptionist.

Brady could tell they were talking about him, the receptionist smiling, nodding at him, before beckoning to a stylist, the only one out of uniform in a skin-tight shimmering lace-up bodice and hip-hugging skinny blue jeans.

Even to his unappreciative eye, she was stunning. A few moments later, she stood before him. She was tanned with moussed short dark hair.

"Hi Brady. I'm Monique."

Her mellow accented voice took Brady by surprise. He raised his hand in reply.

 She looked him over. Already warned about his neck, she enthused, "My, you are cute, and so blond. I bet the girls at school love you to death."

Brady shrugged, pushing up his collar.

"Your grandmother said you want to look extra special. Can I ask why? I'm thinking you're going on your first date."

"U-um." He shook his head, careful to keep his collar tucked up.

"I adore your quiff," she teased. "It takes a minou like you to wear it. You know what I mean, don't you?"

"Wh-what's a m-m-m..."

"A minou, Sweetie, is French for a kitty. A pussy. Only your quiff, it's too loud. You look girly, much too gay even for Cambridge."

"M-my gr-grandma th-thinks I-m too o-overt.

"She's right. You want to whisper, never shout. Let your sexy body say, `I have a nice tooshie.'"

He inched back, nervous, inexperienced, confused as heck, glancing over his shoulder. His grandmother nodded encouragingly even as Monique took his wrist, leading him away, past the other stylists.

Brady was still trying to decide why they smirked when he was abruptly plopped into a chair and spun around to face himself in the mirror. Once he was settled, she draped a satiny black gown over his shoulders and front. Her fingers circled, lightly brushing his neck, his ears, his forehead, avoiding his neck.

"Monique's minou will be extra, extra special," she purred, her lips almost touching his ear. "You are a gay boy, right?"

"M-m-me?"

"Yes, you!" She tested the length of Brady's hair.

"I t-t-took a t-test... kind of a test... I've never had one like that."

Monique giggled, still undecided about image, yet honing in on the right track. "You got an A for gay, right?"

Brady skewed his head to look up at her. "I-I d-didn't g-get a gr-gr-grade."

"I'm teasing, silly boy. I've taken the same Facebook tests. They don't prove anything. There's only one way to know if you're gay." She leaned in and whispered. "You like having a boy in your tooshie."

"Wh-what if I d-don't w-want to."

 "Don't be silly; anyone can see your cock is too small to put in a boy," she whispered. "You barely have a bump down there."

"Huh?"

 "Of course, I might be wrong. You don't dress like a gay boy," she muttered. "They're into style, and showing off the goodies." She winked meaningfully. "Please don't take offense; your clothes are so Walmart."

"My m-mom choses th-them."

Monique thought it better not to comment. She selected scissors and comb, decided on a plan of attack, and began snipping quickly.

Brady watched the mirror, his quiff getting progressively smaller, all but disappearing. Finally, only spiral bristles remained. Surprisingly, his forehead was less noticeable, his ears, too. His face was no longer his until he frowned at the mirror. His eyes seemed bigger, too.

"I l-look so d-different."

"You're a very sexy boy; even sexier with the right clothes."

"Wh-what sh-should I w-wear if y-you know... I w-want t-to l-look g-gay?"

"You want to shout, or whisper?"

"In b-between."

She continued styling, checking length, clipping carefully, before she glanced down. "Definitely not that shirt."

 It was olive-green corduroy, like something from the backwoods of Maine. Size 12 was so big on him that he needed to roll up the sleeves.

"With your body, Minou, always tight T-shirts. Pastels are best. White is for dorks; black if you're Jewish, from New York; pink if you want to get a boyfriend fast."

"Wh-what if I-I d-don't want a b-boy fr-friend."

"Whatever! With your looks, you'll stand out with a scarf. Not a winter woolly, chiffon. It should be flimsy and soft on your neck. With your eyes, pale blue, like robin eggs."

Brady looked up, a like soul, gentle, caring, understanding.

"And ask your mom for money to buy designer jeans," she added.

"I-I still h-have m-money fr-from my b-birthday."

 "Get the skinny size."

Brady giggled. "Why?"

"The tighter your pants, the more you show off your goodies. You're a boy so you want your tooshie to stand out, not what's in front," Monique snickered.

"Wh-why?"

"Because bending over is what pussy boys do, Minou! I would kill for melons like yours."

00 00

As soon as they were outside Monique's Salon, Brady glared accusingly at his grandmother.

"D-dad's g-going to b-be m-mad."

She winked at him. "We'll tell him it was twenty bucks, including the tip."

Nancy rotated her finger. No longer worried about spending $40 on a haircut, Brady executed a gleeful three-sixty, ignoring a man who had to step around him. The man was attractive in an Eastern European way, skin that seldom saw sun, straight hair, sleek and shiny as if to match the thick black frames of his glasses, a closely trimmed beard.

His grumpy face was hardly in keeping with his attire, slacks, polka-dot bowtie, and baize sports jacket.

"Feygele! He should be in school!"

Then, he sucked saliva between his teeth, an ugly rude sound like a milkshake through a straw. A few blocks from Harvard's international campus, it wasn't completely unexpected.

Hoping Brady hadn't heard, Nancy poked out her tongue, took Brady's hand, and pulled him after her.

"I think the new Brady Singer is worth every penny," she declared, finally stopping when they reached Brattle Street.

`Wh-what h-he s-said, 'f-feygele' is `l-little b-bird' in Y-Yiddish."

 "How you know that, Brady Singer, I have no idea!"

"It m-means `g-gay.' I th-thought I l-looked l-less g-gay."

"Brady," she sighed and shrugged. "You do, a bit."

"B-but h-he st-still s-said I w-was g-gay."

She leaned and whispered in his ear. "Well, you are. You're my gorgeous gay boy, just not as showy." She looked around. "Where is Ben and Jerry's anyway?"

Brady pointed back the way they'd come. "The G-Garage."

Nancy reddened, muttering about forgetfulness and age, although she clearly remembered eating strawberry ice-cream with her newly pregnant daughter-in-law, 12 years earlier.

"Anyway, I love your new look," she admired again.

"Sh-she did a n-nice j-job. She s-said I should w-wear a sc-scarf."

Nancy snickered to herself.

"Wh-what's s-so f-funny?"

"Brady, you do know Monique's a man, right?"

 He clammed up the rest of the way.

00 00

They were inside Ben and Jerry's, looking for a table and Dr. Hart, when Brady realized someone was standing right behind him. He swiveled around just as Jack playfully tapped his opposite shoulder.

"Hey, good lookin.'"

Overwhelmed, surprised, Brady beamed up at the man towering above him. "Wh-whatcha got c-cookin'?" he croaked.

Jack barely resisted the urge to bend down and kiss Brady's sleek platinum-blond hair. Instead, he ran his fingers through silvery bristles before he realized the boy's grandmother was staring right at him.

"Our gorgeous gay boy is looking a lot happier, isn't he?" Nancy whispered to Jack.

"I can't imagine why," Dr. Hart added from Brady's other side. "He's sexy, too."

Brady's head swiveled again, grinning at her, his grandmother too, even though he wanted to be angry with her.

"Me, sexy?" Brady gulped, unaware that Jack's eyes went wide.

"Everything going okay?" Dr. Hart inquired. "Down below."

Brady nodded; it was either that or stutter in front of Jack.

"The swelling has gone down, right?" she pressed.

He nodded again, increasingly awkward, and it wasn't because she was talking about his private parts. So close to Jack he could touch him, yet he dared not. It was nice that Jack had touched him, though. Just his hair, still better than nothing.

He peeked up at Jack as soon as Dr. Hart turned away, keeping an eye on a coterie of German students tromping down the stairs.

Without warning, he began to feel strange, nervous, shivery, then shaky, as if his legs were trembling. Worse, he wanted to smile at Jack. He couldn't, not with him talking to his grandmother about ice-cream flavors. Then, the heat started, a rush that left part of him stiffening, stretching, rising up. Instinctively, he felt his neck, making sure he'd buttoned up his shirt, bruises hidden.

"And you're still putting the ointment on everything, like I showed you?" Dr. Hart said distantly.

Before he could turn to her and nod, she turned to Nancy, taking her arm and leading her up the stairs before other customers realized a table was available on the second floor.

 "Brady needs alone time with Jack," Dr. Hart said quietly. "I assume Ted's okay about dinner?"

"He complained tonight wasn't enough warning. He's also worried about the bill."

"Jack didn't mention money. After our meeting this morning, I seriously doubt it'll be Dutch. He arranged for us to sit at what he calls the Garçon table..."

Jack was vaguely aware that his hand rested on Brady's slim shoulder. How had that happened? When had his thumb started massaging a cave of warm tender skin burrowed into the boy's collarbone? However, it felt very reassuring, different than running his fingers through bristles, which was also very nice.

"What's your favorite ice-cream?" he whispered. "Let me guess. The most lickable is Strawberry Cheesecake."

"L-lickable?"

Hearing Brady speak one word made his heart race. Or was it from squeezing Brady's upper arm. He wasn't at all sure how his hand got there, or for how long; however, it felt good, really firm. Swimming, running, and biking; no wonder.

"It's when you want to run your tongue over something again and again. Imagine, smooth, slippery, sweet." Jack licked his lips and went wide-eyed as if he'd shocked himself. "I've heard Sweet Like Sugar is really good."

Brady blushed, although Jack could've said any one of 32 flavors and gotten the same reaction. His penis was so stiff he was certain everyone could see it sticking out in his loose warm-up pants.

"Dr. Hart wants cookie dough in a waffle cup. Your grandmother wants mint chocolate chip. I'm having a Caramel Blondie; that would be you with a suntan..." Abruptly, Jack covered his face and shook his head. "Oh my! Did I just say that? You must think I'm crazy."

Brady giggled and shook his head. For no reason other than whim, his pink tongue poked out, teasing as he licked his lips, tantalizing full, red, bee-stung lips. Jack gaped, a Bucky-Beaver boy until the rest of his teeth grew in, pure-white, perfect.

"C-could I h-have a c-caramel b-blondie p-please?"

 

 

 

Episode 8. Tuesday Evening, October 30^th

 

"Hurry up or we'll be late," Julie Singer shouted up the stairs.

Barely home from work, a few minutes to change her blouse and spruce up before she had to rush out again, no wonder she shouted.

"A few minutes. Who cares?" Ted grumbled, leaning back against his newel post.

He'd glued, lathed, sanded, and varnished it himself. To his mind, it was an outstanding example of wood craftsmanship, art-gallery-quality in Bird's eye maple.

She gave him a cold look. "I care, and you should, too. How often have you told Brady it's rude to be late?"

He rubbed his bristly chin with the back of his hand, like 60-grit sandpaper.

"You said you were going to shave," she objected, looking him over.

He made a sound in the back of his throat, turning to look up the stairs. A passing glimpse was enough to raise hackles.

"What the..."

Brady stayed behind his grandmother all the way down the stairs.

"Well, look at you," Julie said brightly.

She rotated her finger. Brady turned reluctantly, very aware that his father was scowling.

"Different haircut?" Ted demanded abruptly.

"I took him to a stylist in the Square," Nancy said, glancing at Julie.

"Ted's eyes narrowed. "How much?"

"It wasn't very much."

Nancy stalled, looking her son in the eye and daring him to query, all the while hoping Julie would intervene.

"Twenty dollars with the tip."

"For the jacket." Ted flicked it with a finger. "Don't even try to tell me it came from Goodwill."

"Don't be such a grump, Ted," Julie chided. "At least you could say he looks very handsome."

"Doesn't he though," Nancy enthused." It's the exact same color as his hair," she added, offering an approving smile to her grandson.

"He looks like..."

Ted considered saying `a faggot;' however, the cowlick quiff was gone, or at least knocked down to size. Barely a recalcitrant tuft remained, a tiny upturn over Brady's forehead. It made him look, not more manly, less flamboyant. The rest of his platinum-blond hair was shorter by a fraction of an inch; however, it was much sleeker as it spiraled out from a second cowlick at the back of his head.

And then there was the rest of Ted Singer's fixation; his son was too pretty by far, his plump red lips exaggerating an obscenely kissable mouth, blue eyes that always seemed to know the answer to everything...

"... your average spoiled rich kid." Ted glared at his mother. "You wasted your money, Mom. He'll grow out of it in a year."

"Ted, please." Julie tugged on her husband's arm. "We'll be late as it is."

"Mr. Broche, Jack, bought it for him," Nancy confessed, worried that her son would smolder in silence until he finally exploded.

"And how did that happen, exactly?"

"He wanted to buy Brady something nice."

Ted smirked. "No need to say why. I can guess."

He all but pushed them out the front door. He stayed behind, checking the locks on windows and the rear door, while Brady, his mom, and grandmother went out to the family minivan.

"W-we had ice-cream w-with J-Jack and Dr. H-Hart, M-Mom. H-he s-said I s-saved h-his life w-with a ph-phone c-call. Cr-crazy huh?" Brady whispered to his mom as soon as they were out of hearing.

Julie returned a reassuring smile and nudged her mother-in-law. "Even I know a Canadian goose-down jacket when I see one. They're expensive, Nancy."

"It was Jack's idea. I've never seen a man so..."

"What?"

Nancy lowered her voice as Brady went to the other side of the van. "... He's infatuated. He couldn't take his eyes off Brady."

She didn't say `infatuation' was mutual, although it was. Her shy undersized grandson was awed, all but speechless. Mostly he nodded and spooned caramel ice-cream between his luscious red lips, constantly peeking up at the man seated next to him.

"Don't say that to Ted, whatever you do." Julie took a chilly, deep breath and pulled her coat closer. "Hopefully, with this cold spell, we'll start seeing color soon."

"Brady has a special HELP meeting tomorrow evening," Nancy said, a preplanned wink across the seat to Brady.

"It's f-for H-Hallow-w-ween, M-Mom."

"Dr. Hart said he should come dressed up. Jack suggested as a vampire." Nancy gave a shrug. "I have no idea why. He said `demon' first, and then changed his mind."

Julie turned in the front passenger seat, frowning at Brady. "It's too late to make you an outfit. You said you didn't want to do Halloween this year."

"B-but I-I w-want to g–go to H-HELP." He looked to his grandmother.

Nancy nodded. "The meeting's at Dr. Hart's office in Cambridge. Jack said he'd pick up an outfit this afternoon."

"Is he listening?"

Nancy nudged Brady, touched her right ear, and waited.

"He has his headphones on, now."

"You're not allowed to drive him at night time," Julie said.

"Jack said he'd pick him up, and take him to dinner afterwards, if it's okay with you and Ted," Nancy clarified. She glanced at her grandson.

"Dinner, a pricey jacket, sexy new jeans, and a T-shirt. It's like Christmas."

"Julie, it's been two years since Brady's had any new clothes."

She regretted saying it immediately. A large part of the renovation cost was to construct her second-floor apartment and finish the attic for Brady.

"It seems Mr. Broche is buying my son, that's all."

"He gave me a credit card to use when he needed something," Nancy said.

She wasn't about to admit it bothered her, too. However, she wasn't ready to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth.

Julie turned to check Brady had his headphones on. "He's barely eleven, Nancy."

"I worry, too; more about what Dr. Hart said might happen."

"I want him to see twelve as much as you do."

"Jack's not what you think. He's a gentleman."

Julie spotted her husband, a shadow on the front porch, switching on the overhead light, double checking he'd locked the front door behind him.

"I just wish Ted had some of your commonsense," she confided.

"I don't think we should worry Ted more than we need to."

"M-Mom, wh-what about t-tomorrow n-night?" Brady had his headphones off.

Julie looked up at a headliner spotted with varnish, no idea how it got there. She exhaled, decided.

"Don't mention it. As far as he knows, you're going trick-a-treating with friends."

"Thanks Mom."

For a moment, Julie Singer thought her son had stopped stuttering.

"L-love y-you."

00 00

Jack Broche rose from his seat the instant he spotted a silver-jacketed Brady come through the front door.

 "Mon garçon est arrivé," he exclaimed to an amused Dr. Hart.

With a flourish, he gestured to his maître d', `bring them to my table.' His table was the quietest spot in `Brittany,' partially concealed from other diners by a large glazed statue, a skinny waiter, uniformed, with a dangerously tilted tray, parodying Garçon.

Dr. Hart hid her smile behind her hand, murmuring, "Partners."

"Pardon, Mademoiselle?" He tossed in a ridiculous French accent.

"Who would've thought a cute preteen could turn Boston's culinary connoisseur into a fawning nervous Nellie," she teased, her voice barely above a whisper.

Still standing, Jack pretended shock. "Me, nervous? Hardly!" He lowered his voice, now smiling openly at Brady. "Don't tell him; I worship the ground he walks on."

"After today, I expect he's already figured it out for himself," Dr. Hart chided.

Jack turned to greet Nancy, graciously lifting her hand to his lips.

"Et encore, Madame bénit mon restaurant. Bienvenue."

As he pulled back her chair, Nancy thanked him. She sat down, wrapped her arm around Brady, and drew him to her side.

"Better stay close or he'll kiss you, too," she whispered, "And it won't be on your hand."

Unaware, Jack extended his hand to Brady's mother. "Mrs. Springer, it's a pleasure to meet you."

Adroitly, he guided her to sit opposite him, drew back her chair, and returned it. Then, he turned to Brady, already divested of his silvery down jacket, stunning in taut pastel-blue T-shirt and skinny blue jeans. His blue chiffon scarf shimmered, eye-catching, yet concealing. Prepubescent, there was no Adam's apple, just a precise square knot. Blue definitely, positively, absolutely suited him, and emphasized no-longer-quiescent sexuality.

Brady giggled, holding out his hand, doing his best to act grown up. "H-hi, J-Jack."

"New hair style, new clothes, new Tintin, right?" Jack said for no other reason than he'd forgotten what he'd been planning on saying.

Yet again, it struck him how warm the boy's hand was. It was even softer and smaller than he remembered. He'd never forget Brady's slender neck, awfully damaged, now adorned by pale-pastel-blue silk.

"Uh uh. S-same old Tintin," Brady giggled as they shook hands, unaware of his father looming behind him.

Luckily, Jack resisted temptation, of the mind he might not get away with a familiar kiss on Brady's hand.

"Mr. Broche, I'm Ted, Brady's father."

"Mr. Singer, I'm glad you could make it. I'm sorry about the short notice."

"Not a problem," Ted said, shaking hands summarily.

Jack took his seat last, thinking the divide-and-conquer seating pattern was perhaps a bit too clear, what with Brady sitting between him and his father, then Brady's mom, Dr. Hart, and his grandmother.

"First order of business, wine. Might I recommend a white Burgundy. Our C`te de Beaune sets the standard, a Chardonnay, oak-aged with marvelous flavors. It's excellent with many of our richer chicken and fish dishes."

Ted returned a stony stare. "Could I see a menu?"

Dr. Hart inhaled. "Jack, I told Dr. Proctor I would check Brady for him and report right away. Is there somewhere private?"

"My office. Past the kitchen, the next door on the right."

Jack waited until Brady and Dr. Hart were out of sight.

"Mr. Singer, I appreciate how you must feel. I can't begin to imagine what you're thinking right now. Please believe me when I say this is as difficult for me as it is for you."

"Hmphh!"

"I barely know Brady, yet I would be very proud if he was my son."

Ted unrolled his napkin. It was huge, like the tablecloth, the same crisp white linen with blue edging. He spread it across his lap and lower belly with plenty to spare.

"He's your average good kid most of the time."

"Today, when we were eating ice-cream, your son said something," Jack segued.

"Don't pay too much attention to anything he says. He's going through a phase, that's all."

"He didn't know what flavor you liked." Jack nodded at Julie. "Apparently, you will kill for chocolate."

"Not all the time. I've been known to eat strawberry on occasion," Julie laughed.

"Your point is what?"

"It suggests he's never been close to you, and now he's growing even farther away. It happens as boys grow up."

"And?'

"He's clearly not old enough to decide his future." Jack hesitated. "I don't want to be part of the problem. The solution, yes; if you want me."

It was the last thing Nancy expected. She took a breath.

Julie thought it sounded as if Jack was asking permission. She went with mothers' intuition.

"Brady's a great kid. However, he's not like other boys, Jack."

Jack met her eyes. "I'd like to help in any way I can."

"He needs, I don't know what... More than what we can give him. I look at him and I know he's unhappy..."

"Julie, I said I'll give him more attention," Ted interrupted.

"Ted, it isn't about you!" Julie exhaled.

 "Brady likes men," Nancy said quietly. "I never thought I'd say that, but it's true. His eyes lit up when he saw Jack today."

"They did a few minutes ago, too," Julie added.

"He didn't say much at the ice cream shop, mostly because he's afraid of stammering. Still, I could tell he was happy, really happy."

"Mom!" Ted interrupted. "Enough already. This is about this family as much as it's about Brady!"

"As it should be," Jack said calmly. "I'm not trying to take your son from you; however, I'd be misleading you if I didn't say this. I'd give anything to have Brady as my son."

"Like you'd care for him the same as I do," Ted retorted.

"You don't seem to care that your son wanted to die. I think Mr. Broche cares!" Julie added.

"I answer better to Jack, chef, or hey you," Jack jested.

"So, let's be chummy. I'm Ted. My wife's Julie. Nancy, you've already met. There's just one problem, Jack; I know exactly what you want to do to him!"

 Jack resisted, closing his eyes momentarily. "Dr. Hart told me what happened last week. I understand how you feel. If I was his dad, I'd start by hugging him and telling him that being gay is okay."

Ted fumed until he couldn't contain himself. "You're not his father! You don't know what you'd do!"

"I think Jack's right, Ted," Julie said. "More than anything, Brady needs us to support him."

"How would you know? You're never home."

 "I was with him that day, you weren't!" Nancy snarled, her voice low. "I'd much rather he was friends with Jack than go through that again."

Ted glared back. "Friends? You really have no idea what will happen after he's been groomed, do you?"

Nancy fixed her gaze on Ted, intense despite her whisper. "Frankly, I'd much prefer Brady slept in his own bed. That said, better he's in Jack's bed, than dead."

"If it's only a phase, he'll grow out of it," Julie said, more ultimatum than observation.

Ted rolled his eyes. "And if it's not, what then?"

"We won't have grandkids. However, we'll still have a son, and he'll be happy."

Ted glowered back, anything but accept he was outnumbered, outsmarted, too. He looked around, taking in paintings and photographs, pottery, antique cooking wares, the ceramic Garçon statue to the side.

"This is where you shoot the end of your cooking show, eh?"

"You're sitting in my usual chair. It's from Brittany, the same farm where I got my dog. Unfortunately, with the armrests, you sit a back from the table," Jack replied, relief palpable.

"I watched it on YouTube before we left the house. I'm not into cooking. I'm working on a woodworking show, Mainely Wood. It's a play on words; Maine culture expressed through natural materials."

"It sounds interesting," Jack allowed.

"You do a good show, considering the subject. I learned a few things watching it," Ted muttered.

"I saw it earlier with Brady. It was excellent," Nancy added. "So much information, like all the kinds of olive oil and their different tastes."

"It takes a lot of work to prepare. Going from YouTube to cable was a huge step," Jack said. "There are an awful lot of French chefs with aspirations of fame and fortune. With a TV show and a couple of books, it's a lot easier to stand out."

"Tell me about it. I've written a book on wood glues. No publisher, yet," Ted said. "Right now, I'm focusing on Mainely Wood."

"Once I realized what I needed to do, I spent months writing taglines." Seeing Ted's puzzlement, Jack added, "I ended up with a single sentence. 'In a world of fast food, savor a cornucopia of Cuisine Nouveau.' Hokey, yet it worked for me."

"I don't know about Cuisine Nouveau, but cornucopia is exactly right," Nancy said, glancing around.

Ted gave his mother a dismissive glance. "Well, I'm glad you get it because I don't."

"A good tagline triggers the imagination, Ted. It's compelling, without giving details," Jack explained.

"What's Cuisine Nouveau?" Nancy asked.

"For me, it's the culinary version of Art Nouveau. I made list after list about what it meant to have a `cornucopia of Cuisine Nouveau.' Then, I converted the lists into categories, history, geography, culture, food, utensils, presentation, furniture, over a dozen by the end."

Surprisingly, Ted paid attention. "Making lists I get, but why?"

"I had to create the right approach. I needed a stage set for a show that was all about overwhelming the senses, French to excess. All of the show had to be very intense. I invested in 19^th-century Art Nouveau, mostly on eBay with my budget."

Jack gestured at his auction acquisitions, a huge crazed-ceramic fish dish, a feminine vase with silk orchids, a bronze platter with Ganymede and Zeus, gold frames with finicky paintings of Brittany. Wherever the eye went, there were things to see.

"At first glance, it seems cluttered," he added. "However, it all makes sense after a while. It's a sensory experience where everything has a story." He smiled. "If it doesn't, we make it up."

"'All very intense,'" Ted said. "I had no idea. It makes my workshop look dull."

"Because you are dull; nice but dull," Julie teased.

"Ted's father was from Maine," Nancy added, getting into the mood upswing.

Ted grunted. "We Northerners are rugged and dependable. Unfortunately, it's hard to make woodworking into a sensory experience."

"Cooking is an entirely different experience," Jack agreed. "The same process could work, just another approach."

Brady was perky when he returned to the table. "C-can w-we order. We're st-starving, a-aren't w-we, Dr. H-Hart?"

"What took so long, Champ?" Ted inquired, giving his son a more-than-cursory look.

His son wasn't fat like most of his friends, or skinny, like a third-world waif. Brady was born agile, with a surprising amount of strength packed into his compact body, a kind of wiry sturdiness.

"Working out back there, huh? You're looking a lot better."

Physique almost made up for queerness.

Jack tensed at audible insincerity. He pulled back the seat beside him, admiring skinny-leg jeans riding below the boy's hips. Not much of a bulge in front, which wasn't important when the rest of him was so desirable.

Seeing his father looking at a menu, Jack gave Brady a sneaky pat on the butt, firm and round, like a small melon. With a grin, the boy sat like a well-trained Brittany Spaniel.

"Don't want to get your new clothes messed up." Jack leaned in to whisper. "With your scarf, you're a French fashion model; très chic."

With a deft flick of his wrist, he unrolled the napkin, tucked it to cover the lower half of Brady's T-shirt and jeans, garnering a muted giggle before he pushed in his chair. All the way in, up close to the table edge, tablecloth and oversized napkin protecting Brady from spills, and other things.

"My neck's st-starting to get better."

 "Brady's doing great elsewhere, too. The swelling has completely gone thanks to Nancy's antihistamines," Dr. Hart said as she resumed her seat. "It's not sore at all now, is it Brady?"

Brady nodded, embarrassed. Then, he remembered Jeff, the extrovert, no shame and hiding nothing. There was no way around it...

"I tried t-to h-hang myself, Jack. Pr-pretty d-dumb, huh?"

As Dr. Hart retrieved her cell phone from her handbag, she nodded slyly at Jack, a chance not to be missed, hoping Ted would keep his mouth shut for once.

"If no one minds, I'm going to text Dr. Proctor and tell him everything's working just fine."

"I, for one, am very glad you messed it up," Jack said quietly. He touched Brady's arm. "Make that really, really glad."

"Dr. H-Hart s-said I'm the luckiest k-kid in HELP," Brady declared abruptly.

"I hope you learned your lesson," Ted grumbled.

 "I hear you're a swimmer," Jack said, sidestepping Ted's unrelenting disparagement.

"Yeah." Brady gave Jack his version of a heartfelt smile. "I'm alr-r-ready m-missing too m-many practices. I n-need to get b-back."

"The YMCA Barracudas Swim Team is a family sport," Ted chimed in, not at all happy about spending hours in a natatorium.

Every time Brady competed at swim meets, the coach conscripted his father as a lane timer. Ted hated the humidity, the constant noise, being splashed whenever the horn blasted. He was lucky if Brady swam in his lane.

Watching him was like watching a gazelle spring from the platform, making barely a ripple before slicing through the water. Some of the other parents said he'd win every race if he was six inches taller.

"Ted," Julie said, a clear warning. "If not the Y, he can join another team."

"Easy for you. I'm required to stand at the finish line for hours on end with a stopwatch in one hand, and a plunger in the other, not you."

"We were talking about Jack's cooking show on cable TV. You watched it with Gramma, huh?" Julie asked her son.

Brady grinned. "Chez Votre Garçon. I-I l-looked it up on G-G-Google and f-found the Youtube show. ON Google Translate, it m-means `At y-your b-boy.' K-kinda weird, h-huh?"

 "We're sitting where it's filmed. Isn't that exciting?" Nancy said, giving Ted her own warning look.

"'Garçon' also means `waiter.'" Jack lifted his arm, snapped his fingers, and called, "Garçon!"

"À votre service!"

Not once or twice, a half-dozen waiters called from around the restaurant. People laughed. Even Ted chuckled to himself, although it annoyed him that Brady giggled so much his eyes watered.

"C-can I try, Jack?"

Jack folded his arms and sat back. "Later, when we need service, you'll be the official garçon caller."

He turned to the waiter who'd hurried from the other side of Brittany.

"Ernie, we'll start with a bottle of C`te de Beaune, 2014. Six glasses. One Perrier. Thank you. And could you please ask Louis to serve the Croustillant du Garçons on my Limoges porcelain."

The waiter bustled off.

"Croustillant du Garçons is a new appetizer I'm testing out on you. No charge. It might be awful; however, I was inspired." He winked at Ted. "Blue crab and crispy asparagus spears in a creamy egg sauce. Not Béarnaise. Instead of tarragon, I used coriander, that's cilantro to you."

He nudged Brady, awed to silence.

"Like you, it's refreshing."

Brady grinned, showing off dimples. Nancy gaped, from Brady to Jack. It wasn't a matter of opposites attracting, or being similar. Simply, magnetism. It was `refreshing.'

"It might be tart to some people," Jack went on. "For me, though, it's very tasty."

`Tart' left her in a quandary. Surely, he didn't mean...

Abruptly, Jack turned in his chair, feasting on desire and imagination. His blond angel looked `very tasty,' indeed. Sturdy muscles bulged in his slender arms. He had the broad shoulders of a kid who swam two hours every day, his taut abdomen narrowing under his pastel-blue T-shirt before the napkin covered the rest of his middle.

Without thinking, Jack said, "You look like you're a first-rate swimmer."

Bigger grin, confidence soaring, yet Brady self-consciously put off talking because he was certain he'd stammer and make a fool of himself.

"He does okay," Ted allowed. "Right now, he's out of his league."

"Ted always looks on the bad side. Brady just moved up to the 12-and-under group," Julie said. "Next year, he'll be in front again."

"Well, let me know when your next meet is so I can cheer."

Brady wasn't about to admit he'd left the team. His shrug struck Jack as strange. Before he could ask, Ted intervened.

"So, Jack, you said you could use the same process for a woodworking show, but with a different approach. What approach would you use?"

"I'm still thinking about it. Definitely the Maine influence; dependable, rugged, weathered, boat building," Jack pondered. "Help me out here, Brady. When you think of Maine, what comes to mind?"

"L-lobster."

Nancy covered her smile, deciding Jack was a natural father, supportive and protective, appealing to an introverted boy like Brady. She glanced sideways, straining to see what Dr. Hart had been typing on her cell phone. Texts were short, vague, a few seconds apart.

`RHS near 2.5 cc. LHS 2 cc. 0.0 hair.'

`Check ejac status?'

`Just did. At 5 mins. Slight discharge at peak. Onset?'

`Likely soon. Significant amount?'

`Droplet x1. Clear.'

`Stage 2 coming right up. Start him on Synarel 3x single dose 600 µg base'

`Just did.' Then, Dr. Hart typed, `Order asap.'

`Already done. Insurance?'

 Whatever the texts meant, now, Dr. Hart waited for a response, anxious, not overly worried.

"A TV Show about making lobster pots, there's an idea," Ted said, sarcasm sending a chill around the table.

"There are no bad ideas, Ted," Jack said, looking down at Brady. "I spent most of the afternoon thinking about how I can use Tintin in my Thanksgiving show. Assuming you'd let him do it, of course."

"I don't see why not, assuming, he's interested," Julie said. "How would you use him, Jack?"

"I talked with my producer; she agrees with me. All the Thanksgiving cooking shows are too serious; either that or boring jokes about grandma's stuffing mixes, or overcooking the turkey. I want to use Brady for comic relief, wacky but funny."

"How's that going to work with his speech impediment?" Ted asked abruptly.

Jack felt Brady flinch, a knee nudging his thigh, head down in shame. He moved his right hand onto Brady's slim thigh, the tips of his fingers lightly stroking.

"It won't be an issue."

 He regarded Brady with a fond smile, his fingers making circles on skinny denim jeans.

"Tintin is going to be a French boy dressed in all white. He'll mime everything, except at the end when he says, `À votre service!'"

"I suppose you can always dub it in..." Ted said.

"Actually, I want his husky voice. He'll sound like a waiter."

"I think it's a great idea," Nancy interrupted, before Brady's face crumpled.

"My producer thinks if we push the right buttons and shoot a trailer, there's a chance it might go national."

"Who would've thought my cute boy would be a TV star? Everyone at the nursing home will want your autograph," Julie teased.

Brady looked up, not amused, worried. The ceiling, geometric pressed-metal tiles, went on and on, not luminous, surreal. He'd never seen anything like it. Uncertain of everything, until he felt fingers on the back of his hand, Jack's thumb caressing, pressing into his palm.

"I-I g-guess. I'll n-need to pr-practice, huh Jack?"

"At least an hour a day for the next couple of weeks. If that okay with your parents."

Jack was suddenly aware that his face was getting hotter. Ted was staring, biding his time. Nancy dabbed her lips with a handkerchief, leaving red lipstick smears.

"It may be longer." Punting, now, Jack added, "It depends if the show goes national. If it works, it might be full-time jobs for both of us."

Dr. Hart rested her chin, her arm propped on the table, watching them. After a moment, she smiled at Jack.

"Let's hope it goes national," she said to no one in particular.

Under the table, a small hand began pushing Jack's hand, inching towards Brady's knee, an inch or so before slightly pulling back.

With a glimmer in her eye, Nancy continued the conversation, naïve, or astute, who knew.

"If it helps, I could bring him after homeschool."

 "He has enough to do around the house without taking on a new project," Ted began. "His garden's a total mess, plus he needs to start exercising again."

Ever so slowly, Brady's grip tightened, progressing higher, closer, until Jack's extended thumb touched a slightly warmer place. Now, both hands were hot.

"Don't be such a grouch, Ted," Nancy said. "Besides, gardening is done until spring. For a chance like this, it's worth rearranging things for a few weeks."

Julie reached across the table to take Ted's hand. "Ted, please don't spoil it for Brady. If you think about it, what Jack's suggesting, it'll be good for him..."

"I am thinking about it."

Nancy frowned; his `thinking about it' was as good as a `no'.

"I hope you are. You need exciting ideas in your woodworking show, the same as Jack has in his show."

Brady looked up at Jack, adoring, still shy despite angelic blue eyes imploring silently, daring him to move his thumb another inch. He quivered when Jack winked very slightly. He pushed. Suddenly, it was all Jack could do not to smile. His thumb tip pressed into denim, a tiny flesh dome, more squishy than firm underneath. Hesitantly, he turned and raised an eyebrow. Immediately, Brady's eyes flickered, a slight smile fleeted, no better answer to his unasked question.

Jack ahemed. "Actually, I've been thinking about what Brady said earlier about Maine, how to work it into your Mainely Wood show."

Surprisingly calm, groping an eleven-year-old boy in front of his parents, making the Brady and Junior tense up while he chatted with his father, garnering a nervous tremble simply by stroking.

Ted returned a bored look. "Lobster pots are cute to hang on the wall; nothing to do with woodworking."

"I was thinking of buoys in the vernacular aspect," Jack said, giving no indication of what he was feeling.

The squishy dome clung to the base of Brady's very stiff penis. He could definitely feel it, chubby and thick like a thumb, as small as he expected. What he didn't expect was Brady's hand directing his every movement, fingers clasping his fingers. His erection was absolutely unyielding when Jack squeezed.

"If I remember my art history, vernacular is the everyday. It's about local traditions, less about craftsmanship than expeditious function," Jack went on. "A buoy, the lobster kind, has two parts, a short stake and the round floaty part; combined the right way they make collectible art."

He glanced at Ted—he seemed interested. Dr. Hart was curious. Nancy and Julie seemed relieved

"They vary by shape, size, and color, each one unique, very recognizable," he went on.

"The s-same as people." Brady added a strange smile.

"Exactly! That kind of thing has a traditional look. Every fisherman makes his own, handed down from father to son, smooth where it needs to be, rough around the edges, always serviceable."

Jack leaned around Brady, left elbow planted on the table, supporting his head as he appeared to focus entirely on Ted. Actually, Brady was first and foremost.

"That's your TV show, Ted. How to make everyday objects into vernacular art, a mailbox, a toy box for Brady..."

Hidden from sight by tablecloth and napkin, his fingers scooped denim, cupping Brady's crotch, two fingers digging underneath, certain he could feel two tiny testicles, carefully compressing, just hard enough to make the boy squirm, then massaging the root.

Brady giggled abruptly. "B-b-build a doghouse, D-Dad. Th-that would be cool."

"I know who's got the creative gene! If you want, Ted, I'll lend you my dog. Make your show useful and you'll outdo the other shows with their fancy woods and expensive tools. You're down-to-earth, no nonsense Maine. Shoot half your footage up there. People love to see different places."

Then, Jack stopped, suddenly worried that he'd squeezed too tightly, gone too far. A moment later, he realized Brady was still giggling, clearly enjoying himself. He sat back, leaving only his fingertips brushing a slim muscled thigh.

"Genius!" Ted murmured. "I get it; keep everything traditional, all very practical..."

Right then, Brady twitched, peripheral vision stretched to the limit as he looked innocently across the table, pretending nothing happened. He winked his left eye. Jack winked back, twice, both of them breathing deeply, hearts palpitating as Jack's hand inched back.

"J-Jack's really smart, huh D-Dad?"

Each nervous word reminded Jack of why he was there. In the space of a single day, Brady had turned his life upside down. Now, he lived to please a boy who melted his resolve like chocolate in a double boiler. And not just with his dimply smile and his gorgeous blue eyes.

"Wh-what are y-y-ou going to b-build first?"

Suddenly, Jack listened carefully. Brady's voice was like coffee-caramel, not too syrupy, smooth and rich. Husky made it sensuous.

Holding Brady's intense gaze, he pressed his extended thumb into denim, alongside as if checking size and shape. He watched Brady's expression change, randy guy, surprised, eager for more.

"A doghouse would be a good place to start," Ted rambled on.

Jack nodded agreeably. "Is there a Maine doghouse style, Ted?"

Brady throbbed beneath his new skinny jeans; although the incredible pressure had vanished as soon as Jack took away his hand. He wanted to tell Jack it felt nice, really good, that he didn't want to stop. Instead, he smiled, the same way Jeff said to smile on Sunday... not a big smile, a smile like he had a big secret.

 "I don't really know." Ted was less grumpy, not conciliatory, yet.

Jack noticed Brady's smile right away. He smiled back. Brady trembled, the naughty thrill growing again.

 "If not, you can invent one," Jack said, calm and collected. "Base it on local architecture, that way you can include it in the show. Local color, TV executives eat it up."

Brady peeked up at Jack, licked bee-stung lips. He was old enough to know what gay boys did when they had sex, not just hugging and kissing; they did nasty things, too. Would it fit in his mouth? What would it taste like?

Perhaps Jack could read his mind; he winked for no reason at all. It was a good thing Dr. Hart couldn't read his thoughts. In a matter of seconds, all he could think about was sucking Jack's penis, his cock.

"If you go local, it'll need to be more than a travel show," Jack added. "Local knowledge means lots of research before you shoot video."

Suddenly, Brady had a funny feeling that Dr. Hart knew what they'd been doing under the table. It was how she looked at him, a hint of amusement, a querying eye reserved for HELP PT boys.

On his other side, his father was incredulous that anyone could be so inventive, although the more he thought about `vernacular' as a theme for Mainely Wood, it was self-evident.

"I could talk about what to do when your nail splits your wood because you should've predrilled," Ted droned on, one of those people who insisted on assigning possession whenever possible.

"I assume when drilling, having the right sized hole is essential. Not too small, not too big," Jack quipped.

At any other time, he would never dare say it; however, he felt so elated, so confident that inhibition departed. The best part was everyone was completely oblivious to Brady's molestation; although the `victim' couldn't stop giggling.

A mutual glance sideways, shared their first secret, as depraved as it was thrilling—best friends forever.

"Always." Ted directed a frown at his son for being disruptive. "Then, I'd segue to glue. It wouldn't have to be epoxy. Did you know they used to make glue from horses' hooves?"

00 00

Dr. Hart had been talking about HELP's weekly meetings and other organized activities for almost five minutes when her cell phone beeped for an incoming email. As soon as she saw it, there was no better way of bringing the Singer family and Jack into the HELP community, and maybe addressing another issue.

"Here's an example. 'This Saturday is the HELP Fall Scavenger Hunt,'" she read aloud.

She managed not to smile when she held up her cell phone. Andy had no shortage of initiative. He'd inserted a photo of a covered bridge into his newsletter, babbling brook, red roof, rustic wood, fall foliage just beginning to appear.

Nancy leaned in for a closer look. "I've been there! Really beautiful. It's near Conway, New Hampshire."

"There's a spectacular gorge right nearby," Jack added.

Dr. Hart wasn't sure, other than it was near the Kancamagus Highway. She read on.

"'Bring your bonobo or your best friend. We will meet at the White Mountains Visitors Center, in Lincoln, on Saturday at 10:00 am sharp. Teams can collect their assigned items in any order. The HELP Hunt ends at 1:00 pm at Barnaby's Ice-Cream Store. Plan on hiking Rocky Gorge until 4:00 pm. Dinner will be served in the Avalon Room of the Cambridge Inn in Fryeburg prior to returning to Boston."

"All that makes for a long day," Ted interrupted.

Suddenly, he glanced at Jack, innocuously sipping wine. His right arm rested on the backrest of Brady's chair, hardly innocuous. It looked like he was hugging his son, or trying to. Ted exhaled deeply, a warning.

"Well, I think Brady should go. It would be fun, and good exercise, too," Nancy said.

"Easily an hour and a half on I-93," Ted added, back to grouchy face. "Too far to look at leaves. They should go to Walden Pond."

"I'm with Nancy. I think it's an excellent idea," Julie interrupted.

She gave a nervous giggle as her husband gave her a stony frown. Across the table, Brady had his head down, hiding a smirk. She'd never seen him smile like that; far too shy. If she didn't know better.

"I'd love to go, only I have to work a double shift this weekend, she added"

 "It sounds like fun, doesn't it Brady? It's a pity I can't drive at night," Nancy added. "Ted?"

"I'm planning an overnight trip to Maine. Video tape some material for a show trailer."

Ted glanced at Jack again, very aware that the man's arm was no longer on the back of Brady's chair. Out of sight also bothered him; at least, he wasn't `hugging' his son.

"You could drop him off," Julie pressed, now giving her husband her own stony glare.

"I suppose... It's way out of the way."

"Perhaps someone else could bring him back." Nancy gave Jack a hopeful look.

Excitement barely restrained, Brady peeked up at Jack. He reached with his left hand, encountering Jack's fingers behind the tablecloth edge, so much larger than his own fingers that he felt like a toddler. Still, he explored, tickling, teasing, tugging, somehow resisting the urge to inch closer to Jack's vastly bigger bulge.

"I'd love to go," Jack began. "Saturdays are always hectic. This Saturday we're already fully booked. Plus, we're doing a wine tasting in the afternoon. It couldn't be worse timing."

Every day was critical, yet Dr. Hart hesitated.

"HELP's reserved four double rooms. I know one of the younger boys will be staying overnight. Ted, if you drop Brady off, he could stay with Garrett."

Jack picked up instantly. "Now, Sunday, there's an idea. Business is always slow. I could bring him back."

He squeezed Brady's hand, gently, firmly, assertively. Little fingers held captive, his thumb massaged Brady's soft palm. Resilient and delicate skin tingling, almost burning from friction, man and boy holding hands, playing lovers' games under the table, concealed by a white linen tablecloth.

"I hate to impose," Julie pressed. "Brady needs to be outside in the fresh air."

Inexplicably, she worried that Jack might not agree. Perhaps it was Brady's adoring glances at the man sitting beside him; they were almost nonstop. It fascinated her; like filling in a jigsaw puzzle, each piece provided new insight into her son.

"Please say yes," Brady murmured.

Nervous, yet no stutter; it struck her how much her son needed a gentle, caring man friend.

"There's nothing I'd enjoy more," Jack began, his face reddening. "Ted, I'll understand if you say no."

"This burgundy is really good." Ted sipped, unaware he was drinking from French crystal. "There'll be other kids, right?"

"Eleven, if Brady goes." Dr. Hart winked at him. "One of the HELP seniors is having his appendix out on Friday."

Seeming vexed, Ted drummed his fingers on the table. He glanced at his son and shrugged, out of place when only a half hour earlier, he'd worried about his innocence.

Julie watched Brady, his eyes wide, his smile near instantaneous. Only a few hours with Jack had been enough to make him happy. Maybe they were doing the right thing.

00 00

By 7:00 pm, a line had formed outside the restaurant—at least three dozen AMA Conference attendees who hadn't reserved a table were prepared to wait for Boston's finest culinary entertainment.

Ted scowled while they waited for Dr. Hart to finish talking with Jack. His family ignored him, not that he'd done anything wrong. He left when Julie and Nancy started talking about how nice Jack was, `a breath of fresh air.'

With a bored shake of his head, Ted perused a menu in a glass case beside the entrance door. They'd eaten à la carte, from menus without prices, a new experience for all of them. Even Brady, with Jack's advice, had ordered salmon. Not any salmon, salmon sautéed with sorrel in a low-calorie creamy sauce. On the regular menu, the only salmon dish cost $45. With two sides, plus bread; Brady's dinner alone had to cost over $60!

Shuddering at the likely cost for four Singers, he stepped back, bumping in Brady.

"Gr-great d-dinner, huh D-D-Dad?"

Brady's leftovers filled the restaurant's `doggy-box.' It came with extra French bread in a white bag, and a printed photo of Jack's Brittany Spaniel.

"I told you to order from the kids' menu."

Brady blinked as tears formed. "J-Jack t-told m-me not to."

Even though no check was brought to the table, Ted expected to pay for his family's dinner. He gave Dr. Hart a querying look as she exited the restaurant. She just smiled and went to join the other women.

He flicked at his son's puffy silvery jacket. "You look nice! Is it warm?"

Brady nodded nervously, glancing down his front. Even stuffed with goose down, it was sleek, shiny like silver, the nicest thing he'd every worn. It made him feel important.

"What did it cost?"

His father's tone was warning enough. He stepped back, finally spotting his mother and grandmother, three shop-fronts away with Dr. Hart.

 "I-I d-don't know. A-a l-lot."

"More than a few hundred bucks, I reckon. What's in the shopping bag he gave you after dinner?"

Brady looked at his feet. "Out-out-fit f-for H-Halloween."

"Really? What are you going as?"

"V-v-v-am-p-pire."

Ted turned and stalked up to the three women, window-shopping. He folded his arms, and waited until they stopped talking.

"Dr. Hart, I don't want him giving my kid any more gifts!"

"Ted, I'm sure Jack doesn't mean anything by it," Julie said.

He lifted his hand, counting fingers. "Dinner. Expensive clothes. Dinner again. A friggin' vampire Halloween outfit! What's next, a goddamn car because ours isn't good enough?"

Nancy snapped. "Jack, there's no need to be rude."

Dr. Hart touched her arm. "Ted, I understand why it bothers you. If you read the Parent's Manual, you'll understand that giving a boy gifts is an important Platonic tradition. Among other things, it demonstrates the forming of a partnership..."

"... contract!" Ted interrupted. "Offer and acceptance. Mutual responsibilities to communicate feelings and issues. I read the Manual "It's outright enticement."

"You might think of it like that." She stopped, frustrated.

Julie's gaze was on her son. She could tell he was miserable again; lonely with his hands jammed in his pockets, staring at a menu-box on the wall. Only a few minutes without Jack by his side, whatever Ted had said to him; Brady was back where he'd been after the incident.

Dr. Hart considered her options, and took a breath.

"Jack isn't taking advantage, or forcing Brady to do something he doesn't want. Friendship and mutual admiration are essential for courtship."

"Courtship," Ted repeated, increasingly flustered. "What courtship?"

Julie laughed. "Are you blind? Jack's courting our boy right in front of you, and you haven't noticed?"

"No way!"

Dr. Hart intervened. "I assume Jack's gifts are bothering you, Ted. It's true; they're signs of affection an indication of his desire to be closer."

"Like giving a girl a rose on the first date," Nancy teased.

"I expect he'll give Brady a friendship bracelet tomorrow," Julie said, leading her husband on.

Suddenly, she realized her son had turned away from the menu-box and was staring at them. She knew that look. Empty. Unfeeling. Not hard-hearted. Nothing.

Realizing he was on his own, Ted kept his mouth shut.

"I'm glad Jack gave Brady a vampire outfit. Now, he has something to wear to tomorrow's HELP Meeting," Dr. Hart said blandly.

Seeing Brady on the move, Julie shook her head slightly, nudging Nancy, hoping Dr. Hart would get the message.

Dr. Hart sighed. "It's important you endorse their relationship, Ted, if only for the next 12 days."

"Wh-what are y-you g-guys t-talking a-about?"

Nancy was honest. "Your friendship with Jack."

"That's one way of putting it!" Ted snapped.

"Ted, I didn't expect dinner to turn out as well as it did. Please don't spoil it," Julie said, her voice firm.

Ted heaved an exasperated sigh. "You're okay with all this?"

"You would be, too, if you stopped being so fired up about something that will happen whether we like it or not."

She smiled reassuringly at her son. "Just so you know, Sweetie; you're not the only one who thinks Jack is very nice."

"I admit he's not what I expected. So?" Ted relented.

"I never thought I'd be saying this, Ted. If Brady's willing, and it happens, it's not the end of the world."

"What happens?"

He turned abruptly, regarding his son, chewing his bottom lip.

"Nothing!... What if he isn't..."

Julie shook her head. "Ted, we're past that point. It's obvious. The important thing is how it affects Brady. I want him to be happy. Do you?"

Nancy intervened. "How do you feel about Jack, Honey?"

Brady glanced at Dr. Hart, hoping she'd intervene now that he'd told her when they were in Jack's office. She smiled encouragingly.

"I-I really like him; a-a lot more than I th-thought I would."

As if he needed to prove it to himself, his erect penis throbbed.

"All well and good. I'm still not going to watch my son be seduced by a middle-aged man." Ted was adamant, despite whispering.

Livid even for a pissed-off eleven-year-old, Brady felt his stomach knot, an awful sensation he was going to throw up at any moment. He glared at his father.

Unaware, Nancy inquired sweetly. "Are you deaf, as well as blind, Ted?"

Ted snorted at her. Brady coughed, backing away, his fists impotently clenched, hating his father.

"Do you ever listen to what Brady has to say, or how he says it?" Nancy posed, casting a fond smile in his direction.

"Whatever you're trying to say, just say it."

"He stutters around us. With Jack, almost not at all. He's much more confident."

"It doesn't mean diddly squat. They're all charming," Ted growled.

Still, he looked at Brady to make sure. What was it about the kid that so annoyed him? The hair? The lips? Eyes? He was truly too good looking to be a boy. He glared at his wife, her arms wrapped around Brady, hugging, whispering in his ear.

"What are you saying to him?"

"Ted, if I didn't know better, I'd swear Brady was in love. Sweetie, I was very proud of you tonight."

"Well, I wasn't," Ted said.

Julie gently nudged Brady, a reassuring smile, a gesture to walk ahead. He headed off, dawdling, clearly unhappy. Dr. Hart bided her time, waiting until Brady was out of hearing.

"Ted, can we talk as we walk?"

Julie and Nancy took the hint and followed Brady. Again, Dr. Hart waited.

 "Do you actually know any homosexuals, Ted?" she asked, her voice low.

 "I don't go around looking at men."

Not for the first time, he noticed Brady peering into store windows. He always seemed preoccupied with his appearance, as if he knew he was `pretty', something normal boys didn't do!

"This is wrong on so many levels," he said moodily.

"Ted, I understand why you're worried."

"Do you? Your son died because of a pedophile."

Dr. Hart depersonalized it. "Anyone would be distraught if someone arrived on the doorstep uninvited, saying their son needed to have sex with men to survive."

"You don't know the half of it! We tried for eight years to conceive. The frigging tests cost a fortune. Her flaming Ob-gyn even said forget it because she was menopausal."

"Whatever you went through, he's worth it." She could tell she was talking to a brick wall. "Besides the emotional support and mentoring that Jack can provide, there are other benefits."

He regarded her with distain. "Besides expensive clothes and nice dinners, he gets a boyfriend; more likely boyfriends from what I've heard."

There was no missing his tone. She confronted him head-on.

"Homosexuals are promiscuous; at least that's the popular view. For many, it's about as denigrating as it can get."

"What about the ones in your program?"

"They flirt, Ted. It's their way interacting, of drawing attention."

With Ted watching his son, timing couldn't be better. Not just watching, almost as if seeing him for the first time. Brady had slowed, sulky enough that his mother and grandmother passed him.

"Flirting comes with the territory," she emphasized.

It was unlikely Ted had observed his son's sideways glance. For a moment, the man had looked right at him, lanky, dark-haired, likely a graduate student.

 "Spritely, though," Ted murmured obtusely.

In eleven years, he'd never noticed his often-clumsy son could move with graceful precision if he wanted, almost like a dancer as he knelt to tie his shoelace.

"He's body aware, far more than most boys," Dr. Hart observed. "He's learned to hide it when he needs to. Why is that, do you think?"

Her timing couldn't be worse. Brady's attention had been diverted to a homosexual couple across the street. His response was instinctive, and obvious. Even Ted saw it, increased interest, a sudden agile spring to his feet. Across the street, one of the men turned and smiled, touching his partner's arm, all but pointing.

"He'll be one of them in a few years. Not by choosing; by genetics, either your genes or Julie's," she added quietly. "Is that so awful?"

"There's a queer gene? The first I've heard of it?"

"Think about it, Ted. If it wasn't genetic, why would Brady choose to be gay, knowing how much you despise them?"

Ted shrugged awkwardly, stubborn in his beliefs, yet relieved as Brady hurried after his mother and grandmother.

"Two men aren't able to love each other like a man and a woman," he said coldly.

Dr. Hart almost laughed. Instead, she said very calmly, "The only thing they can't do is make a baby."

"Says you," Ted sneered.

He started walking, Brady a dozen paces ahead, surreptitiously peeking over his shoulder, watching his admirers even as he looked at window displays.

"Ted, I realize you won't like what I'm going to say..."

"But you'll say it anyway!"

Dr. Hart took a breath. "There was a study a few years ago. They monitored the brains of 300 participants during hetero and homosexual intercourse using positron-emission tomography."

"Your point being?"

"Without a baby, the commitment is different, yet the bonding is there for both hetero and homosexual couples. You with me so far?

Ted nodded. She wondered if he was angry; Brady was still staring after the two men, even as they disappeared among the crowd. She breathed out when he started after his mother again, still lagging.

"In both groups, the pituitary gland releases oxytocin, increasing feelings of trust; and vasopressin, which increases bonding. In other words..."

Ted interrupted. "You trying to say a homosexual experiences love the same as a normal man does? There's no way in Hell!"

They paused before the same shop window where Brady had stopped. One book in that month's book display caught her eye immediately. Jack Broche's photo was on the cover.

"The nucleus accumbens lights up, causing the ventral tegmental area to release dopamine. It heightens emotions and conveys good feelings."

"Gay or straight, sex is feels good; big deal!"

"Some do it for that reason; most people do it because it satisfies emotional needs," she allowed. "There's another very important effect from sex, one discovered in 2002."

She took a breath, fully aware that what she was about to say could backfire.

"Without a condom, ejaculation acts as an antidepressant for the recipient."

"What!"

"Only three percent of semen is sperm, Ted. It also contains serotonin and prostaglandins. They're antidepressants. When they're absorbed into the body..."

Appalled, Ted stopped, took a step back. "What the Hell does that mean?"

 "Exactly what it sounds like. Semen also contains cortisol, which increases affection; estrone, which elevates mood; oxytocin promotes bonding..."

He interrupted again. "Enough with the fucking chemicals!"

He started walking again, faster. She had to hurry to stay up.

"You need me to spell it out, Ted? Good sex is what doctors call a prophylactic. It guards against the same issues causing Brady to want to suicide."

"I've heard enough. I get it, okay."

"Ted, having sex will help to keep Brady alive. It'll also calm him down. At this point, all that matters is emotional bonding and getting the various chemicals into his blood stream."

"You really expect me to believe that!"

"I daresay the doctors at Children's Hospital know some of what I'm talking about. However, they're too restrained by societal norms to address it. Instead, they're using serious antidepressants on Brady."

"You're a medical doctor, as well as a psychologist?"

Dr. Hart shrugged it off. "Just so you know, Ted; antidepressants increase the risk of suicidal thoughts in children and young adults."

"No way!"

"What the Hell do you think Prozac and Symbyax are used for?"

Ted stared at her.

"Ted, there's no bonding, no mentoring, and no emotional stimulation with medications."

"You want an eleven-year-old boy to have unprotected sex!"

She lowered her voice in response. "With the right precautions, it can prevent a homosexual boy from contemplating suicide."

"So, the more Brady has sex, the better he gets," Ted sneered.

"The honest answer; yes, and the sooner the better."

"What's HELP's role? Training him to swallow?"

Dr. Hart fumed. Boys like Brady needed only their partners' encouragement to receive ejaculation in their mouths, almost as if they came preprogrammed to swallow.

"Ingestion is one way. Another way is through mucosa, inside his mouth, or through his rectum."

She wanted to say rectal absorption was more effective, neutral pH, and less chemical breakdown.

Ted snapped. "You won't let it alone, will you?"

"Too many young homosexuals kill themselves, Ted. I can't promise Brady will thrive in a relationship with Jack."

Unconvinced, still disputing, Ted slowed. He shook his head.

"There's more you should know." she began, now so angry she was ready to rub his nose in it.

"Go on!"

She hesitated to say it.

"When Brady has an anal orgasm, his brain will experience a special kind of ecstasy, Ted. Your son will feel pleasure you can't even begin to imagine. That alone, will be helpful. Please, don't stand in his way."

"I won't for two weeks."

Nothing had changed. Did he even listen to her? She turned away.

"I know what happens, okay? I don't want him hurt," Ted said to her back, no more than a murmur.

She stopped. "Do you really think Jack will hurt him?"

"I don't want him incontinent."

She looked at him, uncertain until she noticed his eyes. Blinking. Moist. It didn't seem possible.

 

Episode 8. Wednesday Evening, October 31^st

 

When Boston's weather allowed, and the situation deserved it, Jack Broche drove his convertible Jaguar XK, 2012 model, dark green with black accents, no chrome. The interior was black leather, an lcd touchscreen, walnut trim, abundant controls for navigation, climate, and audio. There were two sculpted seats, ergonomic and sporty. The two wee seats in the rear were ideal for his Brittany Spaniel, or a small boy to curl up in, or to toss a soft-sided gym bag.

The only downside of British engineering, as far as Jack had only recently learned; was the distance between the front seats. It would be a stretch to stroke Brady's slim thigh. Still, he considered it. With only a few more minutes to Dr. Hart's office, it would have to be soon.

"T-Tut's not like other b-bonobos. He's prefers sports c-cars," Brady declared, faux seriousness to counter his frivolous disposition.

With his bonobo riding in the front seat, Brady had his seat belt around both of them. He was Halloween-cute with spiked-up hair, a Transylvanian count attired in a black cape with crimson satin lining, and large pointed collar. His vest was plush velvet, the same crimson hue, with two lines of silver buttons on the front. His shirt was flimsy white polyester with ballooning cuffs. Très élégant!

Now formally introduced to Tutankhamen, Jack smiled, a snappy sideways glance and a wink to catch his boy's teasing eye. It seemed Brady had watched him constantly since he got in the car.

"Well, he's a monkey. Monkeys tell fibs so you like them."

"He knows what y-you like," Brady giggled, sounding less like a boy into triathlon, more like a flirty cheerleader.

Slowing down for traffic ahead, Jack's mind was two blocks ahead.

"Okay, what do I like, smarty pants?"

"It h-has to do with p-pants." Brady licked his finger and rubbed his lips.

"Your lips sore?"

Bee-stung was puffy and red, so kissable that Jack worried he might not be able to control himself.

"Uh uh. Gramma used lip gel on me so they wouldn't get sore."

Jack twitched, certain he'd heard right, equally certain he hadn't. Maybe he was going crazy.

"I can still taste dessert," Brady teased, shamelessly licking his lips.

Clafouti aux cerises, cherries baked in custard, a dollop of vanilla ice-cream on Brady's, instead of cognac.

Suddenly, Jack was certain of nothing except his heart was hitting the redline and his foot wasn't touching the throttle. Lip gel could only mean Nancy expected her grandson to do some serious kissing before the night was out.

He was still pondering the potential of lip gel, when Brady nudged him and lowered his voice.

"You wanna see Tut's dick?"

With a click, he unfastened his seatbelt. Before Jack could finish saying `seatbelt on,' Tut was perched on Brady's lap, and the seatbelt restored to its proper place.

Jack risked taking his eyes off the road, not a problem crawling behind an electric bus. Brady's suggestion reverberated. It didn't seem possible; not from `shy little Brady'.

"Sure; if he's not embarrassed." He had to say something.

Brady positioned Tutankhamen on his back, spread-eagled. Bonobo legs draped outside his black stovepipe pants, bonobo arms tucked under his forearms. It was the missionary position for monkeys and 11-year-old gay boys, with a soupçon of sadism, everything fully exposed.

Jack tried to keep a straight face, wondering what was going on. Stuffed toys with male genitalia didn't come from a toy store in Boston, or anywhere in stuffy New England. California, maybe...

"That's a dick alright!"

If Tut was anything to go by, bonobo sex organs looked remarkably like young goat's; tiny balls in a black wrinkly bag, a finger-long penis, uncircumcised, of course.

"Dr. Hart s-said he's anatomically c-correct."

"So, in real life, he's seriously large, like an African boy?"

"His dick is the real s-size," Brady said seriously. "Nearly three inches when he's stiff."

"I've got to see that!" Jack teased.

"I mean if it did get hard. A bonobo is double the size of a gorilla."

"Gorillas are huge, like 400 pounds."

"Being b-big doesn't mean you have a b-big dick. Kitombe, he's the s-silver-b-back at Franklin Z-Zoo, he h-has a really t-tiny dick."

Brady stuck up his thumb, waving it at Jack.

"It's smaller than this. Y-you can h-hardly s-see it."

"You know that by hanging out at the zoo toilets?"

Jack panicked until Brady snorted giggles, a single finger stroking Tut's male organ. After a few moments, he looked up, realized Jack was watching, and made an `oops' face.

"Don't mind me," Jack jeered. "A boy's gotta do what a boy's gotta do."

"Dr. Hart s-said it's okay. S-see, Tut is my other s-self," Brady confided.

Who needed fangs with luscious lips and white incisors like Brady's?

"Meaning what, exactly?"

Brady's vampire outfit was worth every penny of Jack's $89.99. The four-pointed-star pendant dangling from Brady's neck was the coup de grace. Silver with a red rhinestone, on a red ribbon; it was like a first-place medal for blood sucking.

"Dr. Hart said I can express myself with Tut and not get embarrassed. I can tell him things, secrets and stuff."

"Such as?"

Brady hesitated, glancing out the side window. Harvard Law School held zero interest for him.

He whispered, `I love you' to Tut,' just loud enough for Jack to overhear.

Jack came within a hair of repeating it back. "What else can you do with Tut?"

Brady turned back, his finger extending, stroking the black wrinkly scrotum.

"He's got balls about like mine. See?"

Jack nodded, side-on; fascinated, strangely envious as Brady diddled monkey nuts. Then, Brady's index finger circled a tiny domed tip, his little finger still underneath, still fondling the small soft scrotum.

"I bet that feels nice. Does Tut like it?" Jack croaked.

He stopped a moment too late, grasping at straws. What happened to his Gallic reserve? No way would he say something like that normally; and never to a boy, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Uh huh. I kiss him as well."

Brady leaned lower, his lips only inches from Tut's big bonobo mouth. Daring himself to do it in front of Jack, even though he'd practiced mouth-to-mouth already. Inhibition subsided with a sideways peek and seeing a wink.

No condemnation, amusement.

Feeling safe, stress-free, letting go; he kissed and tilted his head, ogling what might've been human. He switched from reticence to impulsiveness within seconds.

"Tut says to ask if you wanna see my dick," he whispered.

Jack inhaled, swallowed, blinked. Of course, he had to shake his head, `no.' Harvard Square was already in sight. It wouldn't be right, not their first time alone. In a couple of weeks, it would be different. Alone, in the privacy of his house, very different.

Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "Does Tut know how big your dick is?"

Brady whispered something, listened, whispered again, smirking when he peeked at Jack.

"Like two inches."

No stammer, no red-faced humiliation, just embarrassment. However, he plucked at his shirt collar, making sure it covered his neck, wishing he'd worn his new scarf.

Jack wondered if he was making it up. "How about when it's erect?"

Again, panic ensued until Brady replied. "You sound like a health teacher. If you must know, my boner's small, okay?"

Jack chuckled, delighting in banter. How was he to know Brady's father was always serious, always talking about working hard and setting a high standard, one that Brady could never measure up to.

He blurted on. "Then, my vampire's the perfect size."

Brady wasn't able to stop himself. "That's what Dr. Hart said you'd say when she measured it."

Jack grinned evilly, still unaware. "I wish I'd been there."

Having more fun than seemed possible, Jack leaned over and pressed on Brady's thigh, sorely tempted to move a few inches higher. Black stovepipe pants made his boy-bulge more obvious. It seemed bigger, too. Maybe he'd stuffed a handkerchief in his briefs; or maybe Nancy had.

"How big is Brady's dick when he doesn't have a boner?"

Brady hesitated, long enough that Jack worried he'd gone too far.

"About half. It's tiny."

His tone was enough that Jack had a panic attack. Afraid he'd offended his new favorite passenger; should he smooth it over, or let it go? He didn't spend enough time around boys to understand them...

He resorted to his version of humor. "Well, cute little vampires grow into big blood-sucking vampires."

Brady shrugged, diverting his gaze to Cambridge Common.

Having opened a complex issue, only a minute or two remaining before they arrived at Dr. Hart's office. Jack wavered, the temptation too great.

"All you need is enough for me to play with."

In the following silence, he felt heat rise on his face, like being slapped.

"You mean lIke this?"

Brady clutched Tut's paw, jamming it into bonobo crotch, his experience obvious from his rapid wrist motion. However, his sour face said something else—resigned, embittered? Jack wasn't sure.

"I said you're the perfect size. I meant it."

A sideways glimpse, hoping he wasn't making the situation worse.

"You d-don't have to lie. I know m-mine's tiny!"

What to say to a pre-teen boy who was certain he'd been cheated? Certainly not what he was thinking; he said it anyway.

"It's enough to suck on."

Brady's head snapped up, not upset. "I wouldn't know. I've n-never b-been sucked."

"You're a vampire and you've never been sucked; incredible!"

"You w-wanna suck my dick, just ask." Brady erupted in giggles.

"Better I suck your dick than you suck mine, and bite it off."

00 00

 

When Jack and Brady arrived at the Hartmann Institute conference room, Dr. Hart was dressed as a fairy godmother. Brady waved, even though she was busy reviewing case notes with two men. She caught Brady's eye and indicated for him to wait.

Inside the conference room, three boys in Halloween outfits, were busy stacking chairs. Jack quickly averted his gaze, worrying that that one of the boys had been in his restaurant, good-looking with shoulder-length curly brown hair and blue eyes.

Instead of assisting with the chairs, Jack went over to another man to introduce himself, and ask what he could do to help.

Nervous and shy, Brady remained by the door, absently swinging his HELP backpack. Finally, Dr. Hart finished talking to the two men.

"Hi Brady. I'm glad you made it," she began, giving him a quick hug.

"Jack p-picked m-me up."

"I love your outfit." She stepped back, looked him over, and switched to creepy voice. "Everything is good with you; Count Dracula?"

Brady nodded self-consciously. It seemed everyone kept asking if everything was okay. Even Jack asked when he picked him up.

"He's a cutie, for a boy-vampire," one of the men said, sneaking a peek over his shoulder.

"He's gorgeous. I'd give my right nut if he'd suck my... neck."

She laughed. "Don't scare him off."

She waited until the two men were in the conference room. "You used the nasal spray, right?"

"Th-three t-times this m-morning."

"Do it again when you get home. Three times, each nostril."

"I d-don't f-feel d-different."

She patted him on his shoulder. "It takes a while. Did you read the instructions like I said."

He nodded again.

"Any questions?"

Brady had plenty. "D-do my nuts g-get a l-lot smaller?"

"If you'd started puberty, your testicles would stop growing."

He was obviously worried, yet she wasn't about to start lying.

"Most preteens experience a reduction in testicular and prostatic volume," she added.

"S-so smaller?"

 "As I said last night, Brady, there's nothing to worry about. Even if they get smaller, you'll go through normal puberty after the treatment ends."

 "I've started p-puberty, r-right?"

She wavered. "Your testicles are beginning to grow. You're a few months away from actually starting puberty."

"Wh-what about, y-you know; wh-what came out?"

"It was a tiny droplet, not enough to count. Most boys your age excrete a bit. Did you tell Jack?"

Brady shook his head.

"If you do, it's best to tell him you masturbated, okay? He might think it's weird otherwise."

Brady muttered okay and went to find Jack. Dr. Hart was right on his heels.

 "Happy Halloween guys," she called from the doorway. "Quick introduction. The adorable boy-vampire is Brady. He's eleven and virgin, so don't overdo the welcome. His partner is Jack. Introduce yourselves when you can. The sooner we get set up, the sooner the fun starts."

 Boys and partners hurriedly rearranged furniture; the conference table carried to the far wall, with stacked chairs next to it. Then, they dragged four foam-bean-stuffed bags from the hall closet and arranged them in a lopsided U.

"Let's get the show on the road," Dr. Hart said after two of the boys pushed her armchair from her office. "Brady and Jack, if you'll sit by me."

Men and boys paired off. Three couples piled onto bean bags the size of a couch, snuggling shamelessly, boys lying on top of men, or partly under them. Only Jack and Brady sat apart on their bean bag, leaving enough space for a toy bonobo between them.

"It's Yoda's turn to go first," Dr. Hart said, looking at her case notes.

Without his wrinkly mask, Yoda could've been any dwarf in a ragged cloak, or a blond-dyed bright-eyed boy who was small for his age. He was robust with a magnetic personality, the kind of boy that pederasts dreamed about. He grinned at Brady as if they knew each other, not yet friends, though a strong possibility.

"Garrett Carter, I am." His accent reverted with a giggle. "I'm a homo." He tried again. "A homo, I am. My man-friend, BJ is."

Another giggle, showing off by making an `o' with his mouth, clearly a teaser. Another boy cackled until Dr. Hart called `enough.'

"Tyler, do you want to tell us what's so funny."

"Like all BJ does is give him blow jobs," Tyler scoffed.

"Guaranteed, the new kid knows homo sex is 50-percent butt jobs," Garrett scoffed back.

"That's enough guys. Seeing as we have a new member, please do the first three steps properly." Dr. Hart interrupted.

"Yoda, again; from the top," BJ said.

Garrett groaned. He muttered something rude as BJ hugged him from behind, nuzzling the top of his head.

"One, I admit I am a homosexual and unable to change it. Two, I accept homosexuality is a variation, normal and natural in Nature's plan for the human species. Aka, being gay is something to be proud of."

He stopped parroting, inhaled, exhaled, smirked over his shoulder at his partner, and continued.

"Three, I believe that an understanding partner will establish stability and happiness in my life."

Again, he grinned at Brady, the only HELP virgin. "BJ is the best thing to ever happen to me... and my butt."

"That's enough, Garrett. Unless you want to say something about yourself?"

Garrett shrugged ambivalently.

"Yoda triathlons does," BJ said proudly.

 Brady raised his hand. "Were y-you at MIT in J-July?"

Garrett didn't hear him, too busy toppling onto BJ. The ensuing tickle-fight had both of them laughing. It was so spontaneous, so accepted by the others, that Jack considered doing the same to Brady.

 "We were all there to cheer him on," Dr. Hart replied.

She cast her eye over her less rambunctious boys, all but buried among bean bags and partners, ending on Brady and Jack. They were still sitting up, paying attention, a bit closer than the last time she looked.

"Brady, every boy here is gay, the same as you are. Being homosexual is no reason to be ashamed. It's normal and natural, and as you can see from Garrett, it's also fun."

Garrett ceased jabbing his fingers into BJ's armpits. He looked up, now attentive, the very image of innocence.

"Yoda, will you say a bit about yourself, and please try not to be too explicit."

"Sure. I was ten when I knew older guys turned me on. That's normal for a gay boy, only no one wants to admit it."

"Let's be clear about `normal'. Sex between two boys about the same age is legally and socially acceptable nowadays," Dr. Hart interrupted. "It's not acceptable if there's a significant age disparity."

Deaf ears all around; they knew the rule; she still had to say it every meeting.

"Calvin was barely nine when a priest bummed him. That's a disparity, right?" Garrett went on. "And Tyler was 12 when his music teacher sucked his dick. He got a slow start, but he's making up for it now."

Ignoring Dr. Hart's look of disapproval, Tyler waved. He was the long-haired boy lounging in the bean bag opposite Brady and Jack. He was Spiderman in skin-tight blue and red Lycra, the mesh pattern turning his prepubertal body into impressive musculature. His admiring partner was stroking his chest, making his nipples stand out.

"My folks thought I was straight, always in my bedroom playing Wii, only I wasn't," Garrett continued. "I showed my ass to grownup guys. We had really hot chat sessions. Then, two days after I turned 11, my mom walked in on me. One of them mailed me a dildo for my birthday, a big one. I was trying it out on video-cam."

"He's HELP PT's anal celebrity," Travis teased, relocating his partner's hand to his lower belly.

"If you haven't noticed, homos are into anal. Show `em your butthole and they go crazy," Garrett shot back.

Jack immediately glanced at Brady, worried what he would think. Brady was watching the third boy, staring at his partner, daring him to blink. The game he'd played as a kid suddenly took on new meaning.

 "I got back at my mom by taking her Vicodin," Garrett added.

Dr. Hart raised her hand. "Garrett took 11 pills, one for each year of his life. He's been in HELP PT for 21 months."

"HELP is awesome. BJ does me in the butt most every day." Garrett snickered, ducking as BJ flicked at his head. "We're way over the average."

"Garrett's so oversexed, he'll wear out his ass before he gets pubic hair."

Tyler grabbed his partner's hand before it made contact with private parts, still teasing by shaking his head without any resolve.

"You ain't seen nuthin', Spidey-boy. Wait till my gonads start working."

"You're 900 years old and your balls still haven't dropped."

Interrupting his staring-down game, Calvin guffawed. He whispered something to his partner, already planning his turn.

"You're better off if they stay where they are for a while longer," Dr. Hart said.

"Because sucking small balls, BJ likes."

She frowned at Garrett. "What's Rule Number One, Yoda?"

He gave a less-than humble shrug, but thought better of it.

"We're not s'posed to tell you we have sex, or let you see us. We're especially not do it when you're around."

With a deliberate sigh, Dr. Hart pointed at Calvin.

"Tight lips suck dicks, loose lips sink ships."

"Calvin, what did we agree on last meeting?"

"You expect us to do it, you don't avocado it."

"Not funny, Calvin!"

Another long-suffering sigh to drive home her point, before she turned to Jack and Brady.

"I don't advocate sexual activity for a reason that should be obvious. However, I know enough to expect it, and accept them talking about it."

"We never stop talking about it," Tyler interrupted.

She went on, now talking to everyone.

"A man loving a boy, and vice versa, is not wrong; and that includes anything your dirty minds can come up with."

"However..." Not Tyler, Calvin.

"However, I'm legally required to report if I see or hear of any child sexual abuse."

How often had she said it, or something like it? A hundred times in the last few months, at least.

"What if I abuse BJ? Is that okay?" Garrett cackled.

 "You have to be careful how you talk about it, guys," Garrett's partner said. "I'm BJ. By the way, the oversexed Yoda and I love your restaurant, Jack."

Jack nodded; he'd hoped no one would recognize him.

With a self-conscious tremble, Tyler raised his hand. "Me next?"

"My, we're eager tonight, Tyler." Dr. Hart quipped.

"Dunno about eager. I'm oversexed, always up for a butt-fuck."

Hearing the `f'-word from a boy who couldn't be more than 12 years old was the last straw for Jack. He reached for Brady's small hand, rubbing his thumb in the boy's palm until Brady gripped with his fist, relaxed, clenched, relaxed again.

Across from them, Tyler's partner slapped his butt, not hard, just enough to get his attention and encourage an apology.

Tyler grimaced in fun. "Oww. I meant ready to rumble. Okay?"

Seduced by soft, moist heat, and surrounded by men who loved boys, Jack snuggled up, pulling his beautiful preteen closer, inhaling boy-scent.

"You smell good," he whispered.

Brady quivered, burrowing against his middle-aged partner. Clothing hampered their first real physical contact. With no risk of exposure, it still sent blood surging into his penis.

"Guys, we can joke about it; however, it's important that we follow the rules," BJ said.

"Yoda broke them first, bragging about his loose butt-hole," Tyler pointed out.

Jack smiled as he pulled back his thumb, instinct in control, heart pounding as he slyly slathered it with saliva. Again, he pushed his thumb through the small fist, slippery and hot, simulating penetration, wondering if the real thing felt the same way.

Brady clenched, simultaneously and very deliberately squeezing his stiff penis against Jack's thigh. It was blatantly sexual, enough that it made his heart beat even faster.

"Someone's got to teach the new kid about bending over," Garrett said gleefully.

When Brady turned to see what was going on, Garrett was climbing over BJ. Then, right in front of him and Jack, BJ kissed him. Not on the cheek or forehead, wet and right on his mouth.

"Hey, new kid!" Smirking, Tyler waved at Brady. "I was you seven months ago. I got a slow start; my music teacher blew me on my 12^th birthday."

"Tyler, maybe you could focus and review your progress on HELP's 12 steps?" Dr. Hart prompted pedantically.

"She means be less explicit, Spider-boy," Garrett laughed.

"I'm a homo, a happy little homo. I suck, I fuck, I open my crack and sing on my back," Tyler rapped, flaunting outrageous pelvic thrusts, very un-Spiderman-like.

"Less explicit, not more," Dr. Hart said, shaking her head.

Shocked and curious, Brady looked up at Jack, who shrugged, struggling with his own inhibitions. None of it seemed possible, whether having thumb sex with an eleven-year-old gay boy, or tuned in to mind-boggling sex talk from boys in Halloween outfits.

"Tyler's music teacher started a band because he was so talented," Dr. Hart prompted.

"I also give great blow jobs. Only back then, I didn't know about `yummy cummy in my tummy.' I was drummer and electric organist," Tyler went on, grinning at Brady. "I thought the other guys were my friends, so I came out. Dumb move; they guessed who I was doing and sent me an email booting me off. One of the other kid's parents called the cops and they arrested him."

"Tyler inhaled enough gasoline fumes to kill him. Luckily, I turned up just in time to give him mouth to mouth," his partner added, squeezing Tyler's hand. "I'm Rick. I was his brother's baseball coach at the time."

Tyler gave him playful push. "You were only there because you were grooming Travis."

"I was not!"

"You wanted to bum my ten-year-old brother, you pervert. He's lucky he's straight."

"Harry Potter, it's your turn," Dr. Hart interrupted.

Overweight, Calvin reclined in his partner's lap. Attired as Harry Potter, legs inelegantly sprawled, crotch exposed in Hogwarts fleecy pants. He looked exhausted; he'd been mauling his partner. His chubby hand waved a wand at Brady.

"Expecto Catamitus, turn this virgin boy into a bum chum. Open his portal for his man to enter."

"Harry!"

"He's a homo like the rest of us. He'll get bummed soon enough. Wanna bet he won't love every second?" Garrett chortled.

Calvin grinned at Dr. Hart, threatening another spell with his wand until she smiled back.

"Less explicit!' she said emphatically.

"Hi. I'm Calvin. I'm a homo-sex-ual. No way am I changing it."

He looked around confidently, daring a comment.

"Like Garrett said, I was an altar boy at St. Ignatius until some FBI guys came to our house. They told my parents their favorite priest had photos of me. The stupid fucker shared them online, thousands of me with his friends, mostly other priests. The last I heard, he works in the Vatican writing Papal bull-shit."

"Calvin wanted to be altar boy of the year." Tyler had a grin from ear to ear.

"That many photos, you know he liked dick," Garrett snickered.

"What's not to like?" Calvin retorted. "I loved having him in me. Fucking asshole said he loved me!"

Dr. Hart intervened. "Calvin, why is your bonobo named Nicholas?"

Calvin sniffed abruptly. "Saint Nicholas is the patron saint of boys."

As much as saying, he was a willing participant. A boy had to be enthusiastic to have sex four times a week for three years, and not say a word to anyone. Her research confirmed it; most gay boys were the same way. It didn't matter if the urge started with sexual abuse, the desire was innate, biological, undeniable. Politicians and therapists turned was what natural into a crime.

"What happened after the police came, Calvin?" she pressed.

"My family didn't want me. I have six brothers and sisters, and all of them fucking hated me. My mom made me say the Rosary twice a day and beg for forgiveness." Calvin sniffed. "My dad wouldn't talk to me because I was gay. It got worse and worse."

BJ wiped an eye. "Three years of guilt, rejection after being with a man who didn't love him, no wonder he tried to kill himself."

Calvin skewed his head to look at the man lounging beside him

"Three months ago, Keith saved me."

Calvin's partner, Keith, hugged him—it was the same every time.

"He's a retired US Army master sergeant; now he's a paramedic."

Keith fondled his boy's hair, a marine-buzz blond. "Calvin was having heart palpitations after he drank a quart of pure ethanol. Having his stomach pumped was awful. What happened to Tyler was way worse."

"Your turn, Count Dracula." Dr. Hart fondly regarded her newest recruit. "We'll tell them the easy stuff first, okay?"

Brady glanced around. Jack squeezed his hand, his thumb gently stroking, a reminder of what lay in store after the meeting.

"I'm right beside you," he whispered.

Brady nodded, took a breath. Jack squeezed his fingers.

"Um, I'm B-Brady. I'm eleven," he croaked.

Garrett raised his hand. "What happened to your voice? You get staked in the throat?"

"He tried to hang himself. He's very lucky," Dr. Hart said, glancing at Keith, the paramedic—it was reassuring to have him around.

"Brady, will you do me a favor?" Keith asked. "If you try again, sleep it off. Kid suicides are awful for us first responders."

Brady nodded slightly.

"Admitting to yourself that you're a homosexual is the first step in coming to terms with it, Brady," Dr. Hart said quietly. "Once you fully accept it, you won't want to try again."

Brady regarded her. He sucked on his bottom lip, pensive, hoping it was enough if he kept his mouth shut.

"You don't have to say it aloud, right away. Saying it to yourself is enough for tonight. The important thing is you mean it," she went on.

Brady nodded slightly, peeking at Jack.

"I'm scared too, Drac."

More than one man was of the mind that if the new boy was as nice as he was cute, he'd be an excellent addition to HELP PT.

Jack leaned closer and put his arm around Brady's shoulders. "You know why I love you?" he whispered. "You're a gay boy. Never ever be ashamed of it."

"I'm..." Brady's voice caught. "I-I..."

Again, he peeked at Jack. His own father was critical, never reassuring, never understanding, never accepting that his son was different to him, and 90-plus percent of other boys.

"I'm a-a... h-homo... homo-s-sexual."

Jack hugged him until he stopped trembling. "Now, say `I can't change it.' Say it just for me."

Brady looked around, stalling. Everyone was staring at him. Stealing a breath, more stalling, aware he'd chicken out if he didn't say it soon.

"I'm a h-homosexual. I can't ch-change it."

Another deep, deep breath, suddenly realizing how easy it was to reveal his real self to like-minded people. Glancing at Jack for another encouraging smile.

"This is J-Jack."

"You jack off, Jack?" Tyler snickered. "Or does Tintin jack you off."

 "It's Jack, as in Jack b-be nimble..." Brady giggled, taking a risk far bigger than diving in the shallow end of the pool. "Jack m-me quick."

"Not too quick, I hope," Garrett added. "The building-up feeling is awesome."

"That's enough, guys!" Dr. Hart warned.

"N-now I've m-met him, I w-want to st-stay gay."

"Watershed moment times two! The first time is always difficult," BJ said approvingly.

Right away, Brady liked BJ. He liked Rick and Keith, too. They were like Jack; they were on his side. They understood.

"There's only one first time for a gay boy," Garrett snickered. "You can practice all you want, the first time you take a big dick is a stretch."

"Garrett Carter, how many times do I need to warn you?" Dr. Hart barked.

"I can't help it. I live for anal."

"It goes with his nipple fetish," Tyler laughed.

She shook her head, yet pleased as punch because mopey Brady Singer was actually smiling. She was about to introduce Brady to the second of the '12 Steps' when she spotted Andy waiting at the door.

Beckoning him to enter, she continued, "Everyone, this is Andy, our new HELP PT counselor."

"Hi guys. I come bearing Halloween treats!" Andy waved a plastic bag full of candy. "Sorry I'm late, Dr. Hart. I was introducing myself to the senior kids. Then, I got stuck talking to Professor Thrall."

She stared at him, the last thing she expected. "What about?"

"He kept asking me about HELP. I didn't tell him any more than what you said in class. He's pretty pushy for a wimp."

"Damn! What's he doing here tonight?" She rubbed her forehead, curious, and angry to boot.

"He's with Mary. She won't let him past the front office."

She stood up. "I hope you're ready to take over HELP PT, Andy. Tyler, Garrett, please behave. You know what I mean. The rule about reporting s-e-x applies to him, too."

"Yes, Mam." Garrett saluted.

 As soon as Dr. Hart was out the door, Andy went clockwise around the room, identifying boys and partners from her case notes. Jack Broche, he easily identified from seeing him on Cable TV. Sitting beside him, looking rather proud of himself, was a pint-sized ultra-cute vampire.

"Okay, guys, we're here to have some Halloween fun and work on being gay, so let's get started. I hope everyone's brought their bonobo."

"It's fuck-a-bonobo time!" `Yoda chortled, grabbing his HELP backpack from his partner, resigned to an evening of tricks and treats.

"I'm ready to monkey around!" Calvin snickered, his bonobo already out of his backpack, placed in the doggy position.

"Oversexed fags, both of `em. See what happens when you join HELP, Brady," Tyler laughed.

Red and blue Spider-boy, giggling and carrying on, he straddled his partner's chest, reaching up to recover his bonobo, held high by its tail. He grabbed for a leg and missed.

"You want in my butt tonight, Rick, you gotta behave."

"Okay homo-boys; settle down." Andy gave a fake growl at Garrett. "Stop sodomizing your monkey, Yoda!"

"Butt-fuck his name is!" Garrett glanced at Tyler. "Doing it, too, he is!"

Andy scanned Dr. Hart's notes. "Stop raping Jagger, Tyler."

"Why? Jagger loves dick in his tooshie as much as I do."

Andy exhaled, looking them over. Brady was the quietest, by far. A pensive, sensitive kid, struggling to adapt to three pretend-extroverts, over-compensating, all older than he was by a year at least.

"For the next two weeks, HELP PT is exploring a new paradigm. Anyone know what a paradigm is?"

Only Brady raised his hand. "It's a w-way of th-thinking. N-not how y-you think, l-like a framework."

Andy paged through case notes to find `Brady.' The reason for his voice wasn't at all what he expected, #6 copied verbatim from a doctor's evaluation, and #7, Dr. Hart's own findings, both highlighted:

`#6. `Edema and hematoma formation in the larynx and trachea indicate injury to both, with partial separation. Cricoid cartilage is dislocated and pushed underneath the thyroid cartilage. Prognosis: temporary airway obstruction with difficulty swallowing and breathing. Probable long-term voice compromise and permanent hoarseness. Recommend evaluation and treatment by otolaryngologist.'

`#7. CH recommends a year of speech therapy for chronic stuttering (nervous condition?) Parents report he was fluent at 10. No apparent reason for onset. Reported to be getting worse. Affecting self-esteem.'

Andy was impressed. Not only dead-on accurate about `paradigm,' the kid had nailed it with almost no stutter. On impulse, he reached into his bag, pulled out a candy bar, and tossed it to Brady.

Nimble, lightning reactions, like a swim kid leaving the starting block, lurching sideways to catch it. Brady ripped off the wrapper, took a bite of a miniature Snickers bar.

For the very first time, Jack smooched the top of his boy's bristly silver head, moussed, inhaling Lily-of-the-Valley fragrance.

He inhaled and whispered. "Count Dracula is the sexiest boy here, and the smartest."

He expected a shy Brady smile; he didn't expect Brady to hand him the rest of the Snickers bar, with teeth marks.

"Every time, everything in moderation, is the paradigm from now on," Andy continued. "The `everything' is what you guys like to do with your partners, so we'll begin with that."

He pointed at Spider-boy. "Tyler, what one thing do you and Rick always do when you're alone?"

Tyler smirked. "That would be... drum roll.... kissy face."

"How about you demonstrate how you make out? Pretend you're Rick, and Jagger is you. Put your heart into it because everyone is watching, plus it's worth two pieces of candy."

Rick chuckled. "No need to show them everything, Spider-boy."

Tyler leered at his bonobo. "Okay, sexy boy; pucker up. I want maximum tongue action."

He made smoochy sounds, pushing his bonobo into the bean bag, holding hairy arms above its head, leaning over with his tongue poking out.

Brady didn't know what to think. He'd kissed Tut in the privacy of his attic bedroom to see what it was like; however, he didn't put his tongue in monkey mouth. Then, it struck him, the kind of insight that came along once in a lifetime. This was what the boys on his swim team had called `Frenching.'

His next thought almost brought a giggle. As soon as he could, he was going to try it with Jack, even if it meant exchanging spit.

"It would be fun seeing you do that," Jack whispered.

French kissing was only the start. Tyler went all out, licking his bonobo's thick dark lips. No shame at all, slobbering, writhing, peeking over his shoulder, winking obscenely, groaning, anything to tease Rick.

When he finally lifted away, he rolled onto his back, giggling, a slender hand on either side of his prominent crotch

"Yup, it worked, see."

He framed his very erect penis under blue Spiderman tights.

Brady turned to Jack. "You think he really got a stiff from kissing his bonobo."

Jack erred on the side of caution. "Mine only does that if I kiss someone I love."

 "As you can all see, French kissing usually leads to arousal." Andy chuckled and tossed two candy bars. "If you didn't already know, Tyler is circumcised."

"Being cut makes it an all-day sucker," BJ called.

"Moving on," Andy continued, somehow keeping a straight face. "What else can we learn from his performance, guys?"

Red-faced and horny, Garrett snorted giggles. "You mean other than Spider-boy's got a spider-sized dick?"

"Bigger than yours, Yoda," Tyler shot back.

"When you're makin' out with a man, get on top if you don't wanna be squished," Calvin chortled. "And drink lots of water beforehand so you don't run out of spit."

"Dr. Hart did warn me," Andy said, going his best not to laugh. He tossed Calvin a Kit Kat. Then, he nodded at Brady. "You think you could kiss like that?"

Suddenly nervous, Brady looked at his bonobo, then at Jack. "With Tut?"

"Who's up to you. You have time to think about it. For the next minute, Garrett will show us how he makes out. The only rule is all clothes stay on!"

"Aw, it's more fun when skin is exposed."

"I'm not joking, Garrett. Your turn will come." Andy held up a stopwatch. "On your mark. Get set. Go!"

Brady gaped at Garrett, lunging onto BJ, startled even though he expected it. There was a flurry of arms and legs, play-wrestling until the boy was flipped onto his back. Suddenly, his skinny arms locked around the man's neck and their heads came together.

That close, Brady could hear them. Only a few feet away, Garrett sucked on BJ's tongue, writhing, panting when they parted, only to resume as soon as he got his breath back.

"Now, you, Brady," Andy said. "It doesn't have to be a wrestling match."

Jack's approach was gentle by comparison, his fingers stroking Brady's cheek, gently turning his head, meeting his eyes, questioning silently. Brady poked out his tongue, wagging it, not teasing, funny sexy shameless boy wanting to play, his first time in the making-out game.

"On three. One. Two..."

He steeled himself, anxiously bringing his tongue closer to Jack's mouth, half-expecting rejection.

Jack had never wanted anything as much. His hand slipped behind Brady's neck, fingers fondling silvery bristles. He opened his mouth and took Brady's small wriggly tongue inside. Their first kiss was French, beginner version.

Eleven years old, excited, completely infatuated, yet Brady still tried to pull away. It was only for an instant, the time it took to go from foreign to familiar. It was nothing like kissing his mom or grandmother goodnight—he couldn't remember the last time he kissed his father.

Everything changed when Jack sucked on his tongue. He certainly didn't expect that! Sucked it hard, so hard he thought his tongue might pull out of his mouth. What if Jack bit down on it?

Suddenly, he was breathless. Then, the suction stopped and their lips pressed together. Right away, Jack's tongue surged into his mouth. A momentary panic when he realized they were swapping spit, and then he glowed all over. It was the best feeling ever.

A nearby voice called, "The minute is up, Brady."

Someone said, `Hot lips frenched great for his first time."

They parted immediately, Brady's heart hammering urgently, hungry for more, gasping for air.

 "After making out like that, things generally heat up pretty fast," Andy teased. "Isn't that right, Jack?"

Jack ruffled Brady's moussed hair, about to embarrass his boy.

"He's hot... You think he'll get better with practice?"

The other boys whooped. Brady blushed, and got tickled by Jack. He was certain his penis would snap off. He definitely wanted to do it again. Wondering if anything else could feel as mind-boggling.

"Mr. Potter, what follows making out at Hogwarts?" Andy interrupted.

Calvin grinned at his partner, reaching behind him. "Dumbledore plays with my junk."

"Do not!" Keith growled. "You always feel me up first, you horndog!"

"It doesn't matter who starts it," Andy intervened. "The important thing is you touch each other. Why don't you show us, Harry?" He checked the case notes for a bonobo name. "With Nicholas."

Calvin rolled over, sprawling on the bean-bag, rubbing his bonobo against his plump belly, chubby hands grasping monkey butt, smooching, writhing. His hands grasped, tickled, stroked, fondled every inch of his alter ego. Shameless, once-sexually-abused boy now expressing his primal self, thrusting, kissing, groping obscenely.

Brady gaped, wide-eyed, feeling very strange. If making out was exciting, this was inconceivable, yet he couldn't stop thinking he shouldn't be watching. His penis got even harder, so hard he worried it might burst. He was barely aware of Jack's hand on his thigh, stroking, squeezing, holding him, inching higher until it was very close to his boy-bulge.

"Go Harry," Tyler murmured.

Calvin needed no encouragement. He turned onto his front, Nicholas squished underneath, jerking mightily, not just his pelvis, his whole body.

"Better stop, Harry. Hermione would be awfully disappointed if you had an orgasm without her," Andy joked, taking two pieces of candy from his bag.

Calvin lifted up, giggling, red as a beetroot as Keith hugged him.

"Who needs a pussy when you've got a boy monkey, huh?"

Calvin was panting so much, he missed catching the candy.

"No wonder Keith always looks so tired," BJ said quietly.

Andy grinned. "How about all you guys demonstrate for 30 seconds? Any longer and you'll mess up your outfits."

Garrett and BJ whispered together. Garrett raised his hand.

"Two minutes. We promise we'll keep our clothes on. Please?"

Andy laughed. "In that case... Go!"

Brady grabbed for his bonobo even as Jack jerked it away, taunting him by waving it just out of reach. All around them, laughing men and giggling boys rolled around on their bean bags, pawing each other, bonobos discarded. Nonetheless, Brady dove for his monkey. In the ensuing struggle, Tut scooted across the carpeted floor. Brady ended up breathless, on top of Jack.

Suddenly, they were by themselves, grinding their fronts and grinning at each other. It lasted for a moment. Without warning, Jack's thumbs jammed into Brady's armpits, easily lifting him up despite his wriggling. Holding his gleeful boy at arm's length, enraptured, gorgeous and eager, everything a man could ever want.

With no warning at all, Brady was flopped onto his front with an exaggerated `oomph!' Then, Jack's arms were around him, squeezing them together.

Brady felt like a toy, a plaything, and he loved it! Jack lurched, repositioning both of them so they were groin to groin, powerful hands squashing his butt. Jerking him up and down mercilessly!

The realization exploded through Brady's frantic eleven-year-old mind. The thing bulging into his belly was Jack's erect penis. It was awfully big, incredibly hard. As nice as it felt, he knew where it had to be. He wanted it, needed it pushing against his bottom-hole, forcing its way into him, where it belonged.

With that thought foremost in his mind, he couldn't just lie there. It was completely in the wrong place. He had to be under Jack, and higher up. When he tried to kiss Jack, his face was still far away. Too high to reach...

Jack tossed him aside, holding him down with one hand as he clambered to his knees, straddling the distraught vampire. Brady wanted, needed more, much more—the intimate closeness of the previous night had whetted his appetite. He was hungry, for kisses, not blood. Impossible when Jack's shirt shrouded Brady's sweet face, his feet somewhere near Jack's knees.

 Eyes wide, anxious, pleading silently until Jack lowered himself. Even with most of his weight on his knees and elbows, he forced Brady into the bean bag. Arms outstretched, pinned, willingly submissive; it was Nirvana for a `bottom' boy.

"Jack... Jack."

Sex crammed into sex, both man and boy throbbing. Only the large one was drooling.

Trusting, Brady parted his thighs, offering, instinctively knowing what would happen. Jack reached between them, grasping the bulge in Brady's tight black jeans. He was gentle at first, fondling boyhood, stroking the firm sausage, kneading both tiny eggs, never more aware of his strength than when Brady groaned.

Another groan and he began writhing, ramming his genitals into Jack's demanding hand, rhythmically groping, massaging until he whimpered.

Something inside Brady came alive, deep-down trembling. Making himself part of Jack was all he could think of. He was certain he would never be any happier than he was at that moment. Then, Jack abruptly flopped onto his back, taking his boy with him. Now on top, Brady crawled higher, licking his lips, grinning at Jack. As soon as they kissed, he poked out his tongue. Jack sucked it in.

Now that Brady was in charge, he reached down. He trembled, momentarily shocked when his hand encountered Jack's erection. It was huge, way too big for his hand, yet he grasped it bravely.

"Time's up," Andy called.

Crimson faced, Brady dismounted, heart racing, glancing at Andy. He nodded, seeming detached, as if nothing had happened. Then, he winked and tossed two tiny chocolate bars.

On Brady's other side, Garrett was cuddling with BJ, both grinning, both watching. Garrett whispered to BJ, surely something about him and Jack.

Brady blushed bright red, grabbed his bonobo, and covered his face.

 Garrett laughed and reached for his bonobo. "My turn next?"

Andy just nodded.

"BJ and me don't usually get worked up by mauling each other," Garrett began with a sly look at Brady.

"What happened to Yoda-boy?" Tyler snickered.

"Behave ourselves, BJ and me do; not like some gay couples."

Jack ruffled Brady's hair. "It's Count Dracula's fault. I couldn't stop myself."

"That's not what I saw," BJ hooted. "Maybe Keith ought to check him for broken ribs."

 "I'm good." Brady grinned. "I kinda like being squashed."

"Oooh! Guess who's a passive gay boy?" Keith teased.

Garrett pretended to listen to his bonobo. "So, we're watching TV, see. Either BJ jerks me or I suck him until one of us cums."

"Dry cums, one of us does, Yoda means," BJ corrected.

Andy shook his head. "You want treats, guys? No more sex talk."

"How about Garrett does a dry-cum demo first?" Calvin called.

Garrett lay back, snuggling against his partner and submerging himself in their bean bag. Comfortable, he placed his bonobo on his front, looking up. Small fingers parted monkey thighs, both thumbs rubbing an anatomically correct penis, caressing a goatskin scrotum. To a prepubescent boy, it felt like there were two tiny eesticles inside.

Brady sat up to watch as Garrett gleefully tugged, rubbed, and fondled his monkey, pretending he was grownup.

Eleven years old and a sexual neophyte, yet it was easy to for Brady to fill in the pieces. A man fondling his young lover's immature penis until it was erect; then, teasing and stroking. Out of the blue, it struck him that the importance of size was overstated. He glanced at Jack and got a smile back. Maybe Dr. Hart was right; for the right man, tiny was perfect.

"Just relax, Sweetie. Can you feel it throbbing?" Garrett muttered, mimicking BJ, stretching out bonobo penis with each playful stroke.

"Oooh, BJ, do it faster," BJ mimicked back on behalf of the bonobo.

"Nice stiffy, Yoda." "I didn't realize Garrett's got that big!" Tyler and Calvin chorused.

"Okay, we get the picture," Andy interposed.

"Three-minute demo, please?" Tyler implored.

"The only way that's going to happen is off the premises," Andy said flatly. "What usually happens next, Yoda?"

Garrett grinned. "Before I cum, I get a beee-jaay. Then, I give BJ one, and then we fuck."

Andy smiled. "Okay, since you brought it up, tell Dracula Junior why you do the f-word."

Garrett smirked. "Duh! Taking it in the butt is what makes me gay."

"That's all? Of anyone, I was sure Yoda would know."

"Good it feels. Awesome good." Garrett looked back at BJ. "When we do it, I know he loves me... He really, really loves me."

"Does he just stick it in, or does he loosen you up first?"

"Well, yeah. He fingers my ass while he's jerking my dick. Then, I suck him until he can drill concrete. Then, he slides it in `cause my boy-hole's like huge now he's doing me every time he visits."

"Too much information," BJ chuckled.

Calvin raised his arm, giggling and waving wildly. "Like a whole bunch of major rule violations. Can I have his candy for the rest of the night?"

Laughing, Andy seized the opportunity. "Let's talk about loosening up." Not about to ignore the rule violation, he added, "Any more dirty talk, no more candy for anyone."

"Better be careful what you say, Garrett," BJ laughed.

"You want to know how to do it, or why, or what dildo to use, Andy?" Garrett leered.

As an only child, he was used to being the center of attention.

Andy nodded at Brady. "Dracula Junior needs to know all of it. Only keep it low key."

"Harry Potter's the loosening up expert," Tyler snickered.

"I ought to be. Hagrid trained me." Calvin grinned at Keith.

Other than having dark hair, Keith had no facial similarity to Hagrid. No giant, yet beside Calvin he seemed as big as the Keeper of Keys and Grounds of Hogwarts, cumbersome both physically and socially.

"You want a bonobo demo, right?" Calvin asked outright.

He was a perfect match for Keith.

"Brady needs the basics. Start with why he has to loosen up."

Calvin upended his bonobo, presenting monkey butt to Brady.

"If Nicholas, here, wants to have sex, his hole has to be bigger, a lot bigger, okay."

"There are four ways to stretch it," Andy added.

"Uh uh. Fingers, tongue, dildo, butt plug, and ding-a-ling," Calvin giggled, poking his index finger between bonobo buttocks. "That would be five, Professor Snape."

"I count dildos and plugs as toys; in the same category as candles, hairbrushes, or anything else you want to stick up there that isn't part of your body," Andy said.

"And one got a kid butt plug handy?"

"We're using natural means, BJ. No toys allowed."

"You mean Ty can't use his training plug?" Rick asked.

Just in time, he cupped his hand over Tyler's mouth, barely muffling his vulgar response; something about `always having it stuck up his ass for hours.'

Garrett faked a bored yawn. "Anyone wanna bet Spider-boy's not wearing it."

Andy covered his smile. No wonder Dr. Hart warned him about her HELP PT kids being crude.

"Stop picking on Spider-boy! We'll talk about training plugs later. Right now, all three of you ass-experts can show Brady how it's done using your fingers. Bonobos only!"

Calvin, Garrett, and Tyler used different positions; bonobos face-up, butt-up, and cuddling.

 Calvin gave a running commentary. "I always use my pointy finger `cause it's the longest."

Garrett guffawed. "It works for picking your nose, too."

Index finger extended, wriggling the tip against anatomically correct bonobo anus, slowly inserting. Beyond the first joint, all three boys twisted their fingers while pushing inward.

Despite having done much the same thing with Tut in the attic, Brady still wasn't convinced. It seemed easy; it was easy. In fact, it was natural, not nasty at all. Beside him, Jack was all eyes.

"This is a demo for virgin-boy. Usually, we don't do this, and he goes in all the way in with one push." Calvin said.

"Because your butt is so friggin' big," Tyler snickered. "Once it's inside, you should wait a while."

"Until he stops squeezing on it," Garrett picked up.

Tyler nodded agreement. "As soon as your sphincter-winker relaxes, you move it in and out... Like this."

He demonstrated `finger fucking', faking monkey whimpers, yet realistic enough to make Brady giggle.

Calvin took over. "You're going to need major stretching before Jack does you."

"You work up to two fingers, Brady. No big deal," Andy interrupted, gesturing for Garrett to demonstrate.

Grinning, he positioned his bonobo over his thighs, drooled saliva on the target, and inserted his first and middle fingertips. He rotated his wrist, wriggling.

"Ow... oww... ooh, oooh... oh yeah. That's good, right there."

"We don't need the sound effects, Yoda," Andy chided.

"Yeah, we do. Brady will realize how much fun butt-play is the more realistic we demonstrate," Tyler giggled.

"The point is to relax the inner muscle. Better gently than trying to force it to stretch. Once it relaxes, it starts feeling nice," BJ added.

 Soon, Garrett's two fingers couldn't go any deeper. "It goes in easier with KY or Vaseline," he explained. "It feels better, too."

"Okay, time out!" Andy interrupted. "Natural also includes no artificial lubes, leaving..."

Garrett smirked back at him. "Spit and precum, assuming there's not a load from last time."

Brady raised his hand. "What's p-pre-c-cum?"

"There's definitely a virgin in our midst," Tyler snickered.

"Two, actually," Andy said under his breath.

Jack patted Brady's upper arm. "I'll explain later, Champ."

Andy held up his hand, index fingertip and thumb tip making a circle.

"This is Jack. This is you." He reduced the circle to nothing. "There are a few ways to make you big enough for him, Brady."

"He means Jack's d-word," Garrett chortled.

"One way is to jam something in there to stretch it."

"Like for instance, a dildo, or a tooshie plug," Calvin said.

"You could use a banana if your bonobo hasn't eaten all of them," BJ added.

The boys laughed and Andy raised his hand.

"When you start out, anything bigger than a finger forces your body to stretch by tearing the tissue inside, which is why it hurts."

"Which is why Garrett and me use trainer plugs," Tyler added.

 "You have yours in now?" Andy asked.

Tyler pointed. "He does."

Before Andy could say `no', Garrett rolled back, lifting up his legs. One hand yanked on his Yoda robe, the other tugging down Star Wars boxers.

Garrett guffawed. "Training plug inserted, Sir!"

In the few seconds before BJ pulled the robe down again, Brady glimpsed a narrow purple-blue strip lodged between Garrett's small round buttocks. Cute as can be, and it was electrifying, and reassuring.

Andy recognized the curved T-handle from the plug Dr. Hart had shown him. One size fits all boys, flexible, hypoallergenic silicone."

"It has a series of flexible `balls' to progressively stretch and exercise a boy's sphincter and rectum, plus the tip assists penetration."

"It's pointed so you can get it in your ass," Tyler added.

and initiate straightening the colon. It was ideal for prolonged insertion in a young bottom.

He nodded thoughtfully. "With your experience, there's a better way, a much better way."

"You mean like poppers?" Calvin asked.

"Seeing as you brought it up... A few sniffs are okay when you're older, or if you're as small as Brady, here."

"Dr. Hart said there might be another way," Jack muttered.

"Some of the seniors use poppers," Tyler pointed out.

Andy was quick to react. "Sure. If you need to take the edge off, or you haven't done it in a week, which is highly unlikely in your case."

Tyler laughed with the rest of them, yet seemed disconcerted.

"What's wrong with us using grownup butt plug?"

"Jamming one in your butt will make it bigger. Do it often enough and the size might be permanent. Most men prefer boys with tight butts."

Garrett flung up his hand. "It's okay to use it to get ready for BJ, right?"

Andy heaved a frustrated sigh. "Use your trainer plug, Garrett. Exercise the muscle, ten minutes before and after. We'll talk about it next week. Making yourself huge if he already fits is plain dumb."

Calvin frowned. "What if we like it loose?"

"Next week, okay." Andy turned to Brady. "I think our vampire deserves a chance for more candy. Brady, I want you to sit up with King Tut face down over you. Put his legs outside yours."

Brady grinned at Jack, his hands cupping bonobo butt.

"Now wh-what?"

"You're going to spit on your finger and rub his hole, very gently," Andy added, watching Jack.

"Sh-should I p-push in, or wait like Tyler said?"

"Never force it in! You want him to relax and open up for you. Rub around the opening. Keep it nice and slippery. In real life, he'll press up against your front when he wants more."

With eye contact redirected, he was talking directly to Jack.

"Pushing in your finger will make him tense up, even if he wants it inside. Take your time. Talk him through it."

Jack nodded. He covered Brady's hand with his, whispering to him, making his finger move slower, circling, tickling gently.

"When you feel him slacken slightly, rub around the opening."

Jack guided Brady's finger to circle in place.

"If he's relaxed, you can sneak the tip in by wriggling it," Andy coached.

He wavered, worried he was saying too much, breaking Dr. Hart's rule. His first session, she'd promised to stay throughout.

"Once the tip's inside, stop. Give him a moment to get used to it. Make sure your finger is still slippery; then, wriggle it some more."

Jack lifted Brady's finger to his mouth, and drooled saliva on the tip.

"Again, only this time go in deeper and stop. Between the first and second joint is perfect."

With nearly half of his finger jammed inside monkey butt, Brady skewed his head and grinned at Jack.

"Shouldn't you be doing this to me?" he whispered.

 "Okay, this is the important part, guys. Instead of pushing in all the way, you're going to exercise the sphincter muscle instead. I want you to use your finger inside him like a lever, side to side. Not in and out .it feels good, but there's less give that way."

"Do it like you're Captain Hook, Brady. Yes, pull like that," Jack urged.

"Gently but firmly, then relax. Pull again."

"A few hours of that and Tut will be begging for dick," Garrett teased.

"Don't pull too hard," Andy warned. "As soon as it feels looser, go a bit deeper."

"It doesn't f-feel d-different."

"Patient you must be, Padawan," Yoda snickered. "Come your turn will."

"I'm worried about coming before my turn," Jack joked.

Three boys erupted in giggles. Poor Brady didn't know what to think. He was sure he doing it wrong. It didn't help that Andy was grinning like a deranged Cheshire cat.

He stopped, his finger embedded halfway in bonobo butt.

"What's s-so funny?"

"You'll find out when Jack does it to you," Tyler replied, smirking at Andy.

 Andy just smiled. "Once he starts feeling stretchy, pull every which way."

Brady nodded. "Why?"

Garrett grinned. "You're doing Tut's b-hole like BJ does mine."

"We're using a trainer plug it because I want him to stay elastic," BJ said. "Stretchier and stronger is important, Jack."

"A bottom boy can't get enough exercise. Ten minutes, a couple of times a day makes a big difference."

Andy glanced around the conference room. Boys and their grownup partners watched in silence, all of them interested and, from what he could tell, they were also aroused.

"Okay, you're going to leave your finger inside him, and slowly insert the same finger of your other hand. Very gently, pull with both fingers, relax. Stretch him a couple of times, then in a different direction. What's the goal, guys?"

Tyler raised his hand. "Jack wants his hole stretchier and stronger, not just bigger."

"What if Brady wants it bigger, Andy?" Calvin asked.

Garrett and Tyler exchanged knowing looks, suddenly tussling over their bonobos.

"I keep tellin' you, Babe; it's better for both of us if we fit. You don't need to be bigger," Keith explained.

"A lot to be said for a tight fit, though," Rick snickered.

Of the same mind, Andy took advantage.

"My advice guys, if you must use your trainer, do it after, as well as before."

"Why?"

"Duh!" Tyler and Garrett answered together.

"After a hard workout... in the gym, your muscles tighten up, right? The best thing is a massage... with your trainer."

"Tyler leaves his in all night," Garrett cackled.

Brady cleared his throat. "So, um, I do this all night?"

He looked at Jack, as much as saying `Pay attention. You have to do this to me.'

 "My father fingered me for three hours before my first time, and an hour after" Andy said, his voice low. "He was a big guy. I got really elastic. It never hurt."

"Not even a little bit?" Garrett teased.

"Try it with BJ and tell me next Wednesday. Moving on to the next activity..."

00 00

Grimacing with pent-up frustration, Dr. Hart hustled back to HELP PT. With five minutes remaining, she expected to find an empty conference room. Instead, boys and their partners lounged in bean bags while Andy reviewed the evening's lesson.

 "... So, your basic non-explicit activities are..."

Andy wrote on the whiteboard as the boys called out `activities' between giggling fits.

"Making out." "Groping." "Wrestling." "Jerk job." "Tickle fight." "Sucky sucky." "Sword fight." "Doing it..."

"Rimming." Garrett caught Andy's frown. "I don't know what else to call it."

Andy tried to be stern. "Its proper name is `analingus.'"

"No way am I saying `BJ, could you analingus me?'"

Tyler laughed. "Buttingus, then!"

"Butt-mouth!" Calvin proposed.

Keith suggested, "How about `rim me'?"

"Hey, guys!" Garrett whooped. "From `rim me'... rimmy!"

Andy added `rimmy' to the list of activities, and stepped back from the whiteboard.

"'Doing it' doesn't come close to describing butt sex," Garrett then declared.

Andy stepped back, erased `doing it,' and replaced it with `possession.'

"Why is p-possession better?" Brady asked, barely embarrassed.

"You tell him, Garrett, without being explicit?" Andy said.

 "Being possessed is what makes you gay. When he's inside you, you're part of him. You belong to him."

"Nothing else?" Andy prompted.

"It proves you love each other." Garrett grinned at BJ. "Plus, you end up with yummy cummy in your tummy, sort of."

"There are times when I'm inside Tyler... We don't do a thing," Rick added. "I love him so much that being joined is enough."

"We don't need to..." Instead of saying it, Tyler pumped his index finger through his fist.

"My dad and I usually did it on the couch." Andy looked around, his confidence growing. "Sometimes, we wouldn't move for an hour."

"You like watched a m-movie or something, huh?" Brady asked, trying not to smile.

"My favorite movie is still Lord of the Rings." Andy hesitated, teasing with silence.

The boys snickered, even Brady. It was only a moment or two before he decided he really liked the HELP PT counselor.

"Awesome, the battles are." Garrett relocated BJ's hand from under his coarse linen cloak. "Later, you must wait, Master."

Calvin nitpicked the obvious. "It's a pity there's no boy sex in it."

Garrett smirked. "Gandalf possessing Frodo would be a start."

"What if Gollum did Frodo. Gives a whole new meaning to `my precious?'" Tyler countered.

Smirking obscenely, even enviously, he watched BJ's hand creep back under the tattered hem of Yoda's cloak.

"You think they named Sméagol after smegma?" Calvin asked.

"You want to see something truly gross?" Brady snickered. "Duckduckgo `smegma' images with the safe-search filter off.

About then, Jack realized what was staring him in the face. Brady wasn't nearly as innocent as he appeared.

Andy glanced at Brady's file. How had he missed the penciled note? `Circ h&t asap.'

Unaware Dr. Hart watching from the doorway, he summarized.

"Guys, remember the new paradigm is in effect for the next two weeks."

Garrett's hand shot up.

"It's not optional, Yoda."

"Starting tomorrow morning, right?"

Andy nodded wearily. "When you're going to be intimate with your partner, loosen up naturally; and do all of the activities, everything in moderation."

"Everything, every time. It'll take hours," Tyler pretend-whined.

"Don't forget guys, no artificial lubes and no toys. Have fun with just yourselves. What else?"

"Always exercise after," the boys chorused.

About then, Dr. Hart decided making Andy the official HELP PT guidance counselor was one of her best decisions. He was a natural coach, sincere and self-aware with emotional intelligence equal to any man she'd ever known.

"Hi guys," she said as she entered the conference room. She looked around. "Well, did you learn anything tonight?"

"You'll have to ask BJ later," Garrett laughed. "Right now, he's having a stroke."

He shoved BJ's hand away from his groin, pretending he didn't enjoy being fondled. BJ flopped back, clutching his chest.

"Not that kind of stroke, pervert."

Dr. Hart ended the class before Garrett could say something worse. 

"Let's take a ten-minute bathroom break before basketball."

She gestured to Brady and Jack to stay behind, waiting until the rest left.

"Everything going okay, Brady?"

"The other kids, they're all so cool, Dr. Hart. You don't even think about them being gay."

Being understanding and perceptive guaranteed he'd fit in with other gay boys.

She wondered if Jack had noticed his missing stutter even as she nodded reassuringly.

"Trust me, you'll soon be just as cool; won't he Jack?"

"After tonight, if he gets any cooler, my virginity won't be an issue... seriously," Jack confirmed, ruffling platinum-blond hair.

Brady looked up. "I'm ready to lose mine, if you are."

Dr. Hart wanted to hug him. "Taking about it and actually doing it is a big step for a boy your age. You know that, right?"

"I had so much fun, I didn't worry about being d-different... you know....gay." Brady inhaled. ".

Finally, it was out in the open, she smiled.

 "All boys talk and joke about sex. What makes gay boys different is they can't get girls pregnant."

"It's more fun, too," Andy added. "We talked about commitment, remember? Never jump into bed with just any guy."

Love-sick, Brady gazed adoringly up at Jack. "I won't."

He was different, less of an angel, yet still virtuous. However, he was beyond infatuation. A few hours, another day, a week...

Dr. Hart and Andy smiled. In the space of an hour, Jack and Brady had travelled far and experienced a lot. Had they learned what they needed to know to go the rest of the way?

After Brady and Jack left the conference room, Dr. Hart chuckled, of the mind, `I think he came back to his life.'

"Well, how was their first meeting?"

"A couple of times, they were all over each other. Brady's as gay as any of them, and gorgeous. Shy for sure. He's also as self-aware as Garrett."

"Brighter, though; if he wants to apply himself," Dr. Hart added.

Andy rubbed his chin, hoping he wasn't going too far. "He's as anal as I was at his age."

"He doesn't strike me as fixated."

"Not Freudian fixated. While the others were clowning around buggering bonobos, he badgered Calvin about how far it went in. He came right out with; not just curious."

"His grandmother said he's already inserting his hairbrush."

"I'm not surprised. He was boned when we talked about sex toys."

It had been impossible to miss the tiny erection poking into Brady's black vamp pants, or his nervous excitement, outright lust bearing down like a freight train.

"He strikes me as more passive than Calvin."

Using the safe word so as not to bias him further. She'd learned preconceptions about roles were problematic.

"Everything about him says he's a natural bottom."

"His test results indicated a slight dominant inclination."

"My guess is he'll be submissive after he gets what he wants."

"I can see him demanding sex. Like you did, I think?" she teased.

"I prevailed most times."

She expected Andy's slight smile. A boy didn't sleep with his father when he was nine years old and not retain good memories.

"One thing's certain. He's ready to do it with Jack."

 "I wonder if he's already done it." Dr. Hart pondered. "During dinner tis father said, quote; `I know what happens. I don't want him incontinent.'"

"He wouldn't be the first pedo-pop."

"If it wasn't mutual, it would explain the suicide attempt."

"Unless Brady says something, there's no way of telling."

She put the implications aside. "I need to talk to Jack. If Brady's already inserting, it could happen any time."

"By the weekend?" Andy reflected. "The size difference is the issue."

She nodded for more.

"A bad experience at his age... it'll ruin everything."

Even token advice brought a smile to her face.

"Dr. Proctor will address it when he gives Brady a physical. He covers certain personal issues," she alluded.

"He needs one of those trainer plugs, right now."

 "Don't worry. He'll have it for the weekend. Jack's driving up after he closes on Saturday."

"Lucky Brady."

Dr. Hart enjoyed the look on his face.  For a lark, or wishful thinking, she tossed out...

"I'm depending on you for lift-off, and a soft landing."

"Even if he's inserting his hair brush, he'll need a couple of days with a training plug to loosen his ass."

"I'll make sure he knows."

"I know this sounds bad... Poppers will help."

"Dr. Proctor and I are against it. Fast-tracking the most important event in Brady's life because of his damned father; it shouldn't be this way."

Andy raised an eyebrow. "I'll talk to Jack."

"You're in a good mood. I take it the kids weren't too bad?" she teased.

"Garrett's the defacto leader. He's a prick tease with a size complex. Tyler idolizes him, verging on mutual. Calvin's along for the ride. After seeing his file, I'm not surprised."

"Garrett and Tyler do Taekwondo together. They've always been close," she allowed.

"Meaning they have sex."

Dr. Hart took a breath.

"We don't ask, and they don't tell... HELP is a community. They hang out, have sleepovers, even go on vacations together. Some of the older boys probably share partners."

Andy chuckled at the implication. "

"Did you manage to address any Platonic issues?"

"When we were talking about oral, I asked `If you could have my tongue anywhere on your body, where would you most like it to lick? And why.'"

Dr. Hart smiled, imagining the reaction of four preteen boys. "How did it go?"

"Better than I expected. Of course, Garrett and Tyler focused on private parts. I think Calvin has a foot fetish."

"And Brady?"

Andy smiled. He hadn't planned on telling her everything, at least not right away.

"Innocent Brady. He said..." He made air quotes. "... `wherever you most want to squirt on me.'"

"He was being funny." She thought about it. "He's not making it, yet he wants it on his body. `Curiouser and curiouser,' cried Alice.'"

"Could be a pedo-pop upshot."

"It's a possibility," she agreed.

"Once it was out, he acted like he was joking, only he stammered nonstop, like knew he shouldn't have said it."

"Maybe he's seen one of his friends ejaculate, or they did it on him at the swim meet."

"Or he's been watching videos online. Bet you ten bucks Cuteness has a semen fixation."

"It`ll make Dr. Proctor's job easier if he does." She decided the timing was right. "I have a theory that ingestion has significant health benefits. I don't have time to explain the chemistry right now. The boys call it `yummy cummy in my tummy.'"

"Yeah, I heard it a couple of times tonight," Andy mused.

"They need to be more careful what they say." She relaxed, took a breath. "The bad news is it looks like we're stuck babysitting Thrall."

Andy could tell her impromptu meeting with Professor Thrall had not gone well.

"I asked him to his face if he was a homophobe," she went on. "He gave me the `I hate labels' routine."

"Pretty much proves first impressions are 99-percent right."

"Then, he lectured me on avoiding stereotypes as a way to stop prejudice. Being labeled causes angst; typical psycho-babble. The classic Thrall, `Homosexuals are misunderstood and underappreciated for their creative contributions.'"

"Typical progressive liberal with sexual hang-up.s Wanna bet he's a closet queer?"

Dr. Hart smiled. "He wants to be involved in HELP operations. His exact words, `I think I'll excel at counseling young homosexuals, even though I'm not.'"

"Yup, he's an asshole."

"Thrall has no idea how messed up our boys are."

Andy met her eyes. "I didn't sleep last night. I was worried that I'd say the wrong thing tonight. They act cool, and they are, sort of. Inside, they're scared stiff. Self-esteem, self-image, zero!"

"Because?"

"Rejection is only a word away. They're all teetering on the edge. Maybe in five years they can fight back. Until then, they're immature boys trying to live through a nightmare."

She regarded him, very impressed—he'd been there; he knew.

 "Don't worry. Thrall won't get within a mile of our PT boys. The problem is if I say no, it will only invite suspicion. The Department Chair has already had calls from do-gooders who say they've seen the HELP website. Mostly they're coming from homophobe blogs, nothing but hypocrites."

"What are you going to do with Thrall?"

"He'll be our go-to person for research. His first assignment is a literature review. A summary of everything published since 1970 having to do with homosexual youth, adolescent depression, hormonal effects and puberty, and suicide generally."

Andy grinned. "That'll take a while."

"It also includes foreign journals and books, French, German, Russian, Spanish, and Italian."

"Not Japanese and Chinese?"

"Now you're thinking, Andy. I'll add those tomorrow."

00 00

Brady and Jack strolled the second-floor hallway of the Cambridge Professional Services Building, sweaty hand in big strong hand. Constantly surveilling, because neither the cute boy-vampire nor his middle-aged partner dared hold hands in public, even if there was no one around to see them.

They stopped at the main stair, Walter Gropius inspired in black painted steel, an odd couple hanging over the rail. Sexy boy- vampire looking over the entry foyer, his cape in black with a crimson satin lining, cropped silver hair shimmering under spotlights.

Brady exhaled, thoughts clamoring, fingers tingling. His penis was still sticking up, erect for so long it might never go down. On the plus side, it wasn't easy to see; however, he could feel it, taut under his black stovepipe pants.

"Pretty aw-awesome, huh Jack?"

Was he referring to Calder's orange and red disks suspended on wires and struts overhead? Something else?

Jack sighed. Still trying to come to grips with everything, mostly being alone with a young very-gay boy, still holding his hand.

"That's a mobile sculpture. If you watch very carefully, you'll see it move," he said, blowing towards it.

"Alexander C-Calder did it." Brady added his lungful to the air current.

"The guys are funny as hell," Jack allowed.

Stroking silky-soft fingers, he marveled at perfection. He focused on the silver star pendant draped around Brady's neck, dangling against his trim, slim body. His crimson vest and loose white shirt concealed most of the bruises, yet knowing what had caused them was a constant nightmare, terrifying.

"Yeah. G-Garrett especially." Brady paused.

Inflating his lungs and blowing over the railing again, suddenly very aware of feelings not entirely new to him, shivery yet glowing.

"Did you s-see what h-he did with BJ?"

Jack blew until he was almost breathless. No movement at all.

"What in particular?"

"H-he stuck his h-hand down there."

Barely a whisper in front of Calder's mobile, trembling with the sheer thrill of saying it aloud. Not envy, the desire to experience a man's hard flesh for himself.

"Under BJ's p-pants," he added, just in case `there' wasn't clear.

"Pretty awesome, huh?" Jack blew again, sputtering at the end.

"It's never going to move." Brady giggled. "It was h-hot!"

In his mind, it was oh-so-obvious what he wanted from Jack. Afraid to just do it, unable to ask.

"I should call Garçon and see if everything is okay," Jack murmured, reluctant to let go of Brady for even a second.

Brady gazed up at him, licking his bottom lip, teasing deliberately, wondering what Jack would think. Part of him wanted to kiss Jack in public. The rest of him wanted what Garrett had done in plain view.

Anxious to touch his man's penis for the very first time, yet the voice in his head was insistent; `you're a nasty, dirty, depraved boy.'

He pulled against Jack's hand. "I-I gotta use the r-restroom. Dr. Hart w-wants to know if everything is okay."

He took a deep breath. Think it. Say it. Mean it. Do it for Jack.

"You're coming in with me and we're doing what I want, okay?"

"Whatever you want to do, Sire; I'm game!"

Still pulling, the vampire shamelessly, daringly cupped his boy-bulge with his other hand, so far beyond teasing that he shivered with excitement. A single sentence and he hadn't stuttered, not one time, not even close.

Jack gulped the three words he wanted to say, staying his ground, not releasing his grip as Brady backed away.

Finally, Brady grinned. "Okay! I want to kiss you properly... and jerk you off."

Jack played along, rubbing his bristly chin—it was way past five o'clock.

"Sure, if you allow me do it to you, too; it's only fair."

Behind him, a metal disk on Calder's mobile moved ever so slowly. Unaware, Brady soared, turned, and bolted across the hallway, giggling as he thrust open the door to the men's restroom.

He could tell something wasn't right as soon as the door closed behind him. Calvin's partner, Keith was standing before the washbasins, the water running. However, he wasn't washing his hands, or drying them, or even looking in the mirror. He was watching the door.

"Hi Brady," Keith said, much louder than he needed given that Brady was an arm's length away.

"Yo, Count Dracula!" came from behind a white glazed partition.

It was Tyler's voice, excited, echoing off the tiled walls.

"Um, h-hi Ty."

"He's here... Cool!" Garrett's voice, discombobulated, breathless, eerie.

Brady shivered; he didn't know why. He stepped around the partition. Totally unprepared, he froze, gaping, holding his breath even as his life changed forever.

Beyond three pristine-white porcelain urinals, were two cubicles. The first cubicle was occupied, door closed. The second cubicle, the handicapped stall, was wide open. Tyler peered around the corner, smirking, beckoning.

Brady waved awkwardly, adrenalin surging, heart pounding, heat rising to turn his face crimson, rectal muscles tightening, his whole body reacting to the powerful thrill racing through him.

With his Yoda-robe lifted up, and his Star Wars boxer-briefs at his knees, Garrett was as good as naked. He bent at the waist, arms straight out, leaning against the wall. BJ, shirt lifted up, jeans and boxers stuck midway down his thighs, stood behind him, holding his hips. Thrusting calmly, rhythmically, deliberately, gliding in, out. Trusting, relaxed boy riding the euphoria wave, slender smooth legs twitching as his man bottomed out in his colon.

"Fuck," Brady murmured.

It was beautiful, not like watching X-rated porn on a gay website, with five of his swim-team buddies waiting to pounce at any sign of arousal.

"It's way in there, Brady," Keith said from behind him. "BJ's big-boy is bumping his little-boy sex-button."

"Easy, squeezy," Garrett whimpered. "Make it last, okay?"

BJ leaned over him, stroking his bare flanks. "I'll go slower, okay?"

Again, Tyler beckoned to Brady. He had something in his hand. Blue-purple, glossy, a curved T-handle with knobs on a perpendicular shaft.

"You got to see this. Yoda's got it all."

Brady took a nervous step closer, and another. Now, he could see BJ's erect penis, shiny, slick, sliding in, sliding out. It was big and red, and bumpy, not smooth and pale like his pint-sized penis.

"D-does it hurt?"

"Not any more," BJ replied. "Once he's stretched like this, it feels good, real good."

"What he means is it's fucking out of this world, like totally awesome," Tyler added, gleefully reaching under Garrett.

"Yeah, it's soft; so fucking what?" Garrett grumbled.

Two more steps and Brady was looking down at what it truly meant to be homosexual.

Just a half-hour earlier, Andy had talked about relationships and falling in love with a guy.

It scarcely seemed possible. Jack had leaned and whispered in Brady's ear. `I'm falling in love with you.' It made both of them tingle all over. Brady was still thinking about it when Andy had added, `bonding is the ultimate proof of your love.'

BJ pulled back until his glans popped out. It was a sound no gay boy ever forgot, no different to seeing a boy's gaping anus; wet, messy, loose. Wide open and crimson inside, foamy stuff drooling from Garrett's dilated rectum.

"It's big," Brady muttered.

It was scary to think about, exciting, too.

"He's been wearing his trainer plug all day for this," BJ said, gazing down.

"Go in," Garrett gasped, his face strangely contorted.

Brady stared as BJ repositioned. His fat, exposed glans poised, Garrett's anus like a mouth, opening, closing, flexing hungrily. BJ easily penetrated his boy-lover, sinking halfway in before he resumed thrusting. Sucking, sloppy slaps, muted sighs, grunts, and groans mixed together, a cacophony of lust and juvenile sodomy.

"It's good!... Do me, BJ... Go faster!"

Garrett couldn't stop shaking, yet somehow he looked back at Brady and smiled even as BJ began to thrust faster.

"Better than your trainer, huh Yoda?" BJ huffed.

"It's good," Garrett panted. "Make me big, BJ."

BJ's buttocks clenched with every forward movement, erratic, riding the bumpy ramp to orgasm. Getting his thrills from the fluttering grasp going in, the clasping spasm when he pulled back, dilated rectum squeezing erratically.

Teasing his boyfriend right up to orgasm, whispering, "Bigger, Yoda wants. A gaping boy-pussy, Yoda gets. Better than tight, right?"

"No! Don't stop!" came from the other cubicle, muffled, yet throaty, demanding.

"Wanna bet Harry Potter's going to dry-cum any second?" Tyler confided, leering at Keith.

Unaware that something similar was going on in the adjoining cubicle, or what was about to happen, Brady shrugged it off.

"He really likes it," he said to no one in particular.

"Actually, he loves it. I bet you will, too."

Brady turned at Jack's voice. No idea how long he'd been there, watching, listening.

Jack rested his hand on his boy's shoulder.

"I think you've seen the important stuff, Babe. I think we should leave them to finish in private," he said gently.

00 00

 

Andy watched the boys playing basketball. Two teams of six boys from barely eleven to 16, most of them so active they were all but oblivious to the cold. Jack watched, too, however, his gaze fixed on Brady. His boy was relentless, nimble, highly coordinated, just too short to counter boys who towered above him.

"Like Dr. Hart said, Jack; if I see or hear anything that suggests child abuse, I'm required to report it."

"I understand. He's just so small for his age, I don't see how...," Jack muttered.

"I'm not able to advise you. That said, things stretch over time."

Andy doubled as sideline-referee, less worried about rules than overt contact. In the well-lit parking lot, any passerby might see. When two of the older boys cornered Calvin and started to `pants' him, he lifted his hand and shook his head—that was enough.

"Be patient and careful, he'll enjoy playing baseball."

Jack smothered a chuckle.

"He'll need to be prepared before each game, and relaxed," Andy added.

"Very relaxed, or I'll strike out, right?" It was easy to joke.

Andy clenched his fist, held it out for Jack to see.

"Try opening his glove by jamming in your bat; there's no way without him screaming."

He thumped his fist with the bottom of his other fist. Then, he stroked the gap between thumb and index finger with his other index finger, gently pressing in as he relaxed his grip, wriggling, finally penetrating.

"Coax the glove open slowly and gently, and it'll relax."

"I got it. I won't hurt him, not his first game, not ever."

After a weary head shake, Andy remarked, "What I said upstairs, catching a ball won't hurt as bad as you think." He lowered his voice. "I never said this. The sooner Brady's homofied the safer he is."

"Homofied?" Jack murmured. "Meaning he's had gay sex?"

"Brady's ready and willing to play; he just needs to catch the ball. That's your first job. His glove has to be bigger, a lot bigger."

"There's no way around it, is there?"

"There's something called `poppers'; it relaxes the muscle, only I'm not a fan. My view, you should do it naturally, even if it takes longer."

"I mean... I can't believe I'm saying this... does it have to happen right now?"

"As soon as possible. There'll come a time when it's the most natural thing in the world for him. It is for Garrett and Tyler; Calvin, too, but not the same way."

Jack glanced away from Brady, doing his best to guard Tyler. "He's just so small."

"Brady's eager to play. Between you and me, experimenting is normal for gay boys," Andy went on. "Once they find out they like playing, they don't stop. He already uses a hairbrush. It's not enough."

"How soon..." Jack was unable to say it directly.

"Start preparing him tonight. Do it until he's pushing back at you."

As if on cue, Brady's team scored. Brady danced, both hands cupping his crotch, whooping and pelvic thrusting. It was so overtly gay, Jack thought he might have to sit down. Andy clapped. With no one keeping score, he declared a draw. Game over on a high note, a breathless Brady headed towards Jack.

"Count Dracula up for pizza?" Jack asked, handing Brady his vampire cape.

He'd chipped in $20 at the start of the game. Not delivery pizza; Keith drove to Tufts to pick up pizzas from one of the premier pizza joints in Boston.

 "Can we take it to your place?"

"Could be fun," Jack mused.

His mind churned obscene thoughts; what he'd witnessed in the men's restroom; Andy going on about homofying Brady; his boy's lewd display on the basketball court.

Brady's giggle didn't help. He sidled close to Jack, slender, sensual boy baring pearly white teeth.

 His hoarse voice wavered spookily. "Be warned. It's still Halloween. I might... suck you."

00 00

Jack had second thoughts before their seatbelts were fastened. Still, he put it off until they were on Massachusetts Avenue, headed towards Harvard Square.

"I better call your parents."

Brady's grumpy face would've been funny if it wasn't so serious.

"Dad'll only say no."

"I'm not going to lie to your parents the first time we're alone together."

With one hand on the steering wheel, Jack pulled out his cellphone, brought it to life with his thumb. The Bluetooth connection lit up on the console.

He cleared his throat, and said, "Call Brady's mom."

Wary and worried, yet Brady nodded agreement if not approval, listening as the call completed, and went straight to voicemail.

"Hello. You've reached my mom, Julie Singer. Please leave her a message after the beep."

Brady smiled. Back then, his voice was pure, a boy-choir treble.

Humbled, and nervous, Jack mumbled. "Hi Julie. This is Jack. I'm calling to ask if..."

"Hi Jack," Julie interrupted, sounding flustered. "I'm with a patient. Is everything okay?"

"It's great, Mom! HELP's really awesome," Brady called gleefully.

Jack shushed him. "I was wondering if Brady could come to my place to practice his miming for an hour. I'll drive him home when we're done."

"Say yes, Mom!"

His head spun all 360 degrees as they came to Harvard Square. Jack slowed to a crawl. Halloween decorations were all over the place, not just the traditional carved pumpkins, cotton-wool cobwebs, and plastic tombstones. Creepy. Clever. Exotic. Everyone was dressed up.

"I'm meeting the producer after we get back from Boylston tomorrow," Jack went on, crossing his fingers where Brady could see.

"Boylston? Oh, right, that's where the HELP doctor is. It's fine with me. I'll call Ted and let him know. Is ten o'clock enough time?"

"Thanks, Mom!"

Jack thanked her, too, and ended the call. When he glanced sideways, Brady was staring at him, intense, cross-eyed, slow deep breaths.

"Be varned. I vill suck you dry, Lord Jack-ula," he whispered, slyly shielding his mouth with his cape collar.

"Oh no! He's really a vampire." Falsetto voice. "What have I gotten myself into?"

"I'm not that k-kind of vampire."

Brady erupted in more preteen giggles, unable to stop for almost a minute. A moment later...

"Whoa! Look Jack! They're naked!"

Creamy body suits were over the top, way over.

"No woman has breasts like that. Exactly what kind of vampire are you?"

"A gay one. What I s-s-s-suck i-s-s s-s-s-semen."

More snake than boy, no stutter, dragging the hiss.

"Whoa! Where did you come from? What happened to the nice Brady?"

"He's in the r-restroom, j-jacking off."

Confident, funny, pleased with himself, Brady pushed another button, pretending innocence to see what would happen.

"They were f-fucking, weren't they?"

"I couldn't see much. Someone was in my way," Jack joked.

Brady pointed to himself, and playfully shook his head.

A moment later, he leaned closer and whispered. "BJ had his d-dick inside Garrett... My d-d-dad would s-say ass f-fucking is gross."

Despite the traffic, costumed people swarmed across the road. Jack risked taking his eyes off the road and nearly hit a pregnant nun. He took his foot off the accelerator, just in case.

"Liar. You're a sex demon from Hell. You loved watching."

Mock surprise, with a barely visible eyebrow raised as if to say, 'Who me?' A headshake to confirm, teasing smile, eager to fill his own hole.

"You w-want to do it to me; put your dick in my butt?"

"If you wanted to. In fact, I'd love to; when you're bigger."

"Andy showed us how you can make me b-bigger. Look!"

Down one street, all the lights were orange. Huge pumpkins. It was eerie until Jack turned onto Brattle; finally, a semblance of normality.

"Tintin, having sex, it's a major decision. As much as you or I want to do it, it's not something that you should rush at your age."

Babbling now, because the alternative was too scary to think about. Seeing Garrett and BJ in the restroom changed everything. Slow and steady, BJ pumping like a well-oiled machine; Garrett unresisting, an accomplice from the way he braced himself against the wall.

"How much older must I be, Jack?"

"You're not Garrett. Even though you think you are, you're not ready for sex."

"You know that, how? I want you. I know you like me..."

Too close to the truth, Jack stopped it right there.

"Do you really like goat cheese and spinach on pizza?"

"Those slices are yours. I'm having pepperoni and mushroom. And then, we're doing everything in moderation. Everything!"

Teasing, testing, finally demanding, Jack's `partner' exerted himself in ways he would never dream of doing with his father.

Episode 9: Wednesday Night, October 31^st

 

Jack parked in the forecourt and switched off the engine. The purring stopped, leaving Bach's Harpsichord Concerto No. 1 in D Minor from the Bowers & Wilkins surround-sound audio. It was Baroque, imaginably dark, vaguely vampiric, not Transylvanian. It faded, leaving silent luxury, burled walnut and French-seam stitched leather.

Brady looked around. "You live here, just you and your dog?"

Jack's stomach rumbled, feeding on pizza smells wafting from the rear `wee' seats. He nodded, watching Brady, not about to point out that the boy hadn't stammered.

His house was unlike any house Brady had seen in Somerville, Massachusetts. Stone walls like a castle, a huge wall of glass panes, doors that belonged on a horse barn. Brick-paved forecourt like the 18^th century North End of Boston, night lights hidden among bushes, outdoor spotlights focused on his statue collection, spectacular yellow Gingko and Witch Hazel, a huge Sugar Maple with orange-red leaves already on fire, flames under spotlights, the rest shadows in the darkness.

"Aren't you hungry?"

"I ate like a dozen p-pieces of candy, remember? It's n-nice, your house."

Jack opened his door, got out, stretched his legs, and leaned down to get the pizza box from the back seat. He handed it to Brady, doing vampire swirls with his cape, excitement barely checked. Gay and gorgeous, grinning up at him, showing off Bucky Beaver front teeth. A missing canine was a problem for a boy vampire.

"I'm starving. Let's go meet Boy."

With his arm draped around Brady's slim shoulders, he escorted the boy to his door, partly proud, mostly worried what his neighbors would think. Middle-aged men didn't have eleven-year-old boyfriends.

With a grand gesture, he opened the door, stepping back as Boy bolted out. He circled Brady twice, sniffing black stovepipe pants and a proffered right hand, dangerously close to sticking his snout in private parts.

"Boy meet Tintin. Tintin, this is Boy."

"I like when you call m-me `Tintin'."

"Good, because I like calling you `Tintin'," Jack said, smiling and taking the pizza box, leading the way inside.

"I think Boy l-likes me."

"Not as much as I do," Jack said under his breath.

 By the time he'd closed the door, Brady had squatted, already fondling shaggy ears, scratching fingers through white and liver-colored curls as he worked his way down Boy's bony spine towards a frenzied stubby tail.

"Good boy. You like getting your back rubbed, huh Boy?"

"Almost as much as you do, I bet." Jack caught himself a moment before Brady glanced up.

"My d-dad says I'm too old. Grandma has to give me b-backrubs when h-he's not around."

Looking down again quickly, embarrassed enough for his cheeks to turn pink.

"You're never too old. Take off your outfit and I'll give you a backrub you'll never forget."

Brady's head snapped up. "You want me take off everything?"

"Of course not! Just the cape and vest."

Brady stood, heart drumming, scarcely aware of Jack's dog licking his fingers, nudging his thigh.

"Maybe your shoes, too," Jack added self-consciously.

"I will if you want," Brady murmured, shyly looking down at the checkerboard-tiled floor. "I'm cool with getting naked if you want me to."

Jack took one deep breath after another, and stared. Temptation peeked nervously, twice, yet didn't dare make eye contact.

Suddenly anxious when Jack didn't respond, Brady whispered, "Do you want me to take off everything, or not?"

He fondled Dog's floppy ears, certain his cheeks were getting redder. Never so scared of rejection, or so desperate for affection, even a simple hug would be enough, at least for a while. He blinked, fighting tears.

"Not everything," Jack finally muttered, miserably failing the temptation test.

"Why?"

"It's not a good idea, that's all."

Brady straightened, resolutely. Without looking at Jack, he unfastened the chain clasp that secured the front of his cape. He folded it carefully and placed it on the granite countertop. Trying to appear blasé, Jack turned away, pizza box still in hand. He placed slices on a cookie sheet and placed it in the oven before he turned around. By then, Brady had unfastened the three buttons on his vest and was in the process of taking it off.

"What are you doing?"

"Undressing. I said I'm okay with it. That's `consent."

"I might not be able to control myself," Jack warned.

Brady responded, pushing the small velvety vest from his shoulders, twirling it, pirouetting, body conscious, showing off.

 "I know you won't hurt me. You like me too much." Smiling, no longer a shy boy. "You want to see me with my clothes off, or not?"

"Of course, I do. "

Jack feasted, his silver-haired boy in a loose white shirt. Static electricity made diaphanous polyester cling to him. It was very revealing.

"What if your dad comes to pick you up? What's he going to think, finding you naked in my kitchen?"

Brady giggled. "Not here, Silly."

He pointed through the doorway, beyond the dining room.

Jack scooped him up, one arm under his thighs, the other arm around his back. Brady gazed up, eyes wide, his expression enigmatic, as if Jack carrying him was entirely expected. It was all very puzzling.

 "You're my gorgeous gay boy," Jack muttered.

Self-conscious, Brady licked his lips, demonic fire raging inside him, angelic with his hazy-blue eyes.

With Dog on his heels, Jack carried Brady through the dining room, into the living room. He stopped before his `fabulous' green velvet and Butternut fainting couch. Brady clasped his hand, quivering with anticipation, yet still looking around. It was like a museum with expensive, old-fashioned stuff everywhere. Definitely nothing from Walmart, where his mom shopped; or Target, where his aunt in Connecticut bought her `designer' stuff.

Jack sat carefully, pondering a dozen possibilities while cradling his boy, stroking his thigh from underneath. Even with stovepipe pants in the way, he felt juvenile gristle, firm smooth muscle. His other hand caressed diaphanous polyester, clingy, and virginal white. Underneath was taut boy-tummy. Nothing `soft' about eleven-year-old Brady Singer.

And then there was Brady's big innie bellybutton; Jack poked for the heck of it, hoping for a cackle.

"You're supposed to laugh."

Brady looked at him strangely.

"Well, it's really more of a giggle. Between a laugh and giggle, really. Who-hoo. The Pillsbury Dough Boy? It's a generation thing, I expect."

He caressed Brady's flanks from hips to armpits, not daring to tickle and risk spoiling the moment. Only flimsy white cloth separated his fingers from Brady's sleek, smooth, deliciously warm skin. Then, all on its own, his thumb came into play, pressing into firm pectoral, pivoting, before pinching a tiny nipple. He rolled it between thumb and fingertip, pulling up ever so slightly.

It was a strange sensation for a boy who had yet to experience that kind of arousal. Never realizing his nipples were tender zones, they were non-sexual, unlike his penis, testicles, and anus.

"Feels nice, but funny," Brady murmured.

However, he quivered again and again, on tenterhooks the same as if Jack was fondling his sex organs. Endorphins and dopamine enhanced pleasure sensations; and adrenalin, from sheer excitement, flooded his 65 pounds. Slender arm muscles honed by long hours of breaststroke and butterfly responded, reached up, tightening around Jack's thick neck.

Jack tugged on the delicate flesh-morsel, twisting relentlessly, squeezing the now-firm tiny bump, torturing until Brady's lithe body quivered. Then, he stopped and Brady slumped like a deflating balloon, his breathing still quickened, tingling where Jack's thumb an finger had been, gazing up in silent wonder at the middle-aged man smiling down at him.

"More?" Jack murmured, remarkably still in control of himself.

Brady nodded slightly.

"Shirt off?"

Another nod to show assent, all the while nervously looking down as Jack's fingers plucked at a white button near his belly button, deftly unfastening, allowing a miniscule glimpse of almond-hued skin. Then, the button next to it, and more skin appeared, flat, smooth, taut, incredibly delicate.

In a rush, Jack unfastened the rest, all the way up to Brady's neck before pulling his shirt from under his black stovepipe pants. Only one button remained closed. It, too, was unfastened, and Jack lifted back shiny white polyester. Unwrapping a gift was never as profound, or enervating as his first look at Brady's belly and chest.

"You're beautiful. Really beautiful," he whispered wistfully.

Brady followed his gaze down. After eleven years of looking at himself in the mirror and seeing other boys on his swim team, he thought he was nothing special. No bulging six-pack and pectorals like the men he ogled on the Internet, just a pronounced furrow from his breast to his lower belly, his rectus abdominis forming slight tapering, yet firm bulges either side.

Jack's fingertip dared to trace grooves, each one indicating a rib, tickling enough to make Brady giggle softly.

"You're so smooth. I bet you're a sexy dolphin in the pool."

No fur, no fluff, not even fuzz, just silky soft skin. With a wink, Jack caressed Brady's belly, slowly circling around his navel, abruptly spiraling in like a cosmic black hole, fingertip digging in playfully, perhaps a bit too invasive.

"Stop it!" Brady ordered.

Abashed, Jack jerked back his hand. "Sorry."

Brady giggled. "I'm still deciding how far you can go."

"Well, it worked."

Smirking, he leaned up to whisper, "You can pay with my tummy after you take off my pants."

Jack held his breath, caught between disbelief and exhilaration.

Dr. Hart had warned him while he was watching the basketball game. Cute Brady Singer had a dominant side. `It might prove interesting when he responds.' Her exact words!

"Everything off?" Jack whispered.

"Everything!"

"You're sure?"

However, his hand was already at work on the button at the waist of Brady's pants.

Brady sucked in his belly to assist, watching Jack's fingers work the button through the opening, tugging down his zipper. He stretched out his legs, lifting up his butt. Then, he shimmied his middle as Jack pulled down his pants, all the way to his knees.

What he didn't expect was Jack tossing him, flung onto his back like a kid's teddy bear. He lay on the fainting couch, sensuous on plush green velvet, waiting.

Jack stood, never happier, gawking at his about-to-be lover, shirt wide open in front, pants tangled around his legs, tiny black boxer-briefs with an orange pumpkin covering his crotch, barely a hint of what lay underneath.

And Dog, with his moist nose pressed against Brady's bare side, sniffing everything including his still-covered crotch, back to nuzzling for attention until the boy fondled ears.

Jack trembled at what he was thinking. His boys--he owned both of them.

"Best take off your shoes."

Brady was barely aware of his Walmart sneakers being discarded, adult fingers toying with sock-covered toes. However, when Jack leaned to kiss his right foot, he jerked it away.

"Stop smelling my stinky f-feet!"

"When did you wash them last?"

"I showered this m-morning. I didn't exactly w-wash them, but."

"But? But? I hoped you washed your butt, though."

Brady regarded him, shook his head, thought about it some more, and smiled.

"Grandma's always telling me not to end with a `but.'"

Jack licked his lips. He might've been anticipating the end of an exceptional meal; Crème Brûlée, Raspberry Soufflé, Chocolate Mousse... all classic standbys. Only one thing came close to his favorite, Poire belle Hélène, Auguste Escoffier's creation, appropriately named after Offenbach's bouffe operetta, La belle Hélène.

"Is it okay to start with butt?" he inquired slyly.

"Um, I g-guess. Grandma just s-says not to end with `but'."

"Everything but."

Did eleven-year-old boys appreciate innuendo? Not that it mattered; all Jack could think about was his bare beautiful boy, and tasting his butt in particular.

"In that case, you need to be on your tummy."

"Huh?"

"Roll over if you want rimmy rimmy."

Jack got hot from saying it. Hotter from seeing Brady's eyes light up, his mouth agape enough to see his pink tongue. Surely salivating. Hot became blazing hot as Brady rolled over, butt up.

Jack lowered himself onto his fainting couch, scarcely conscious, absorbing in awe, slender thighs next to him, one sock-covered foot wedged into the carved Butternut armrest, the other foot exploring a green velvet pillow. Within easy reach were two melons, hiding under black boxers. Higher, a flimsy shirt scrunched as Brady pulled it up, shamelessly exposing his flawless lean back.

"Moderation, bouffe," Jack muttered, barely coherent.

Bouffe from Offenbach's operas using comedy, farce, parody, and satire. Inhibitions derived from western society's inability to appreciate the human body. The result was a farce, anything to limit individual expression.

Reaching out, Jack's nervous fingers made contact with hitherto untouched skin, warm and smooth and...

He was a mere fraction of an inch from the elasticized waistband. He stroked teasingly toward it, stoking lust with the gentlest of touches before cautiously insinuating fingertips. Quivering at what he was about to do even as Brady willingly, eagerly raised up his middle, leaving his butt like an offering to Zeus, the God of Boy-love-ophilia.

Jack held his breath, pulling lightly as if removing Brady's boxers required finesse. Tight, yet not so tight that the waistband didn't move. Instead, it crept into the untanned zone. Definitely not a yank-them-down-in-one-go job. Revealing inch by inch, playful deliberate tugs, delaying the inevitable for as long as possible. Brady had to reach underneath twice to rearrange.

Jack gaped where bare buttock met thigh; it simply didn't seem possible. Nothing was that life-changing, or beautiful.

"Do you like my butt?"

Husky horny-boy voice, no matter that Jack's mind was elsewhere. His right hand easily covered Brady's entire right buttock with his thumb to spare. Warm skin over rubber, yet soft like a baby...

 He used his thumb to caress the boy's crease, back and forth, barely dipping into the crack, craving more, adrenalin pumping, somehow slowly regaining rationality.

"Who wouldn't like it? You have a beautiful..." Unable to think beyond `ass,' which was rude. Finally, "... bottom," came to mind.

 "A kid on the sw-swim t-team said I h-have a b-bubble b-butt."

"It's perfect, bubble or not."

It was rounded, not overly plump, certainly not flabby. Like a big peach. Would it be sweet and juicy, relished like Cusenier, arguably the best peach brandy liqueur?

Jack leaned low, salivating, inhaling, caressing both sides of Brady's crack until he moved his legs farther apart, a clear invitation.

 "What about this?" he posed.

He insinuated a finger into the gap ever so carefully. His other fingers caressed scrotum and perineum.

"Not your dick," Brady murmured. He sounded almost sleepy.

He turned his head, resting it on his forearm, looking back at Jack, hesitating.

"You don't h-have to lick."

"I've never done this before. Unlike you."

"Tut doesn't count, Doofus."

Jack was tempted to just do it, part his cheeks, split him open with one thumb each side, lick the crap right out of him.

"Can I see it?" Again, a true gentleman asked permission, inhaling deeply; it wouldn't take much.

 "May I see it?" Brady corrected, smirking. "Duh!"

He got his first-ever love slap for that. The sting was gone before Jack saw it. For some reason, it made him think of a daisy.

"You think my hole is big enough?"

From the mouth of an eleven-year-old homosexual, it ricocheted inside Jack's head.

"It's pretty tiny."

"Does it smell bad?"

"It's okay... for a boy-vampire."

Brady giggled, and Jack gulped saliva, immediately wishing he hadn't. That incorrigible, instinctive `wink' was surely inviting a finger to explore, perhaps determine if it could go in, just an inch or two in play. However, he needed saliva to get inside easily...

If not his finger... He licked his lips, hoping he wasn't going to taste something disgusting.

No sooner than he'd resolved to `just do it,' Brady reached from underneath, his index finger extended. It touched the puckered opening, circling. It was the sexiest thing that Jack Broche had ever seen. Still, it wasn't enough.

He leaned closer and kissed both buttocks, his lips tingling, his mouth no longer parched, rubbing his nose in the divide. With one hand on each buttock, he opened Brady's crack as wide as possible and staked his claim simply by touching his tongue to the crinkle.

Brady groaned, an incomprehensible sound that might've been `yeah,' if his voice wasn't hoarse.

Jack's tongue lingered, not moving until Brady gasped. Only then, he flicked, poked, wobbled, testing the now-saliva-coated still-puckered orifice. Tiny, tangy, a bit bitter. It felt nice though, smooth soft buttocks squished against his nose. And the smell, more sweaty than anything else.

Another breathy gasp, a muffled anxious whimper.

"Rimmy, rimmy is cool," Brady murmured.

"Si, it's nice?" Jack pressed.

Almost no taste now, and what little there was, he couldn't identify beyond `spitty.' It was embracing, though; with an incredibly arousing aroma. Maybe musky? Close up and personal, the smell of a prepubescent boy in heat—he smiled at the thought of boy pheromones. No wonder his penis was achingly erect.

Pressing his bristly cheeks between widespread baby-soft cheeks, puckered lips met puckered anus, touching momentarily. Brady's muted whimper would soon become his trademark of sexual euphoria.

His heart thundered when he eased back, a playful slap on firm buttocks before he split them again. Only his thumbs this time, looking down proudly. A tiny anemone, toying with a fingertip like a kid in a rock pool.

The next time, he kissed properly, though not like he'd kissed Brady's sweet puffy lips. Intense, intimate, impossible for them to be any closer, overwhelming. He wormed his tongue through the warm pucker, in, out, adding saliva. Slick, slippery boy flesh mashed against his mouth as he tried to get his tongue farther inside.

 His right index finger followed, initially rubbing the dimpled hole, relaxing, tantalizing, soothing, preparing, until extra pressure enabled his fingertip to sneak inside. He could tell Brady didn't mind, there was almost no resistance. In fact, it almost felt as if the little anus was kissing his finger, or pulling on it.

"Okay?"

Brady just nodded, still looking over his shoulder as Jack's finger slowly pulled against his anus, down, up, side-to-side, in, out. Between sighs, he smiled. It felt good, much better than his hairbrush. Then, Jack added more saliva.

"Wow! Oh, oh Jack. Do that more. Please?"

After a while, he discovered he could time his contractions to Jack's gentle jabs, concentrating on the pressure within. Next, relaxing the muscle inside him at the right time caused Jack's finger to go in farther and pull even harder.

"You can stretch it wider, if you want."

Jack lifted up, face spitty, panting. He had to force himself not to drool saliva into Brady's furrow.

"You like being fingered, huh?"

"Use two fingers, Jack. How Andy said."

Confident kid, already past the budding-gay stage, preparing himself for penetration, eager to explore the looming possibilities of man-boy anal sex.

Laughing, Jack hoisted Brady off the couch, flipping him around like a kid's teddy bear. Then, hugging him front to front for maximum skin contact.

"You're my `gorgeous gay boy'," he crooned, pawing bare flesh.

Brady whimpered, and seemed to be trembling. As much as he wanted to, Jack didn't dare look, worried that whatever was upsetting Brady would spoil the moment.

"Jack... Why did you stop?"

Jack's remedy was more French kissing until Brady settled down They locked their mouths together, taking turns to be the dominant tongue.

A minute of making out with his boy-vampire on a bean bag in HELP's conference room didn't compare to kissing a near-naked boy on his green velvet fainting couch. It went on and on, licking lips, sucking tongues, exchanging saliva. When they finally parted, they were breathless.

Smirking, Brady lifted up. He wiped his lips with his hand, and then licked them, ready for more.

"Either kissy kissy..." He eyed Jack's neck. "... or I'll ssssuck."

"Be my guest." Jack willinglytilted his head.

"Bloooood. I need blood. Urhgrrrrrr."

Baring his teeth, Brady leaned in, nuzzling Jack's neck. Instead of sinking his incisors in the jugular, he giggled and licked, and sucked, leaving his first-ever hickey.

With one finger almost fully inserted, and his other hand roaming over Brady's bare back, Jack grew increasingly excited. Brady writhed above him, growling, grinding, leaving his vampiric mark until Jack was only seconds from losing control, especially after his first real glimpse of boy-cock. It was even smaller than he expected.

"I better impale the vampire before he transforms into a bat," Jack chucked.

"For real? You're going to impale me?"

"I'll drive a stake right up your ass."

"NO! Not that! Wait; what stake?... Not your dick?

Melodrama, like humor, came naturally to Brady Singer.

He ended up on his front, with Jack in the same position he'd used with King Tut. With his thighs widespread and outside Jack's, his butt was exposed, the opening available for the taking, or more stretching.

"You feel so nice," Jack purred, clasping rubbery cheeks, fingertips digging, instinctively widening the fissure, taking control.

Brady glanced back to see Jack reaching around, his hands now between them, mostly fumbling. He lifted up his rump to make room, trembling as Jack unfastened his Roger-Ximenez belt, French calf leather.

"Yeahhhhh."

"About time I got undressed, huh?"

Brady nodded and Jack grinned back, singlehandedly tugging on a stiff short erection. Then, pulling it down between slender smooth thighs, he let it bounce back with a slap.

"Stop playing with my dick. Pants off! Now!" Hoarse was sad, but funny.

Jack leaned back, undoing the button at his waist, opening his zipper, clambering to his feet to yank down his jeans.

Brady looked, even though it was probably rude. It was like seeing his father at the YMCA pool, thick hairy thighs, muscles turning to middle-aged flab, skin so pale perhaps it never had a summer tan. His gaze stopped on the enormous bulge in saggy boxers... Halloween themed with a satiny sheen. He could tell they were expensive, not Walmart's brand.

"Everything off, Jack." Hoarse, hardly passive. "Every time."

Jack chuckled. "Okay. You're sure about this?"

"Remember, Andy said the kid sets the sex rules. Off. Now."

Jack pushed down, shimmied, and stepped out of his boxers.

Brady gaped, gestured, `around'. "You're like my dad, but bigger."

Jack turned around.

A moment later, "Your butt must've seen a ghost tonight. It's really pale."

Jack flopped back on the fainting couch, laughing as he clasped Brady, hoisting him up, flipping him into a face-to-face hug.

Brady clung, arms around Jack's neck, legs wrapping hips, moving from side to side. Suddenly, Jack was kissing his forehead, his hair, nuzzling his ears even as the boy again burrowed into the man's neck.

"Naked feels really nice, huh Jack?"

"Shhh. Relax..."

Still hugging, Jack rotated, as if stirring, strong hands stroking, massaging from boy-bottom to shoulders.

Now, Brady could feel Jack's erection, hard and hot and huge, brushing against his belly. Pushed and pulled as Jack rolled onto his back, soft sweaty balls mashed against his stiff penis, completely enveloping it in sticky heat. He quivered, not helpless, abandoned to tactile ecstasy, panting as Jack grasped his hips and rubbed their fronts together.

"Lift up, Tintin," Jack murmured.

"You goin' to put him in me?"

Jack just grinned. His hand sneaked between them, a playful grab of boy-gonads before relocating the monster between Brady's slim thighs.

Brady snuggled closer, wriggling back and down, anything to increase contact with his own twitching hard penis, barely aware than Jack's right arm was around his back, his hand clasping his buttocks. Something big and spongy, and slippery bumped his scrotum, sliding higher.

"We're doing it, right?" he croaked.

Sexy-hoarse, and so excited he couldn't think straight. So soon didn't seem possible, yet Jack's oozing plump glans made a beeline for his butt crack. It stopped at his anus, overfilling the divide, almost digging in. It didn't go far, barely plugging the small opening.

"He feels huge," Brady whispered. "You really think he'll fit?"

"Shhh. Lie still and let me try something, okay?"

He wasn't about to say `no', not with Jack gently prodding. He could feel his backside getting slicker, especially along his crack.

"If that's spit, h-how did it get there?"

"Let's hope it's not cum, Babe. I've only just started."

Yet another dumb question; yet he liked how Jack always chuckled. Then, he remembered. An hour ago, the boys had talked about stuff seeping out of the man's penis, about rubbing it on their bodies. They made `pre-cum' sound fun, not bad. They also didn't say how nice it felt, or that it made them tremble.

"I getting bigger, right?"

It sure felt like it; however, he couldn't be sure without reaching back. When he tried, Jack relocated his hand, almost like he didn't want Brady investigating `back there.'

"When it hurts, should I give you a hug or a kiss to make it go away?" Jack whispered, pressing in very slightly.

Brady giggled. "I know you're teasing."

"You want me to stop?"

Brady clenched to show what he thought of that idea, his muscular buttocks pinching the swollen bulb jammed between them.

"It's so hot, like touching your very core," Jack murmured.

"I poop from there, Doofus." Brady wasn't about to say what he was really thinking.

"I don't believe that for a moment."

"Want me to prove it?" Brady giggled.

He switched to concentrating as Jack's hot slippery glans pressed cautiously against him. Not even close to penetrating, yet suddenly, Brady wanted `everything.' Instinct made him wriggle back.

"It feels really nice, Jack," he whispered, his heart fluttering.

"I think it's supposed to."

Until then, Jack had never been able to convince himself that a young boy would actually want his man's penis inside him. Not that he was inside actually Brady, more like tasting the icing with a fingertip.

However, he could tell Brady needed his penis inside him, as much as he did, more than he'd ever needed anything. It belonged there; only he couldn't say it aloud, not to Brady. However, he could think it.

"I love my gorgeous gay boy," Jack crooned, and meant it.

Brady's heart jumped a few beats. So what if he was gay? Why couldn't his father just accept it?

"He feels so big," he murmured.

Jack sighed, content as Brady relaxed, already accepting his presence. Both acquiescent, reflecting until the inevitable elephant in the room loomed up.

"You're so tiny, it's not going to fit without hurting, you know."

"It w-won't fit if you don't start d-doing what A-Andy said."

Reproached by an eleven-year-old, Jack relocated his erect penis to less-tempting territory, pressed against Brady's thigh. He allowed some spit to fall into the furrow, then with his left hand cupping Brady's right buttock, he carefully reinserted his index finger, tugging gently, stretching, rotating, stretching again. Curiously, he could move his finger farther, still not a lot, yet he seemed to be making headway.

"You're elastic, aren't you Tintin?"

Brady squeezed on his finger.

"Strong, too. Feels good, huh?"

"It's like I've g-got an itch up inside."

"Am I scratching it right?"

"When y-you pull against it, yeah. It's really n-nice," Brady muttered. "Maybe if you went deeper?" He hesitated. "Use two fingers, Jack."

Jack worried; too much, too soon. Forgetting Andy's instructions, he squeezed the index finger of his other hand alongside. Surprisingly, there was still room for the tip to wriggle; not a lot; just enough. Deeper with less effort; he was definitely making headway.

Brady groaned. "Yeah, that's good; d-do it like that."

Jack chuckled despite himself. It had to be hurting like Hell, Brady's prior experiences with a hairbrush notwithstanding.

"Try relaxing when I pull. Then, tighten up."

Five minutes exercising Brady's sphincter muscle with two fingers left him trembling, and Jack wondering whether maybe, just maybe penetration was possible—the opening was already looser.

"Had enough?"

Brady shook his head. Jack continued, back to one finger, five minutes pulling this way and that, not daring to go farther inside, yet still a thorough workout.

 "I want to do everything, Jack... every time," Brady whispered hoarsely.

More than excitement, it was visceral need, leading up to the one activity that defined `gay.' However, they were beginning to tire. While looser, Brady's sphincter was on the edge of tender; and Jack's fingers, kitchen-strong by kneading dough or tenderizing meat, were close to fatigued.

 "You want to try sucking my dick, or something else?" Jack whispered back, nervous yethopeful.

Brady lifted up, slicking his lips and pretending to think about it. He felt quivery, on tenterhooks. His butt was alpha and omega, nothing else was important.

On a whim, he clenched his buttocks, definitely strange, never more aware. He wriggled his pelvis, instinct in control, showing off, tempting his lover to take the next step.

 Jack's cell phone began ringing, the opening of Berlioz' `Songe d'une nuit du sabbat,' the last movement of his Symphonie Fantastique. Barely heard from the kitchen where he'd left it, yet Dog raced out the room. Only his persistent barking stopped what was about to happen.

00 00

"Why'd he have to come get me?" Brady complained yet again.

He glowered at Jack's cell phone. It was still on the kitchen counter, next to the pizza tray. Nancy's text message was up-front, still on the screen.

`Ted just left to pick up Brady.'

Jack straightened Brady's shirt, helped him put on his crimson vest, and knelt to fasten the buttons.

"I hope my gorgeous gay boy enjoyed that as much as I did," he effused, gazing up. "So, what if we didn't do everything, we had fun, right?"

Brady smiled, shifting from brazen gay boy ready to shed his virginity to shy 11-year-old kid.

"It was okay, I g-guess."

A whole hour and only an appetizer; however, he'd enjoyed every moment. Tongue, fingers, and penis provided life-changing sensations! Anal sex was invigorating, his newfound awareness inspiring him to tease his much older friend.

"We'll make up for it next time, I promise." Jack caught his eye—the imp was planning something. "What?"

Brady made an `O' with his mouth.

"You got it, Tintin!"

Jack intended to do no more than fasten buttons, and give his boy a farewell hug. So close to Brady, he lost control. He reached, fingers brushing slender thighs before scooping boy parts. No longer hard, not even firm, just a squishy morsel, a bump for balls.

Brady pressed into his hand. On tiptoes, with Jack stooping, they kissed. Finally, with his head pressed into Jack's chest sighed.

"I need to send your grandmother a thank you note for tonight," he joked, giving a final loving squeeze before he stood up.

Brady boosted himself onto a kitchen stool, gnawing pizza as he watched Boy sniffing. A glance at Jack and he pinched off a small piece of crust.

"Dog deserves something for w-warning us. Can he have my p-pizza crust?"

"Uh uh. Dog's on the Paleo diet, the same as what prehistoric hunters and gatherers ate. You should be, too, it'll keep you fit as a fiddle. Meat, fish, eggs, fruits, nuts, vegetables..."

Sitting high on the kitchen stool, Brady made a face, his second slice of pepperoni and mushroom almost finished. Now, he worried about getting sauce on his vest as well as his pristine white shirt.

"Zero grains," Jack went on. "Grass seeds would be okay, I suppose. Definitely no processed foods like Pringles."

"I love Pringles."

Jack leaned and smooched the top of his head. "Your dad will be here any moment. What are you going to tell him?"

"We watched a miming video on YouTube and we practiced while we ate pizza."

"I'm impressed." And he was; no stutter during the last five minutes.

"Which video?"

Brady grinned. "I watched it on my laptop before you picked me up. You want to see me walk into a wall."

 He swiveled off his stool and walked towards Dog, back to feeding from his bowl. He stopped abruptly, one hand against an imaginary wall, sufficiently dazed that he stepped back, doing a crazy jerking thing with his head.

Spotting Ted Singer through the window, Jack went over to let him in. He put his finger to his lips and gestured at Brady who was looking the other way, rubbing his forehead with his other hand.

 Leaving Ted by the door, Jack crossed to the island-counter and clapped vigorously.

"That was really good. Now, explain."

"It's called `fixed point.' One hand is fixed on the imaginary wall, so you know it's there, but the rest of you is not."

"Now, I'm impressed."

"Tell me to do something for your Thanksgiving show."

 "Carve the turkey." Jack thought. "Only you feed it to Dog."

Brady started carving. Even that was entertaining, a supercilious I-know-what-I'm-doing expression, slicing skillfully until he abruptly glanced down. His expression changed, surprised, affectionate, giving his imaginary Dog the next slice, and the slice after that.

Jack grinned. "We'll have to practice that for the show."

Brady's glee faded. "Meaning I wasn't very good."

"Au contraire; it's definitely going in the show."

"Seriously? You liked it? Really?"

"Time to go," Ted interrupted.

Brady pivoted. "H-h-h-h-hi, D-Dad."

Ted looked his son over as if expecting to see `damaged goods.'

"Practice in front of the mirror, and remember what we talked about," Jack said calmly.

Brady looked at him blankly. "M-make the invisible v-visible."

"You're my Tintin, no one else's."

"Meaning what, exactly?" Ted demanded, suspicion flourishing.

Suddenly, Jack was in the witness box. "Tintin's his show name."

Ted make a kind of grunting sound. Brady frowned.

"My Tintin doesn't just go through the motions. He follows the rules."

"What rules?"

Jack took a breath. "Rule one, Brady. Stimulate the viewer's imagination. Two, use gesture and expression to communicate. Three, feel the drama inside you. Four, throw in comedy. Five, the show is always about me, not you!"

"Okay." Brady ventured, peeking at his father.

"I'm kidding, Doofus. When you're feeding Dog, maybe he nipped your fingertips."

"S-so I sc-scowl." Brady scowled on cue.

"Perfect!" Jack exclaimed, reaching to tousle silver bristles.

"You got everything?" Ted interrupted.

"Ev-everything," Brady repeated. He grinned at Jack. "I'll do better next time."

"Wait in the car, son," Ted said, his voice firm.

Jack waited until Brady was going out the door. "Hey, Tintin. You have a doctor's appointment tomorrow, remember? I'll pick you up at 2:00 sharp."

He waited until the door closed and turned to Ted.

"He's one smart kid."

"You want to tell me what happened at HELP?"

"They talked and played basketball."

"Talked about what?"

Jack closed his eyes momentarily. "Put four horny gay kids in a room together, what do you think they talked about?"

"They talked about sex?"

Jack took a breath. "Some."

"Brady have much of anything to say?"

"Ted, I appreciate how difficult this is for you. However, I think Brady's entitled to some privacy now he's growing up."

"He's my son."

He hesitated to throw gasoline on the fire. "Your son took a big step tonight just by being there."

"Meaning he admitted he's homosexual."

"You've read the HELP Handbook. There's a lot in it. It took me most of this morning to read. I had no idea that coming out could be so traumatic for a boy."

Ted stared back.

"You and Julie were lucky Nancy was there. After what you've been through, I'm sure you'll agree Brady needs to resume a normal life as quickly as possible."

Ted nodded, half-heartedly, Jack thought.

"His therapist says it'll help his situation."

"Dr. Hart told me what happened at the swim meet. One of my waiters is a swimmer. I hope you don't mind; I asked him for suggestions. He recommended the Revere Aquatic Club. It's a small private team with a solid track record."

"I already called them. They're good, expensive as hell."

"They want him to try out on Friday afternoon. I know Julie's working and you're busy on your show. Nancy said he'd drop him at my house to practice miming. I'll take him, and bring him home after, if it's okay with you?"

"Until things settle down, any help would be appreciated."

Jack nodded, thinking ahead. "Given the likelihood of more bullying... Two of the boys in Brady's group are taking Taekwondo. Again, if it's okay with you..."

"Self-defense skills would toughen him up. Right now, we don't have the money," Ted muttered.

"If the producer agrees, he'll get $3,000 for the Thanksgiving show. It'll cover swim team and Taekwondo class."

"That much for one show? You can't be serious"

Jack shrugged it off. "He'll work his butt off for three weeks."

"I'm sure he will."

 Ted looked around the kitchen, a gleaming showroom of culinary paraphernalia. Slices of pizza on the tray caught his eye.

"You ate pizza and practiced for an hour, that's all?" His tone said something else.

"He practiced. I watched and made suggestions," Jack affirmed, meeting Ted's eye. "He's gay, Ted. He won't stop being gay no matter how ashamed you are."

"I'm not ashamed of him! I don't like this HELP crap. I'm not going to pretend it's okay when it's not!"

"Did you realize he'd stopped stuttering before you arrived."

 

 

Episode 10: Thursday afternoon, November 1^st.

 

Jack Broche despised every doctor's waiting room he'd ever been in. Boylston Family Practice was an entirely different matter; wood walls, wood floor, Persian rugs, leather couches. Plus, he was perfectly happy sitting beside Brady, watching him read a car magazine, an article on the Jaguar F-type.

Brady grinned bizarrely, holding up a full color spread of a red F-type convertible, pointing insistently.

For some reason Jack didn't understand, Brady had been acting like a zombie since they entered the building. It was very confusing, like some kind of post-Halloween performance, or he was practicing miming, or perhaps there was a reason why Dr. Hart had talked about `Dissociative Identity Disorder.'

"And where's Dog going to sit? On your lap?"

Brady smirked, pretend-pelvic-thrusting in his seat. His voice low, sexy, not hesitant at all.

"Uh uh. I'll be on your lap. Dog can use the other seat."

"Sure, when we're horny. What about when I'm driving?"

Brady leaned closer. "If you let me sit on your lap, I'll..."

"Mr. Broche and Brady?" a nurse called.

Jack stood abruptly, awkwardly looking toward an open door adjacent to the receptionist area even as Brady was muttering behind his hand.

It sounded like, `do sucky sucky;' however, surely, he wouldn't dare say that in a crowded waiting room?

Jack's face suddenly flushed. "That's us."

He took Brady's hand, and pulled him up, still zombie-like, now doing his best to stop giggling. His weird expression was funny, yet unsettling. A boy-zombie wasn't just playful, he was downright sexy.

In fact, everything about Brady Singer was sexy, instinctive, impulsive, seeking satisfaction like Freud's pleasure principle.

"Bring the magazine so you have something to read, Babe."

He hadn't intended to say `Babe' in public. It just slipped out.

They followed the nurse, Brady interrupting zombie-boy to peek into every examination room with an open door. She stopped at weight scales in a small vestibule, giving Brady the once over.

"You can take off your shoes and get on."

Brady kicked off his sneakers, handed his silver down jacket to Jack, and stepped up. The nurse touched his head with a digital wand.

"You're 53 inches tall and a few ounces short of 68 pounds."

"I'm 65 pounds five ounces naked. The same height, though."

"Dr. Proctor will have his hands full with you."

She jotted on her clipboard, weighed Jack, made another note, and continued down the hallway, stopping outside a closed door.

Behind her, Brady cackled. "I can't believe you weigh 180 pounds more than I do."

"I do not!"

Chortling, enjoying every moment, making up for Jack tormenting him in the car, an hour of teasing him about getting shots in the butt with an enormous syringe.

"You're 178 pounds heavier; I r-rounded up."

"It'd be less if you kept your shoes on."

"Sneakers," Brady corrected.

The rest waited until the nurse went to get plastic cups for their urine samples. Brady followed her for a few zombie paces, arms outstretched, before he turned and smirked at Jack.

Jack chuckled, not surprised as Brady `zombied' back to him... Having a boy in his life was definitely life-changing.

"I think you caught some weird disease when you sexually abused your bonobo last night," he teased when

"I did NOT abuse him!" Brady whispered.

"What do you call sticking your fingers up his butt?"

He grinned evilly. "You d-did it to me last night... pervert."

Jack was about to say Brady had begged when the nurse turned the corner. She handed them cups and issued the standard instructions; wait until mid-stream, put the cover on the cup, and leave it inside the pass-through. Then, she pointed at Brady.

"Dr. Proctor said he should also use the toilet, if he can."

"He can go first if he promises not to stink the place up," Jack jested.

Brady grimaced, a look that said, `good luck on that.'

"If you dribble on the floor, wipe it up," Jack teased.

Brady rolled his eyes at the nurse.

She winked back. "At his age he doesn't dribble... like you."

A few minutes later, she guided them into a windowless room, `Pediatric Outpatient Surgery' on the door. It was bland except for a frieze of colorful teddy bears. Unlike the examination rooms they'd passed, this room was equipped with an adjustable exam table and a reclining chair, both with high-powered exam lights, an entire wall of cabinets, and a counter with medical devices.

Jack sat on one of the two patient seats. Brady dumped his sneakers under the other chair and ambled around looking at charts and illustrations of anatomy. He moved to an integrated diagnostic system, complete with vital signs monitor, frowning when he encountered Jack's `don't touch anything' headshake.

Behind him, the nurse placed the clipboard on the counter, and stationed herself at a computer keyboard and large monitor on a cart. With a few keystrokes she opened the patient information system, and entered weights and heights for both Brady and Jack.

Brady sauntered back to the counter, to peek inside a plain paper bag, labeled `Brady' in black marker. Inside was a blue nylon pouch with the same HELP logo as his backpack. He checked to make sure the nurse was busy before he took it out.

Embroidered on the other side were intertwined symbols, one large, one small.

He glanced at Jack as much to say, `Can I look inside?'

Jack shook his head quickly. The pouch was back in the bag before the nurse turned around.

She departed with a curt, "Dr. Proctor will be in shortly."

Jack opened the car magazine, expecting to wait another ten minutes, if not longer. Less than a minute passed before the door opened again.

Dr. Proctor grinned at Brady, intently examining a cart with an AED and ECG, among other things.

"If it's okay, I prefer to do your examinations together since I'll mostly be repeating myself. It's better if everything is out in the open and up for discussion."

More interested in the third cart, Brady shrugged. "I guess."

Jack nodded, unable to take his eyes off Brady for more than a few seconds. When he was sure Brady wasn't about to touch any of the sealed plastic pouches on the third cart, he finally looked away, Dr. Proctor was smirking, wagging his finger between him and Brady.

"Eenie meenie, miny, moe..."

"How about a free dinner at Garçon if you do him first?" Jack implored. "He's driving me crazy."

"Okay, Hot Stuff, prepare to be molested."

Brady's head snapped up. Jack was so startled that Dr. Proctor started to laugh.

"You obviously didn't get the memo. Those of us who work with HELP know how important it is to provide proper sex education for gay boys; their man friends, too."

"Then, it's part of Dr. Hart's program," Jack said uneasily.

"She's aware I cover private issues. She's better off not knowing this isn't a normal checkup."

"H-h-how so?"

"Well, Brady, I won't talk like your regular doctor. I use the same terms boys your age use. Also, while I use gloves for your checkup, Jack won't. You need to get used to him touching you while someone else is present."

Jack wasn't sure what he thought about that.

"You mean when I'm n-naked?"

The doctor nodded. Everything about the boy was compelling, a magnet for men like him.

"That okay with you, Tintin?" Jack asked, increasingly awkward.

Distracted, Brady nodded. He was more interested in the clear plastic pouches on the third cart. They held medical instruments.

"Let's get this show on the road," Dr. Proctor said. "Brady, you're up first. Everything off except for your undies, and hop up on the table."

He sat down at the computer cart, reviewing, typing, glancing at Brady to check on progress—shirt and shoes already off, and working on blue jeans.

Brady Singer was buff. Above the narrow waist of his jeans was robust, no belly flab, well-defined abdominal and pectoral muscles, with strong upper arms and shoulders.

He caught Brady's eye. "Butterfly's your best stroke, huh?"

"I have six more medals for breaststroke."

As if Brady realized he was bragging, he quickly turned away.

Dr. Proctor wondering if Jack knew what he was getting into.

"He's been on Synarel since Tuesday. The side effects take a while."

"Stopping puberty is that important, huh?" Jack said.

He'd worried about it when he first read `Interrupting Puberty' on Page 15 of the HELP Parents Handbook. Synarel was the nasal spray of choice, $450 per day. The alternatives were injections of Lupron Depot-PED, $3,000 per month, or a Supprelin LA implant, $35,000 for a year. The cost was mindboggling, yet the more he'd read, the more logical it was; stop the problem at the source until it became more manageable.

"Holding him back a year will give him time to settle down," Dr. Proctor explained. "Two years is better. Ideally, he won't start until he's at least 14."

"So, a three-year delay."

"Go back 100 years; 14 was normal for boys to start puberty. Lots of advantages and the only disadvantage is if he's into sports."

"I figure he'll benefit far more than winning a few trophies," Jack said quietly.

Likeminded, Dr. Proctor merely smiled, entering a check for partner's `approval'.

"What if Brady doesn't agree?"

Surprised by Jack's question, Dr. Proctor glanced at Brady.

"You guys haven't talked about puberty, huh?"

Brady giggled self-consciously. "Um, n-not yet. My mom k-kinda told me what w-would happen. I'd finish way behind the other g-guys on m-my swim t-team."

"There are other side effects, Brady."

He reddened noticeably. "Um, they're already way b-bigger here." He pointed imprecisely. "They h-have, you know... h-hair there."

Dr. Proctor gestured at the computer monitor.

"Dr. Hart's report... Brady has no pubic hair."

Brady nodded slightly.

"He a very slight discharge after five minutes of stimulation."

"She said it wasn't semen."

"It wasn't." Dr. Proctor read from the monitor. "His right testicle is closing in on three ccs. Left has a way to go."

"Because my balls are still small."

"The size indicates initial onset although you qualify as still prepubescent."

"Thank you, God."

Jack added an exaggerated sigh, ignoring Brady, annoyance and embarrassment wrapped up in 65 pounds of preteen frustration.

Dr. Proctor chuckled. "We caught him just in time. He's on a triple dose of Synarel for a week. Another five days will shut down the hormones."

"I read where it said it will jump start his development."

"The way a blocker works is it overstimulates the release of the pituitary gonadotropins, LH and FSH, which causes production to shut down. At his stage, he'll pull back quickly. Things stop growing."

"Meaning my balls will do what?"

For a moment, it sounded as if Brady's voice had already broken.

"There'll be a noticeable difference in a month or two. For you, tiny testicles are better than the alternative. Ask Jack if you don't believe me."

"No hair and no mess. Plus, tiny testicles and penis; that's perfect in my book."

"I'm like baby compared to Garrett and Tyler."

Jack smiled, winking at Brady. "I'll take you any day. You're beautiful and sexy, and horny, and you haven't even started puberty."

"There you go, Brady. Nothing to worry about. Any hot flushes, any headaches in the last two days?"

Brady handed his jeans and socks to Jack. "Uh uh."

"Boys usually don't have side effects from Nafarelin; that's the active ingredient in the nasal spray. However, he really should be on Supprelin LA implants; that's Histrelin."

"Why isn't he?"

"I ordered a standard 50 mg implant for him. We haven't heard back from his family's insurance provider. It's pricey."

"I'll pay," Jack said abruptly.

"It's $35,000 per year."

"Do whatever it takes if it saves his life. Today if you can."

Dr. Proctor looked up and smiled. Having a mentor with money was the best thing that could happen to Brady.

"I'll go over the details when I do the implant. Meanwhile..."

He stood, stepped to the examination table, and patted the paper cover.

"Get your butt up here, Sexy Boy."

With his hands on the table behind him, Brady bounced up, landing squarely, his legs hanging over the edge. Dr. Proctor told a vaguely amusing joke about girls getting `tits' at age eight, switched on the high-powered exam lights, and put on blue nitrile gloves.

He went about the examination, inspecting eyes, ears, nose, throat, heart and lungs. He spent a lot of time on Brady's slender neck, probing glands and throat structure, and checking the computer.

"I think his voice is as good as it will get. He's lucky he's in excellent shape. If he weighed 20 pounds more, there's a good chance he couldn't speak at all," he said.

 He ended by prodding Brady's flat belly and tweaking his toes, trying to get a giggle.

"I wish all my boy patients were as healthy you. Almost none of them I can do this to."

Then, professionalism ceased altogether. He pinched a thin ripple of skin. "Most boys have rolls; blubber, not rubber. If you have a pound of fat on you, I'd be surprised."

"He's does triathlons as well as swim," Jack said proudly.

He held back the news about the Revere Aquatic Club to surprise Brady on the return trip to Somerville.

"I heard you had fun at your first HELP class," Dr. Proctor asked.

Brady nodded, instinctively looking at Jack.

"Jeff said you play a mean game of basketball."

Another shrug, a smile despite being nervous—the doctor's hands were dangerously close to his private parts.

"Time to lose the boxer shorts," Dr. Proctor announced. "You want me to take them off, or Jack?"

Brady pointed across the room, leaving no doubt.

The two men exchanged glances. Undressing his boy in front of another man was a big step for Jack. Still, it took all his willpower not to rush to the exam table.

He stood, and placed Brady's now-folded jeans on his seat, and shed his brown Kildare-goatskin jacket, folding it so as not to crease the contrasting Italian calfskin trim. About then, he found himself wondering if Romano made jackets in kid sizes. Brady would look awesome in a matching jacket, downright sexy.

He stepped up to the examination table. "You sure, Tintin?"

Brady gave a smug shrug. "I saw your junk last night. It's only fair."

"I only got a glimpse of yours. A few seconds hardly counts."

"Jack, just strip the kid. The sooner he's naked, the sooner we get to the fun stuff."

Jack grinned. "Lift up, Tintin."

He stripped him in seconds, nothing like the night before. With no jeans or shoes to get in the way, he pulled Brady's boxers all the down to his knees.

Dr. Proctor gave an approving nod. "Who was it who said, `less is more'?"

Jack feasted his eyes on an insignificant, yet intact penis, and a generous-by-comparison scrotum, brilliantly illuminated by the overhead exam light. He licked his lips. Even `perfect' wasn't adequate.

Then, with a single one-handed tug, he yanked Brady's boxers all the way to his feet. He tossed them towards the patient' seats.

Across the exam table, Dr. Proctor also studied prepubescent boyhood.

"Very nice. Delicious, in fact. Personally, I prefer a boy with boy-sized junk. Not only tastier, it makes them seem more vulnerable."

Jack nodded, his eyes riveted. Brady's penis was small and thin; and a lot of it was foreskin, as he already suspected. Erect, two inches would be generous. Not that size mattered; he was in the same `gourmet' category as Dr. Proctor.

"Immature sex organs are truly beautiful, aren't they?"

"Exactly what I imagined," Jack murmured.

Caught between Dr. Proctor's appraising look and Jack's intense gaze, all Brady could do was to ignore them. His eyes wandered around the room before he focused on teddy bears. One of them was grinning with wide-open eyes, seeming demented, as if the boy stretched out on the exam table was filet mignon.

Dr. Proctor retrieved the nylon pouch from the counter.

"This is Brady's Survival Kit; survival equipment for a gay boy, his partner, too. Every HELP PT boy gets one." He grinned. "We each chip in to buy the things Dr. Hart can't provide for legal reasons."

He opened it. Jack managed to divert his gaze from Brady long enough to see him delve inside the pouch.

"All sorts of boy toys in here." Dr. Proctor smirked. "Unless Brady can hide it in a safe place, it's best if you keep it for him until his parents are totally onboard."

Brady peeked into the pouch. "I have somewhere safe."

The doctor withdrew plastic calipers and a flexible measuring tape in a sealed bag.

"We'll talk about the other stuff i later on." Dr. Proctor leered at Brady, having fun. "Now, we measure your junk for the official record."

They looked down, the doctor with more than professional interest. He shook his head slightly when Brady moved his hand to cover his privates, smiling approval when he pulled back.

"You've got a beautiful body. Never be ashamed of it."

Brady swallowed, blushing as he looked up.

 "I'll be seeing you naked on every month. Plus, once you're having sex with Jack, we'll video conference to make sure you're okay back there."

Dr. Proctor turned to Jack. "Building body awareness is important for gay boys. In fact, the sooner he's used to being touched and photographed by other men, the better."

Jack looked up. "It's okay to take photos?"

"And videos, too; but nothing goes on social media! I'm surprised you didn't get the lecture already."

Dr. Proctor's attention diverted to Brady, his eyes traveling from silver-bristles to tiny toes. Being shorter than average with a small penis added to his allure; it made him look younger; six or seven.

"Get with Jeff. His father's our internet security guru, Linux, encryption, Tor Browser, the dangers of using social media, software to use for online chat, email, file swapping, whatever."

Jack stared, too; utterly entranced. Brady's front was flat, almost no tapering between chest and minimal hip bumps. Side-on, `flat' became sinuous, a graceful curve from shoulders to waist, to a bulbous bottom, barely big enough to stop his pants sliding down his slim muscled thighs.

"Little boy genitals are always precious. His package is as delightful as any I've seen."

He glanced up, again catching Jack unawares.

"Once his testicles drop, he'll grow up fast. Photos will give you something to remember, so smooth and tiny."

Jack nodded.

"For men like us, he'll never be more desirable than right now."

Embarrassed because he'd been thinking the same thing, Jack nodded again.

Dr. Proctor reached, cradling Brady's scrotum with a finger either side, immature testes barely making bumps.

"His testicles are still small. However, they've started growing. Anything bigger than two ccs means puberty is closing in. A few months from now..."

His thumb stroked loose pale skin, offering a reassuring smile even as Brady twitched.

"You checking my b-balls or p-playing with them?" Brady snickered.

"Dr. Hart already checked them. How about we have Jack measure Brady Junior?"

Brady panicked as the doctor handed over calipers and flexible tape, and showed a very distracted Jack how to measure.

"While it's still limp, measure what's visible. Erect, you press into his pubis."

Jack just nodded.

"I forget how sexy they are at his age. I miss when Jeff was like Brady, not even a trace of peach fuzz," Dr. Proctor confided.

"If puberty is right around the corner, I should be getting hair there soon, huh?" Brady declared.

"Ve have vays of stopping it, mein junge."

Brady grinned at Dr. Proctor's sinister German accent.

"Pubic hair's bad enough. Getting bigger down there bothers me more," Doctor Proctor went on. "You too, I expect."

Jack reddened. "I hope he'll shave when the time comes."

"All but two HELP boys shave. The same goes for their partners."

Jack took over the calipers, measuring Brady's thumb for play and practice, avoiding what came next. Brady's giggles were reassuring, though he still wasn't ready to measure the real thing.

"Get the circumference and length before it gets stiff," Dr. Proctor said.

"Shouldn't I put on gloves?"

Brady had other ideas. "Geez, Jack, if anyone can t-touch my dick, my man-friend can."

Dr. Proctor chuckled. "Sounds like he wants to be molested."

Brady nodded, pointing down impatiently. Jack was sure his brow was sweaty as he placed the tape around the middle of Brady's penis, barely tight enough to touch skin.

Dr. Proctor leaned. "At 52 mm, he's about average, though it's thick for the length. Now, find where his penis ends by lightly squeezing near the tip."

Holding his breath, Jack pinched very lightly. He could feel Brady's helmet-shaped glans under supple slack skin. It was firm yet squishy, seeming all but insensate under foreskin.

"It feels like a tiny marshmallow." He took away his hand, absently licking his lips.

Brady faked a frown, to cover the rising heat in his face. "I already know I have a p-puny prick."

It was puny, yet Dr. Proctor raised an eyebrow. Experience said 99 out of 100 boys wouldn't admit it.

"In my book, puny is perfect." Jack hesitated, fingertips tingling, wanting to reach out and touch again. "You take after your dad, huh?"

Brady looked at him strangely. "I've never seen his."

Jack kicked himself. He'd been thinking being underendowed could account for Ted's moody behavior. God only knows why he said it.

"Bottom boys don't need to be large, Brady," Dr. Proctor chided good-naturedly. "On the bright side, your glans is normal. That's the sensitive part."

Wanting to change the subject, Jack asked, "Should I pull back his foreskin to get the length?"

"You could; but the skin will bunch up. Feeling where it ends is more accurate than retracting."

"I didn't realize it would be so loose."

Dr. Proctor's knowing wink got Jack to smile. "Usually, it's tighter. This loose means a boy works out regularly."

Brady reddened. "What's that s'posed to m-mean?"

"You masturbate a couple of times a day, don't you?"

"He's permanently erect. It sticks up nonstop," Jack added.

"Do not!"

Already embarrassed, Brady realized Jack was teasing him.

"Wait `til it's your turn. I am so making fun of your dick."

Grinning at Brady, Jack aligned the calipers, one `jaw' at the junction of penis and pubis, the other `jaw' where he couldn't feel the miniature bulb within.

"About what I thought; 30 mm," Dr. Proctor observed from the calipers.

 He winked at Jack, who wasn't sure what to think. His fingers were tingling from just touching.

"Brady's boyhood reminds me of Jeff's when he was eleven, delicate and pink. Of course, he was already circumcised, so it was was always delicious, no lingering aftertaste."

"I'm sitting here naked, guys!" Brady was not amused.

 "We'll take turns getting him erect. If he gets excited enough, he might max out over two inches."

Smirking at Brady's shell-shocked expression, Dr. Proctor held out his thumb and index finger, jerking his wrist.

"I want Jack to jack me, okay?"

Telling himself there was nothing to worry about, Jack rested his hand on Brady's bare thigh, rubbing reassuringly.

"I'm going to get it nice and stiff. Just relax and enjoy it."

Brady's peeked down. Suddenly self-conscious, his response was to make a face, his version of `what planet are you on?'

Cautiously, Jack extended his index finger, pressing gently into Brady's small scrotum. The skin was warm and silky, seeming fluid as his finger wriggled, nudging testicles tucked in close.

Dr. Proctor said something about how immature testicles can socket into the inguinal canals; however, Jack was in another place.

Brady's penis was beautiful, growing erect right before their eyes as Jack gently stroked the small shaft with his index finger. Noticeably warmer, definitely firmer; his finger went back and forth. A half-dozen slow passes, and his finger inched lower, again rubbing Brady's scrotum, this time scooting testes from side to side.

As tempting as it was, he couldn't bring himself to touch Brady's penis again. It continued to harden without him interfering. Soon, it was stiff enough to lift up, a short stubby lever perpendicular to Brady's lower belly. Erect, it still looked small.

Brady smirked and made it twitch. Beside Jack's index finger, halfway would be generous.

 "Just enough to suck on; that's good," Dr. Proctor said distantly.

Jack's heart raced as gave Brady's penis a playful squeeze, index finger and thumb compressing slightly. He'd forgotten a boy's boner could get as hard as bone.

He placed the tape close to the base for erect circumference, rounding to 65 mm. Getting erect length was easier than before, even with Brady's foreskin still overhanging. He showed the scale to Dr. Proctor.

"I expected 45 millimeters. Fifty is average for his age, so he's a bit small; nothing to worry about, though. He's 100-percent boy!"

Relieved, Jack held Brady's hand, rubbing his thumb into the small warm palm as Dr. Proctor sat before the computer, entering numbers.

"You're doing great. I'm so proud of you," he whispered

"It's tiny."

"I think it's cute. I bet it tastes yummy."

"Except for the lingering aftertaste!" Brady said.

Dr. Proctor turned from the computer. "Circumcision will fix the taste, and the smell. We'll talk about it in just a moment."

As one of the three boys on the YMCA Barracuda Swim Team with a foreskin, he was justifiably anxious.

"I can't believe how hard your dick is," Jack murmured.

Suddenly, Brady wasn't embarrassed; he could tell Jack liked what he saw. It was in his eyes, the way his thumb stroked, reassuringly.

Dr. Proctor stood. "He's tenth percentile for erect length. Average for circumference."

"So short and thick. Stubby dicks are perfect in my book."

He winked at Jack and returned to the examination table. "Boys generally don't have this much foreskin," he added.

Fully engorged, yet surplus foreskin hung well past Brady's glans. To Jack's eyes, it resembled an aardvark nose, not particularly attractive. He smiled at Brady and kept his mouth shut.

Dr. Proctor smirked. "It's loose, which is always a good sign. May I touch it?"

A nervous nod later, Dr. Proctor took hold, index finger and thumb, gently drawing foreskin down the shaft. His plump glans appeared, shiny-moist, puffy pink with a slight bluish tinge. Then, inner skin, bunched up over the shaft. The wrinkles made his stubby penis appear flabby.

"Lots of skin to move around, which can be fun. If he's circumcised, he'll look like this."

He pressed all the way down, revealing a smooth tight erection. Jack took in the change, mute yet admiring. Unprotected was an improvement, except for ripples of skin at Brady's smooth pale pubis.

"Definitely different," he ventured.

He wasn't about to say what he thought, and offend Brady.

"What do you think, Brady? Do you like it all the way down?" Dr. Proctor asked.

Brady stared, even though he'd done the same thing to his penis many times. He nodded.

"This is how a high-and-tight circumcision would look," Dr. Proctor went on.

"It's a tad radical at first glance; however, you'll stand out at HELP meetings," Jack joked.

"Will it feel the same?"

"High and tight retains all the inner skin, so there's actually an increase in sensitivity. Plus, it's softer. The only downside is the skin is more delicate. You'll need to use a lubricant, like hand lotion, or Vaseline."

Jack liked extreme, so extreme that `stubby' was irrelevant. Compared to his Gomco-trimmed penis, the result was striking; in fact, exotic. No other word came close.

"It looks bigger," he mused.

 "Yet another reason for circumcising gay boys, assuming you like the streamlined look," Dr. Proctor teased. "Plus fewer infections, and the chance of AIDS is half or less."

Feminists and liberal doctors would throw up their hands in horror.

Jack was so flustered he was certain his face was red. He took a deep breath, watching the other man's fingers stop Brady's excess skin from creeping back up.

He definitely liked the exposed look; the tiny plump helmet plopped on the end, pink inner skin going all the way down to Brady's balls. It looked sexy, demanding attention.

The ravenous look on his face brought forth more humor.

"The less skin, the more fun when you suck him. You know about smegma, right Brady?"

He gave Brady's penis a fond squeeze, restoring his foreskin.

 Brady nodded.

"Along with masturbating, the other thing you'll do with Jack is suck and be sucked. Circumcision is more hygienic... It looks and smells clean, which is good, isn't it Jack?"

Jack gulped. "Surely, you're not suggesting... Here?"

"You're the last patients of the day, and the door's locked. It's safe; only now isn't the time," Dr. Proctor chuckled. "Okay Brady, I want you in the `all-fours position.' That's elbows and knees on the paper, head down and butt up, facing the door."

While Brady was repositioning himself on the examination table, he crossed to the cart with sterilized pouches and two sealed plastic packets laid out on a sanitized shiny metal tray. He opened a pouch, selected a packet, a tube of KY jelly, and a handful of disposable sanitized towelettes.

"I do an anoscope exam every time he gets a checkup. The boys say it's the worst part of being in HELP; however, the rule is no anal sex without it. If there's a problem, we want to nip it in the bud.".

He rubbed Brady's bare back. "How are you doing, Sport?"

"Okay," Brady croaked.

"Jack and I are going to look inside your butt. Nothing to worry about."

Brady peeked over his shoulder as the doctor stepped back, gesturing for Jack to move to the end of the table. He felt hands on his buttocks, big, strong hands parting his cheeks.

"His pucker's pronounced," Dr. Proctor whispered. "The dark ring are bruises."

Jack nodded. The `ring' wasn't `dark', just brown enough to be noticeable.

 "Using a hair brush is enough to cause it. Once he starts having sex with you, it'll get darker, and bigger."

"I'm not that much bigger than a hairbrush."

Brady snickered.

"It's no big deal, as Jeff says. A month from now, the darkness will be gone. Of course, how much bigger depends on how often."

Playfully, he slapped Brady's bare butt.

"You've got a cute ass, Kiddo. I'm glad you're trying it out!"

Jack winked at Brady and nodded agreement.

"Most bottom boys put things in their butts to find out what anal sex feels like. It's okay if the things aren't too big."

Brady jerked impulsively.

"Practice makes perfect, but not with beer bottles, Champ."

"Or flashlights. You'd be surprised what boys use. At your age, fingers are best. Want more thrill, go with a candle, or a hairbrush."

"Kidding, right?" Brady murmured.

 "Nothing bigger than two fingers. If you get the urge, jerk off and use the plug in your kit. It'll keep you happy until Jack takes over."

Brady reddened. He peeked at Dr. Proctor. How could he know the intense pleasure when he jabbed his hairbrush into his rectum?

"Your hairbrush won't hurt you," Dr. Proctor went on. "Only not 24-7. That's what it'll take to get you ready for Jack."

He let it sink in as he opened the packet and removed a clear plastic anoscope. He squeezed out a long bead of KY lubricant and generously coated both the outside and the exposed part of the obturator, the removable `plug' in the insertion end.

"I think I'm supposed to get a trainer today."

"All in good time." He smiled. "Jeff and I use still his training plug. Even when you're used to it, there's still a risk."

"You mean using a hairbrush is... um... like dangerous?"

"Brady, unless you're careful, anal sex injure you. That's why it's important to use the right sex toys."

 "But Andy said f-fingers are okay?"

"Fingers aren't always hygienic. Of course, gay boys at your age don't have much choice; you want thickness, you either steal your parents' sex toys or use a hairbrush. I'm told bananas work, too."

Brady wasn't amused.

Dr. Proctor rubbed Brady's back. "You have a reusable douche in your Survival Kit. Get in the habit of flushing beforehand."

"Why?" Moments later, Brady realized. "Messy otherwise, huh."

"It can be. Read the instructions. Basically, you fill the squeeze bulb with warm water and insert the tube."

"It goes in my butt, right?"

"All the way, or it'll squirt out. It's best if Jack does it until you're used to it."

Jack rubbed his hands, pretending gleeful.

"Three shots is one and a half pints." Dr. Proctor grinned at Brady. "When you feel full, wait five minutes before you empty."

Not getting it, Brady shrugged it off.

"The not-so -fun part; I'm going to insert a light into you so I can see inside your rectum."

He held the anoscope where Brady could see it, a clear plastic tube coated with slimy gel.

"You'll feel yourself stretching as it goes in. You'll feel strange inside; however, it won't be painful."

"Okay."

Dr. Proctor rubbed his KY-slicked finger along Brady's crack.

"Okay, lesson one. A bottom boy should offer himself to his partner. To show you're willing, I want you to reach back and part your buttocks."

With Brady parting his buttocks, he gently rubbed the exposed opening.

"Good boy. Jack's holding your shoulders so you can relax. What you feel is my fingertip. It feels nice, doesn't it?"

Brady managed a nervous nod, brushing his face against Jack's sturdy hand.

"Now, take a deep breath and push down," Dr. Proctor instructed.

He positioned the anoscope, the ball-end of the obturator filling the dimpled pucker. He applied pressure, the anoscope no longer just bulging into Brady's small anus, on the verge of penetrating.

"Push out, the same as pooping. Ready, push."

As Brady pushed, the invading sensation made him pull away. Jack's hands restrained him, thumbs massaging his shoulders. He gasped, instinctively clenching his sphincter muscle.

"Don't tighten up... He's stronger than most boys, Jack."

The anoscope kept pushing. He could feel his hole stretching, not really hurting. It didn't matter how big the thing was, it was so slippery there was nothing he could do to stop it. Ingress was inevitable. Just the thought made him tremble.

Gradually, Dr. Proctor increased the inward pressure, sufficient to penetrate the stubborn boy-hole. As soon as the slippery bulb of the obturator entered, he stopped pushing.

"Never fight it, Sweetie. Pretend you're inserting your hairbrush. Push out, and I'll push in. Okay?"

No nod, yet he pressed gently, yet firmly as Brady strained out. The tube slowly slid in, the sphincter yielding without further stress.

Suddenly, it didn't belong. Brady sniveled, shuddering as his inner muscles cramped. With Jack holding him down, it kept advancing, until he just knew it was right up inside him.

Something tightened inside him. "Fuck! Ow! Take it out!"

However, moments later, uncomfortable cramps switched to a vaguely nice sensation.

"It's so big." Breathless. Trembling. "It's making me all shaky."

"You'll barely notice once you're used to your trainer."

Ashamed, he jammed his face into his hands, crumpling the paper covering the examination table.

"Did it hurt, Babe?"

"Not really." Brady's arm muffled a giggle. "Feels weird."

"When you have sex with Jack, it shouldn't hurt any more."

"His dick is so much bigger, though?"

Dr. Proctor ruffled bristles. "Wanting Jack inside you makes a big difference. If it hurts after you've been properly stretched, he's doing it wrong, or you've been damaged inside."

"D-damaged h-how?"

Dr. Proctor removed the obturator. A flick of a switch and he peered into Brady's illuminated rectum.

"His anal canal is definitely a tight fit. Plus, there's not a lot of room in his rectum. However, the trainer will fix both."

He looked up. "So far, there's no damage. No fissures and your mucosa is normal. There's also no sign of prolapse, and no polyps or hemorrhoids. They're fairly common in bottom boys your age."

He turned to Jack. "He's good to go. Once he's stretchy, he'll do just fine if you're careful. Any bleeding, itching, not pooping normally, call me right away."

Reaching to the cart behind him, he selected a metal probe, a thin 8-inch rod with a marble-sized ball on one end.

"The prostate gland is the pleasure center for a bottom boy. As small as he is, it's about two inches beyond his anus. That's less than the length of your index finger, slightly hooked down."

Jack gauged his curved finger. "The second knuckle. Got it."

"Your fingertip is the ball. At the two-inch mark, I'm going to aim it toward his belly button. The right angle is crucial."

Dr. Proctor inserted the probe through the anoscope, examining gently before levering down. Brady twitched as the ball prodded the rectal wall. A moment later, he pushed back, quivering.

The doctor smirked knowingly. "That hit the spot, huh?"

"Wh-what happened?"

"That's your gay button. I'm going to teach Jack how to push it to give you anal orgasms... Your parents and teachers will never tell you this..."

Years of experience delivering the same frank talk about homosexuality, yet he still hesitated. Most people would be appalled.

"Brady, being a bottom makes you ulta-special."

Jack gave Brady an `I told you so' look.

"You're going to enjoy having sex more than other kids. That's your reward for allowing Jack to possess you. Bottoms get to experience far more intense pleasure."

He was the Cheshire cat, with cream. "More than Jack will?"

"When, you orgasm, it comes from deep inside you, and takes over. When Jack ejaculates inside you, he's still in control."

"Why isn't the same?"

"When a man has sex with a woman, Nature's purpose is to multiply and evolve the species by mixing the DNA. As soon as his semen leaves his body, his job is done."

"Jack's not trying to make a baby with me."

"Exactly! He's making you part of him. He possesses you. Your pleasure is infinitely greater because of it."

"Because I have anal orgasms," Brady murmured thoughtfully.

"Usually one at a time, but sometimes more. That's why Garrett has sex so often. BJ knows how to make him climax again and again. Sex like that is mind boggling. Once you do it, you'll never want to stop."

"Does that mean I won't want to... um... hurt myself?"

"That's the goal... I want you to promise you won't talk about any of this except with HELP partners. Especially, not you parents."

"My dad would never understand... I promise."

"Good boy. Now, Jack needs to know exactly where yours is."

Dr. Proctor stepped back for Jack to take his place at the foot of the exam table. Jack leaned closer, peering into the end of the anoscope.

 It took a while to get acclimatized; Brady's buttocks were inches from touching his cheeks. Hard to believe he was looking inside a boy's rectum, his buttocks split wide apart.

There was a fleshy funnel with a slightly darker swathe of skin merging into the expanded pucker of Brady's anus. Beyond, was like looking into a mouth, the color redder, moist, not dark at all. In fact, he looked into a clean crimson void, tiny `flaps' on the sides...

"See where his rectum turns into the colon, that as far as you go until I say otherwise."

Jack's head jerked up.

"Nothing like a nice tight boy-ass to get the heart racing," Dr. Proctor said from beside him. "Now, insert the probe how I showed you and feel for the bump of his prostate."

Jack inserted the probe, guiding it at what he hoped was the right angle.

"Wriggle it slightly," Dr. Proctor said softly. "A little deeper."

"Feels like he's pulling on it."

"Oh, he is. He's 100-percent bottom boy. They come hardwired for anal sex."

Jack wobbled the probe, getting the same tightening response. "Now what?"

"You're in the vicinity. Push down and harder. Yep, you nailed it. See how his buttocks clenched? Do it again."

Brady inhaled.

"You'll know when he tightens and pushes from inside. He's straining down to increase the pressure. How are you doing, Brady?"

"O-okay." Brady shuddered.

Jack wobbled the probe, watching the tip through the anoscope. He was sure he saw something pulse. On a whim, or perhaps intuitively, he pushed on the end of the rod, not too much, hopefully just right.

The ball-end of the probe squeezed squishy rectal mucosa.

"Keep doing it, Jack." The doctor seemed distant. "Notice any difference."

"Maybe it's my imagination; it bigger inside, firmer, too?"

"Excite the prostate and there's always dilation."

"I've always wondered if Nature intended us to be bisexual."

"After millions of years of evolution, there are flaps along the rectum. They stimulate your penis so you'll be tempted to go deeper. While deeper penetration feels nice for you, and is relaxing for him, remember his most sensitive spot is right above his bladder."

Jack oscillated the rod, feeling around. Now, he was certain it was already bigger inside Brady, almost swollen.

"Right there is good," Brady murmured.

"Maybe right there's the reason why bottom boys do it."

He slapped Jack's side, clearly enjoying what was going on. A heart beat later, he jerked sporadically, his buttocks clenching tightly.

"Do it again, Jack," Dr. Proctor said, now inches away. "Spasms mean he's enjoying it. After his first anal orgasm, he'll bounce all over the place trying to repeat it."

Jack gulped when Brady shuddered, began whimpering softly.

"If you've never had it done to you, the sensation is intense. At times, they lose control. Next time, I'll show you a video of some Japanese boys, delirious with pleasure. Jeff's fainted a dozen times."

Brady shifted, now worried he'd pee on the examining table.

"Um, is there um, like a way he can p-push h-harder?"

"Someone's starting to feel good."

"C-can't help it."

Jack smiled. "Brady, honey, I never want to you be ashamed of getting excited. Just tell me what to do and I'll do it."

"Let me." Dr. Proctor took over, and slid out the probe.

Bright red, Brady muttered `don't stop now' under his breath. Already too late, he tensed as the doctor withdrew the anoscope. It came out clean and slick, just some clear jelly accumulated at the base.

"Either we ratchet up the stimulation, or we'll be here forever. But first, Brady needs to calm down and pay attention."

Smirking, Dr. Proctor reached for the HELP pouch.

"HELP boys call this a `Pedo Pack.' All sorts of boy-toys in here."

With a wink at Jack, Dr. Proctor retrieved a flexible silicone plug; a curved T-handle attached to a narrow flexible rod, six inches [120 mm] long, ½ inch [12 mm] minimum width. Spaced along the rod were five balls, from 1-1/4 inches [25 mm] diameter to 5/8 inch [15 mm].

He squeezed the small ball on the tip.

"You'll barely feel the first one go in. The next, most boys say it tickles."

Brady glanced at Jack.

Doctor Proctor continued. "The next size up, Garrett calls `the oucher'—it will definitely get your attention."

"The last two are huge."

"For a reason. They must all the way in to prepare you for sex."

"Those big balls go up my ass? No way!"

"They make your anus and sphincter big enough to accept Jack's penis. They're not hard to put in if you relax back there."

He held out the plug to Brady.

"I just push it in, huh?"

"The first time always hurts. As Garrett says, no pain, no gain."

Brady touched the biggest ball. "This makes my hole bigger... It really gets this big?"

"It better, if you want Jack's penis inside you," Dr. Proctor teased. "Honestly, once the last ball is past your sphincter, only your rectum gets stretched."

"My insides get this big?"

"Over time, if you keep the handle pushed into your crack."

Brady hesitated. "What if, um...Supposing I want to make my hole bigger... you know... so it isn't as tight."

"What Garrett and Calvin do is leave the last ball outside so the sphincter is caught in the middle. It'll loosen up over a couple of hours."

Brady absently stroked the biggest ball, his serious expression fascinating Jack.

"You can do it yourself next time, okay?"

A curt nod, clearly disconcerted about what came next; however, there was more; a kind of longing in his eyes, an inborn desire for penetration.

"He's right on schedule," Dr. Proctor continued. "I would never tell his parents this. Most bottom boys are ready for dick before their balls drop."

Jack and Brady exchanged nervous glances.

Dr. Proctor smeared KY jelly over blue silicone, ensuring all five balls were coated.

"Never skimp on lubricant, Brady. Your rectum needs all the help it can get."

The plug was springy, so flexible it wobbled with the slightest touch.

"Remember you're building good habits. This one mostly exercises his rectum," he whispered to Jack. "Basically, as it loosens up over time, the surrounding muscles become stronger and more elastic."

"I don't want him hurt because of my ignorance."

"Brady's on the Andy Plan. Everything, every time, or as much as you can fit in. Whatever feels good will become part of his sex life."

"How long with that?"

"As long as he wants. We want our boys to make good decisions, starting with sex. Once he's used to it, he can wear it 24-7. If he does, make sure it's fully inserted, plus lots of water-based lubricant."

"What if he doesn't?

"Over-stretching can cause his anus to become funneled. For some boys, it's a real turn on' however, it can draw attention. Just as bad, exaggerated folds can replace the pucker. The boys call it a `starfish'. Always best to keep a low profile."

He stepped back, beckoning to Jack to follow, his voice still barely a whisper.

"If you use it like a dildo and focus on his prostate, it'll induce anal orgasms. That gets him started as a bottom. Just realize it can be a sensory overload at his age. Go slowly and he'll handle it just fine."

Jack couldn't help smiling.

"If you want him really horny, position him over a firm pillow and insert it all the way. Then, move it back and forth about an inch. That way the two biggest balls massage his prostate. An hour will blow his mind. I'll send you a video, another Japanese boy."

"Is that hour before or after meals?"

Dr. Proctor chuckled. "How often Brady orgasms is up to you. Most partners use them as rewards. Let me know when you're ready to try colon sex. He'll need special training, and so will you."

He returned to the examination table. With Brady in `all fours' position, he carefully pushed the lubricated plug into Brady's anus. Up close, the small slimy pucker stretched around the ball, accommodating it like lips on an all-day sucker. A moment later, the next ball disappeared inside Brady.

"Slow and steady and you won't scare him," Dr. Proctor said.

The third ball stretched the tiny anus enough that Brady whimpered before it popped through. The next ball brought a louder whimper, and another in quick succession.

Dr. Proctor hesitated. With the largest ball depressing Brady's anus, it completely obscured the pucker.

"There's no easy way, Jack. Slow just hurts longer."

With a deliberate firm push...

"Ahhhhhh."

Brady's body gulped it. After that, the rest of the shaft slid in.

"The next generation will have a seal at the base," Dr. Proctor explained. "Unless he's been flushed, it gets messy if he leaks."

Jack nodded, lost for words. Despite the whimpers, he was fascinated how easily the plug penetrated, almost no effort at all. Fully inserted, it looked less daunting... even comfortable.

 "It'll stay in place until you take it out."

Jack nodded again.

"Play with his balls," Dr. Proctor whispered, stepping out of the way. "It'll calm him down while we loosen him up."

"Is it going to h-hurt bad?"

"He's just teasing, Tintin."

Jack fondled, his thumb absently stroking boy-dick. He focused on Brady's small scrotum. Nothing could be as soft, poking delicate skin, tantalizing one tiny egg at a time. He watched Brady's face, learning firsthand how to give pleasure.

"In a couple of days, you're going to love it."

Dr. Proctor reached past him, deftly plucking the handle from between Brady's small firm cheeks. Playfully pulling on it, made his anus bulge out. With the biggest ball about to emerge, he flicked his finger on the handle. It quivered. Almost instantly, Brady wriggled, twitching erratically, gasping as his body reacted.

"He's feeling really good right now," Dr. Proctor said quietly. "Now, you do it."

Jack could feel silicone pulsing, flexing as his left hand tugged and shoved the protruding handle.

 "Aim for his belly button. This is your chance to turn him into a bottom, if he isn't already," Dr. Proctor joked.

Even a slight change in angle and Brady clutched crunchy paper.

"Is this h-how f-fucking feels?"

Dr. Proctor fetched a blood pressure and pulse monitor from a cart. "

Not even close. The real thing is ten times better."

"You said he can wear it 24-7; does that mean he should?"

"If he wants. Not to school, of course. Frequent exercise will enable his sphincter to open farther, and be more elastic."

"The goal is a bigger, stretchier hole; I got it!"

"And, he'll learn how to control when he's close to the edge... Okay, I need his vitals before and after he reaches climax. Some warning would be helpful. I'll want him fully erect, Jack."

Jack felt with his right hand, expecting to find a small hard penis. Instead, Brady's erection had shriveled to a pitiful nubbin.

He tugged on foreskin, drawing it out, rolling the helmet-head between his thumb and index finger, gently arousing.

"Hey Tintin, give me a stiffy to be proud of."

"What y-you're doing in my butt, it's d-d-distracting."

"Wait until Jack's dick is in you," Dr. Proctor chuckled. "I need a baseline sample when he ejaculates. Is he erect, yet?"

"Getting there," Jack confirmed.

"In Brady's case, he's likely suffering from over-stimulation."

Trying not to smile about it, especially with the stubby penis stiffening between his thumb and index finger, Jack leaned to whisper.

"I want you to enjoy this, Babe. Tell me if I'm doing it wrong."

He began to masturbate his young lover.

"That's good," Brady murmured. "I usually pull back the skin."

Jack retracted foreskin with a flick of his thumb and index finger, massaging the knob until Brady whimpered.

"You can go faster if you want."

Jack's right hand vibrated, enough to bring Brady's penis to inflexible hardness. More whimpering, thighs quivering, tensing, trying to pull away, gasping before thrusting his butt back against Jack's left hand.

"With an anal-orgasm, you may feel some discomfort, Brady.,"

Dr. Proctor leaned past Jack to take hold of the plug handle.

"Tell me when you feel it coming on."

He jerked back the plug, balls popping out until it was completely out. Brady's hole gaped. A moment later, he shoved it in, ball after ball vanishing through the now-loose anus.

"F-fuck!" Brady gasped, hindquarters straining back. "Woww!"

His bottom clenched as he shuddered. The doctor yanked out the plug, rammed it in, out again. Simultaneously, Brady shuddered, shoving back, forward, back, forward, increasingly frantic.

"He's frantic," Jack muttered.

It was hard to believe a barely eleven-year-old boy was instinctively `fucking' himself both front and rear. He couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't the first time.

Euphoric from anal stimulation, Brady grimaced, whimpering through clenched teeth. Veins bulged in his small erection, the exposed domed tip like a cherry, swollen and dark,

When Jack looked up, Dr. Proctor held a small plastic measuring cup.

"The chance of him achieving real ejaculation is statistically zero; however, Dr. Hart obtained a slight discharge. Best to be sure." he added sheepishly.

He stooped to peer under Brady's heaving belly, the measuring cup positioned, ready to catch whatever came out.

"C-c-c-coming," Brady groaned.

"You can do it, Sweetheart," Dr. Proctor coaxed. "Such a hot sexy boy."

"Uh! Uh! Ah! Ohhhh! Fuck!" Brady gasped.

His rectum clenched on the plug, wildly throbbing as his pelvis bucked, straining down to increase the pressure. Seconds later, he slumped onto the paper-covered exam table, hot, sweaty, shaking.

He kept quivering as Jack cuddled him, barely aware than an irresistible urge had been unleased.

"You're my `gorgeous gay boy'. I'm so proud of you."

Brady gasped as if he'd just run a mile, flat out. Suddenly light-headed, he needed the feeling to return. His insides felt like mush, or a milkshake after it came off the mixer. Everything churned up. He clenched his buttocks, or thought he did.

Amused, Dr. Proctor held up the measuring glass. Jack squinted, peering at a tiny droplet, wondering if he needed to fetch his reading glasses from his jacket pocket.

"I think it's safe to say Brady has yet to start puberty."

Jack pointed mischievously. "Is that pre-cum?"

"His Cowper's gland won't make pre-seminal fluid for a year. However, with enough simulation an immature boy can excrete early prostatic fluid."

"F-feels w-weird inside," Brady gasped as Jack withdrew the plug.

It was slimy, otherwise spotless, just like the anoscope.

 "For a gay boy, his first anal orgasm is life-changing," Dr. Proctor said distantly. "It'll give both of you something to live for."

It was cocaine for Brady, mind-boggling stimulation of the senses. He twitched for no reason at all. He didn't dare move.

"All that writhing and carrying on for one clear droplet. I really hoped there'd be more, Tintin," Jack teased.

Brady wasn't amused. "You d-drained m-my balls."

"A mere hint of what's in store for Brady the bottom boy," Dr. Proctor remarked.

Still breathless, Brady barely managed, "You're so not f-funny!"

Chuckling, Dr. Proctor placed the glass on the counter. He added more lubricant to the plug and deftly reinserted it. Brady gasped as the two biggest balls penetrated, a muted whimper as the doctor finished inserting.

After checking the plug handle was snug against Brady's perineum, he yanked off his gloves.

"Feeling good back there, gay boy?"

Brady didn't answer right away. "Kinda full. I'm good."

"I want you to wear it home. Before bed, take it out and wash it with hot soapy water. Then, add KY and reinsert. By tomorrow morning, you'll forget it's there."

"S-seriously?"

Dr. Proctor winked. "If you feel horny, it's okay to move it around. Go in and out the same as Jack did. Or use the muscles inside you to squeeze on it."

"I'm kinda doing that now."

"All normal. The goal is to leave it in until it feels uncomfortable. If it hurts, call me right away."

Brady grinned. Below his still-stiff penis, the blue handle curved up, pressed right under his scrotum. Even after swim practice, he'd never seen it so wrinkled.

"The balls are way up inside me, Jack; only I can't feel them."

However, there was a nice `full' feeling.

Never more self-conscious, Jack murmured, "Don't worry, Babe. It's how it's supposed to be."

An amused Dr. Proctor caught his eye.

"Okay, Monsieur, undress, s'il vous plaît."

With a whoop, Brady slid off the examination table, his fully inserted plug presenting no problem at all. 

Humbled by sheer agility, it was all Jack could do to take his eyes off the ravishing boy, shamelessly nude, and smirking right at him.

"Now, I get to make fun of you."

As proud as any parent, he regarded Brady, now ogling him brazenly. He winked and went about removing his shoes, jeans, and shirt, leaving black socks and pin-stripe-blue boxers.

"You buy your undies from Walmart, huh Jack?"

Boring and XXL-size went hand-in-hand

Again, he winked at `his boy.' "You can shop online during the drive back to your place."

Dr. Proctor looked up from the computer monitor.

"When we're done, my nurse will take blood samples to test for sexually transmitted diseases. She'll also give you shots for hepatitis A and B, for ingestion of bodily fluids and anal sex."

Jack grinned at Brady. "Don't tell me I didn't warn you."

Dr. Proctor swiveled on his stool. "Part of HELP's mission is to enable safe unprotected sex for all of its members."

Jack pondered, anything but narrow-minded, like Ted Singer. If Brady messed around with the other boys, it was normal, harmless sex--play. He was about to say so when Dr. Proctor pulled Brady to his side.

Whispering, he gave him a hug, one hand fondling boy-butt, the other hand out of sight. Brady pushed closer before he quickly stepped back.

Dr. Proctor chuckled. "I said `all of its members' for a reason, Jack."

Suddenly, Jack wasn't sure of anything! Brady's muted giggle was even more reason to worry. That `his boy' might have sex with other men was like a kick in the testicles.

Dr. Proctor stood, put on fresh nitrile gloves, and approached the exam table. Brady promptly plopped his butt on the stool. If he'd just been sexually molested, he didn't care, or was unaware.

He grinned. "This is g-going to be s-so much fun."

Dr. Proctor proceeded through the preliminary checkup. Finally, he pinched a thick roll of flesh at Jack's middle.

"You could do to lose 50 pounds."

Brady giggled. "He'd still squash m-me."

Jack grinned, fondling forgiven. "You didn't complain last night."

"'cause I was on top of you, Silly. Admit it; you're kinda big."

Dr. Proctor interrupted. "Wanna bet now that Jack has you, he'll start dieting, and exercising?"

"Already started. I'm going all out on the Paleo diet. Plus, last night, BJ suggested I sign us for Taekwondo class. We'll drop by there on the way home."

The doctor leaned over Brady to look at the monitor, tapping keys until he found what he wanted.

"When was the last time you had sex, Jack? I mean real sex, not playing with Brady's penis or fingering his rectum."

Jack shifted uncomfortably, as much from the question as from Dr. Proctor's proximity to Brady.

"It's been a while, a long while if you must know. I've got a lot of catching up to do," he added pointedly.

Dr. Proctor gave Brady another hug, this time nuzzling his short-cropped hair, patting his upper arm, squeezing juvenile muscle.

"I always enjoy being near younger boys when they're naked and boned up," he crooned, a finger stroking Brady's ear.

"I'm c-cuddly, and sexy, aren't I Jack?"

He pretended to grab boy genitalia, switching to an armpit tickle as Brady covered protectively. He turned and winked at Jack; no harm done, just having fun with a newly out bottom-boy.

"Brady will have lots of admirers. Get used to it, Jack. Fulfill his expectations, and then some, and you'll keep him."

"A fulltime job, huh?"

"The gay culture all but compels promiscuity," Dr. Proctor said quietly. "The average homosexual man has six partners in a year."

"Are HELP boys the same way?"

"We don't encourage it. However, with a relationship founded on platonic love, having other sex partners reinforces male bonding."

He caressed Brady's neck, stroking bristles, circling his ear.

Much to Jack's shock and displeasure, Brady didn't jerk away. He sat there and allowed it to happen. Try as Jack could, he couldn't ignore what was happening a few feet away. The closeness between Brady and Dr. Proctor irritated him, worse than irritated...

He took a breath, his face unbearably hot.

"Supposedly, that creates a stronger HELP community, huh?"

"You and I aren't homosexuals, Jack; we love boys. Most of us want a relationship if the boy is in our age of attraction. Is that any better?"

Dr. Proctor's fingers trailed Brady's jaw, over his chin, onto his slender neck, unhurriedly traversing to his shoulder. He squeezed firmly, affectionately, demonstratively, slowly rotating the stool with Brady on it. Then, he straightened and backed away.

"HELP has entrusted you to develop Brady as a homosexual. You need to love him, and immerse him in the culture. Like getting Hepatitis shots, it's not optional."

Jack wanted to believe Brady couldn't help responding; yet his obstinate erection and dreamy expression said otherwise.

"Dr. Hart and I are of the same mind. If you love Brady enough, you'll always desire him. Hopefully, he'll always come back to you."

Jack nodded. "I'll do whatever HELP wants to make him mine."

Dr. Proctor picked up calipers, the tube of KY, and the unused measuring glass. Brady bounced up behind him, taking up position on the other side of the examination table.

"You want to undress him, or not?"

Brady grinned. "Lift up your b-butt, Jack be n-nimble, J-Jack me dick!"

Snickering, snapping his fingers, carrying on like an excited preteen.

Leaning back with his arms braced either side of his thighs, Jack lifted up, doing his best not to laugh.

Brady tugged on boxer legs, making almost no progress.

"Anyone ever t'-tell you your designer boxers are b-borrring?"

He yanked harder, revealing a pale hairy belly; while the resulting folds still concealed a substantial bulge.

Not about to help when Brady was determined to do it, Jack impatiently gestured `off'.

Brady rolled his eyes. "We are so buying you Super Hero briefs!"

Slipping his fingers under the waist of Jack's boxers, he lifted up and out, while yanking down with his other hand.

"Hay-soos! It's h-huge!" burst from the now-wide-eyed boy.

Jack would never forget Brady, staring at the beast he'd released from boxer captivity. Clearly, his glimpse on the couch hadn't prepared him for close-up inspection under task lighting.

Across the exam table, Dr. Proctor concealed his dismay.

"The smaller the boy, the more he exaggerates."

He rubbed the nape of his neck, and nodded.

"It does complicate things... We'll measure him stiff first."

He handed the flexible tape to Brady. Having closely watched Jack, he needed no instruction.

"Around the widest part, right?"

He zeroed in on the bulging middle, carefully wrapping the tape around the thick fleshy stake. It was hot, burning hot, yet it made him shiver. Rock hard and silky soft at the same time, it throbbed under his fingers.

Brady grinned as if meeting for the first time.

"Hi, Jack's dick."

Constantly flexing, it seemed alive.

"Lean in to be sure you get the size right."

Dr. Proctor's voice was mesmerizing.

Brady leaned. It was right in front of his nose, so close he could smell it, so close he could feel the heat from it. He inhaled, vaguely sweaty, incredibly, deliciously male.

"It's intoxicating, isn't it Brady?"

His heart jumped, racing as adrenaline surged. Suddenly, the smell was overpowering. He inched closer, fascinated by the huge hairy scrotum, bulging with testicles. They were surely as big as chicken eggs.

"Take as much time as you need, Tintin," Jack whispered.

Brady licked his lips and tried to make it look like an accident as he brushed his face against Jack's erection. He trembled, the warmth, the smoothness, much like his own silky skin.

"It's yours to do what you want, after you measure it."

Ignoring Dr. Proctor, he fiddled with the measuring tape, daring himself to put his lips on the exposed ruddy helmet.

"Gay boys love grownup penises; yet most gay men will never say so. Hypocrisy abounds!" Dr. Proctor said.

Jack stared, counting teddy bears on a wallpaper frieze, anything to avoid the urge to jam his erection into Brady's mouth.

"And the circumference is...?"

Brady's head jerked up, surprised, blinking, peering at the tape in his hand.

"Fifteen... I think." He looked to make sure, and frowned. "It's triple mine."

Dr. Proctor chuckled. "Fifteen centimeters is what in inches?"

"Um... like six inches."

"Almost two inches diameter. That's thick compared to most men."

"Um... W-will it f-f-fit?'

"With the right approach, it's not impossible for your butt."

Dr. Proctor held back the rest—it was way too soon. Like talking about weekend sex orgies, it would be too much information for Jack, yet given the way Brady was staring at his partner's erection....

Not completely unaware, Jack shook his head, seeming as dazed as Brady.

"You can't be serious."

He'd seen Brady's rectum through the anoscope. He could fit in a finger, and move it around; maybe even squeeze in two fingers. But his erect penis, there was no way in Hell.

Oddly, the size disparity didn't bother Dr. Proctor.

"Now, get his length with the calipers."

Another big boyish grin and Brady placed the calipers, one jaw bumping the junction of penis and pubis, the other jaw about to touch the plump red glans when he looked up, frowning.

"It's drooling slimy st-stuff, like what came out of my dick, see." He pointed.

"It's not semen."

"Maybe p-pee `cause it's c-coming out the slit."

Dr. Proctor chuckled and ruffled Brady's hair. "It's preseminal fluid. It helps to make his penis slippery so it slides into your bottom."

Leaving the calipers on Jack's belly, Brady touched the tip with his finger and rubbed against his thumb.

"It's super slippery."

Dr. Proctor motioned to Brady to finish measuring.

Smirking, the boy leaned over the exam table, one hand grasping Jack's erect penis, while he adjusted the caliper knob. Twice, he squeezed Jack's penis, rubbing his thumb across the weeping plans, and smearing pre-seminal juice.

He licked his lips. "What's it taste like, Dr. Proctor?"

"Wait `til you're done."

After fiddling for nearly a minute, he held up the calipers, his other hand still clasping Jack's erection.

"Exactly 152 m-millimeters. Just over six inches, right?"

Dr. Proctor was on his way to the computer.

"In the US, the average length is just over five inches... For a boy, thickness is more important than length."

"So, Jack's dick is thick, and it's kinda long, too?"

Jack choked. "Six by six is big enough to make you squirm."

"What do you think, Brady? You still interested in being Jack's partner now you know what you've got to look forward to?"

Brady looked. He had reason to be proud. It was big, yet nothing else came close, nothing.

"Duh. It's awesome, the b-best thing ever," he whispered.

He was going to say more; however, Dr. Proctor looked up from his computer. He didn't look happy.

"Six-by-six, that puts you in the be-careful group," he said.

"I'm too big for you, Brady."

"We can still have sex, right?"

He glanced at the HELP pouch on the counter. "It'll be a tight fit."

"You said if I leave the plug in for a few hours beforehand, it gets bigger."

"You`ll need more than a plug, Brady." Dr. Proctor hesitated. "Jack, I'm dead against using this... It's not in the HELP pouch... If he sniffs Amyl Nitrate right before, it will dilate his sphincter. With luck, it'll be enough for you to insert."

"Someone mentioned poppers yesterday. Will something like that really work?"

"I have some. What you do with it is up to you. Just use it sparingly."

Brady's thumb glided across the bulbous crimson glans, circling the meatus, teasing out more slippery fluid.

"Pre-cum sure is slick." The expression on his face was sheer adoration as his tongue swiped. "It tastes salty. What does semen taste like?"

Somehow, Brady could turn Jack's usual-slow seepage into a near-constant dribble.

"You'll find out soon enough. I need a semen sample, Jack," Dr. Proctor announced. "When was your last ejaculation?"

Jack considered saying he forgot.

"Hmm... Brady's dad left my house at 8:40, last night. That would make it about 8:45 pm."

"Next time, don't waste it... Brady, if you want to help out, the glass is on the exam table behind you."

"Huh?"

"You want to masturbate Jack, or not?"

Brady's grin went from ear to ear. He moved his hand up and down on Jack's erection, instinctively teasing as he looked Jack in the eye, preteen taking charge.

"Aw, do I have to?"

"Stop pretending, you horn dog."

 Brady had no idea what awaited him.

Merely touching Jack's erect penis was overpowering. Suddenly, he needed to do more than just hold it. The urge to suck was immediate and insistent. In seconds, he was no longer playing.

His hand glided up and down the thick shaft. Rubbing it felt not just right, incredibly thrilling. Trembling, he tightened his grip, his index finger and thumb not meeting until he slid his hand to the bulbous tip.

He did what came naturally. Delicate lips enclosing, cheeks pulling in as he sucked. His taste buds came alive. He licked, delighting to find more slippery stuff. Even more oozed out as he squeezed on the glans.

"Oh Babe! You feel really nice."

Brady's hand glided down again, up again, now pulling up on the helmet. It sounded squelchy. The taste filled his mouth, and changed him forever.

Jack groaned, meeting Brady's adoring eyes, pink tongue swiping remnants from bee-stung lips.

"Don't stop. Please don't stop."

With a sly grin, Brady whispered, "What's a j-jack off w-worth, Jack?"

Jack hugged him, smooching his bare shoulder. "Whatever you want, Tintin."

"D-dinner at Garçon; just us, okay?"

Brady tensed. Dr. Proctor was right beside him. He wanted to move away; he couldn't, not while he was masturbating Jack.

"You're doing great," Dr. Proctor muttered. "Keep at it."

Brady twitched, very aware a hand was stroking his flank, a thumb pivoting on his hip, sweaty palm and fingers rubbing his right buttock.

However, it wasn't Jack's fingertips tickling, investigating his crack before slipping and sliding in residual KY jelly.

"I want you to make him cum as much as possible," Dr. Proctor said quietly.

Brady's butt tingled as the plug worked its magic. In fact, his anus felt like it was already gaping, and the muscle inside quivered, not just looser.

"H-h-how?" Every moment made him more nervous.

"A sexy boy like you doesn't know? Not how you usually masturbate. Do what Jack likes. Go on."

Brady barely nodded.

Then, building pressure from inside him, fingers tugging at his plug. The two big balls sent jolts of discomfort through him, stretching, forcing a larger opening than nature intended. Almost a relief as the smaller balls resurfaced.

Eleven-year-old lust roared, overwhelming inhibition. Instinct wanted to put Jack's penis in his mouth and suck until semen flooded his mouth and filled his belly.

Without warning, Dr. Proctor's hand touched his face, the same fingers from behind him now pressed to his nose. He panicked momentarily. The smell was his, strangely musky, tantalizing. Unable to move, just inhale. Not disgusting, almost sweet.

He glanced down. From elbow to wrist, his arm moved by itself, his hand moving so quickly it vibrated Jack's erection. It strained upward, the slit opening and closing.

"It's like a mouth b-begging," he mused aloud.

He made himself slow down, trembling as his hand glided up and down. He panted, hot all over. Jack's excretion was now on his fingers, slippery, sticky, and it made him shiver.

"Suck it," Jack gasped.

Now, there were butterflies in Brady's belly. His heart raced, twice its normal rate. Life couldn't get any better.

"You know how to masturbate, I see," Dr. Proctor murmured. "I want you to suck Jack, but stop before he squirts."

Brady trembled as he leaned in, impulsively closing his eyes, taking a deep breath. He kissed the glans lightly and pulled back, not daring to open his eyes. The second kiss was easier. For his third kiss, Brady bravely opened his mouth, French kissing the tip with his tongue. Definitely salty, not salty, strange, nice, unforgettable.

 

Dr. Proctor waited until Brady began licking the engorged shaft before his hand returned to bare bottom. Timing his torment to Brady's `succulations', he squeezed rubbery flesh, experienced fingers fondling the plump crinkly scrotum.

As soon as Brady took Jack's penis between his lips, Dr. Proctor grasped the silicone flange and withdrew the plug until the biggest ball jammed.

Brady inhaled sharply, resisting instinct to pull away. The alternative was to push the ball back into his rectum. He tried both, to no avail. The pressure increased on that place two inches inside him.

"Oh... Oh fuck."

Now, Dr. Proctor insinuated thumb and forefinger under the flange, massaging around the dilated anus. Brady clenched, desperate for more than fingering, yet unable to say so. The last thing he wanted was to stop sucking Jack.

"He's a good little cocksucker, isn't he Jack?" Dr. Proctor said.

Jack nodded. "You like sucking my dick, don't you Tintin?"

A shy nod was the best Brady could do without lifting off. Instead, he turned crimson. Besides, he had to keep his mind on what he was doing, his head going up and down in a ritual rhythm.

He loved how the skin pushed and pulled through his saliva-slicked lips. Hot hard flesh, slippery, slimy, secreting scrumptious juice into an eleven-year-old gay boy.

"You're awesome, Tintin. Dinner for two at Garçon, you got it."

"Tell him when you're close, Jack," Dr. Proctor warned.

Dr. Proctor's hand all-but-covered Brady's bottom, fingers and thumb stroking gently. Again, he grasped the flange, tugging persistently.

Brady groaned as his body released it. Then, two KY-coated fingers advanced into his crack.

"Just relax... You'll enjoy this," Dr. Proctor whispered.

He pressed his front onto Brady's bare back, pushing him against the exam table, caressing, teasing, his other hand separating buttocks to fully expose the opening. With index and middle fingers inside, he` focused on the tender orifice, soothing the over-stretched pucker.

Brady quivered, holding Jack's penis in his mouth. Instinctively, he knew it was becoming part of him, just as he was becoming part of Jack. It didn't seem right, not in front of Dr. Proctor, but what he was doing with his fingers felt right, and so good.

"The most sensitive nerves are under his glans. The groove, it's called the frenulum."

Glistening KY jelly covered the ring finger of Dr. Proctor's right hand, yet he held back, waiting. No blue nitrile glove as he waited for the right moment. He could sense the boy's excitement surging out of control. It wouldn't take much to push him over the edge.

 "You can take me deeper, if you want, Sweetie," Jack muttered distantly.

No wonder Brady peeked sideways. Every boy in the sixth grade made jokes about `deep throating.'

Jack's gentle, reassuring eyes met his. Like this, they were joined together, and that was a good thing. However, taking more of Jack's erection into him made it special.

"You're thinking about it, aren't you?" Dr. Proctor whispered. "Jeff says having my penis in his mouth makes him happy."

Brady's stubby penis throbbed mercilessly. It made sense, deeper meant more protected and loved... Maybe he could live forever...

He knew he was going to do it when he realized he was unconsciously licking his lips. At the very last moment, a thousand thoughts clamored for attention; only a few were as important as Jack's soothing voice.

"You can do it, Sweetie. Just take your time. There's no rush."

Dr. Proctor seized the moment, now circling three fingertips on Brady's most tender spot. Hot, moist, still loosening; he insinuated his fingertips as far as the first joint.

Brady groaned. Barely inside, yet anal sensations resurged, relaxing, exhilarating, reassuring, emboldening, confirming. He should've been ashamed; he wasn't.

"Take his cock in as far as you can, Tintin," Dr. Proctor coached.

It was like putting a big plump cherry between his lips, and trying to swallow. It was swollen, dark, shiny, bulging, and the slimy excretion dissolved his resolve.

Not even close to his uvula, Brady pulled away. He savored Jack's emission, scarcely aware he was shaking, his nervous right hand now rubbing up and down.

"That's far enough, Tintin."

He shook his head, not about to stop. Stopping was out of the question. He licked his lips and lowered his head, opening his mouth wide. His lips enclosed the engorged glans, preseminal fluid again greeting his tongue. He sucked and swallowed, finally letting go of his hang-ups.

"Welcome to HELP PT," Dr. Proctor murmured.

His fingers surged deeper, beyond the grasping sphincter, curling, twisting, prodding the immature gland. Brady strained down, anything to increase the wonderful pressure, instinctively tensing inner muscles as he suckled.

Only moments passed before he needed more, and then he couldn't get enough of it. He was certain the fingers lifted his feet off the floor. Impaled in his core, sensations concentrated until his insides throbbed like never before.

A hand enclosed Brady's left hand, guiding it onto Jack's scrotum, squeezing his fingers around adult testicles, huge compared to his tiny eggs. As soon as he understood what to do, Dr. Proctor's hand moved to his right hand, teaching him how to work the lower part of a man's erect penis while he sucked on the rest.

"Close," Jack groaned.

"Don't stop jacking him," Dr. Proctor said. "I'll tell you when to stop!"

It was all Brady could do to suck and rub, now frantically as he shuddered from deep within. Once started, orgasm could not be interrupted. He couldn't stop quaking. Powerful spasms made him shove back his buts, demanding more finger, while straining down frantically.

Suddenly, the finger withdrew from Brady's rectum. Empty, shaky, unable to breath. Part of him needed to stop sucking. He lifted off for a much-needed breath, began squeezing Jack's big hairy scrotum as hard as he dared, desperately wanting what came from a man's testicles.

"Faster," Jack urged.

 Brady couldn't, not with his jaw and neck aching, and blood rushing to his face. His hand jerked erratically. A quick breath and he gulped Jack's erection, jamming the glans to the back of his mouth.

"He's one-hundred-percent cocksucker, Jack," Dr. Proctor said approvingly.

 Brady spluttered, choking as the engorged glans blocked his airway. He panicked, unable to pull back—hands held his head. He struggled until Jack grasped his shoulders, pushing his head away.

The measuring class replaced his mouth. A moment later, Jack's penis jerked into action. Now, bloated, hot, and slimy, the thick shaft pulsated under Brady's fingers.

"Oh fuck... I did that?"

Utterly amazed as white gushes spattered into the measuring glass.

Jack groaned, clutching Brady's hand, still rubbing; up, down, squeezing out the last dribble.

"The finale is always a shock," Dr. Proctor chuckled.

The encounter left Jack gasping, and Brady very close to gagging. He rubbed at his neck, where his Adam's apple would be in a couple of years.

"Such a brave boy," Jack crooned, fingers ruffling silver bristles. "I'm so proud of you."

"For s-s-sucking your d-dick?"

"I hope it wasn't too awful for you. I really liked it."

Brady could taste semen in his mouth, on his tongue, his lips whenever he licked them. He couldn't stop licking; Jack was truly part of him now. His cock had been in his mouth...

"You're okay, right?" Now, Jack sounded worried.

"I'm a b-bit discomb-b-bobulated, that's all."

Jack chuckled, raising an eye, exchanging a glance with Dr. Proctor.

"There's a word you don't hear every day."

"You're a tad confused, huh Tiger?" Dr. Proctor teased.

Brady nodded, a weak smile. "I w-won the Fifth Grade Sp-Spelling Bee w-with it."

Speaking meant swallowing. His throat was sore, worse than a cough, yet he managed to keep an eye on the measuring glass. There was more semen than he expected, maybe a tablespoon of thick white goo. He wondered if it tasted like Jack's preseminal fluid.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you," Jack said, his voice cracking. "I didn't think about your poor neck."

"It's okay," Brady croaked. "W-what I wanted."

He glanced at Dr. Proctor accusingly.

"Your thoughts are important to me, Brady. Begin with how you feel."

"I... I...li-li... " Abruptly, Brady shook his head, and looked down.

"Aw, he's too embarrassed to say he liked it."

Jack picked up. "I think you loved it."

Slowly, Brady looked up. "Um... it was k-kinda cool."

"It was awesome for me, Tintin. The best ever."

"You mean it?"

Jack grinned. "I hope it was as special for you as it was for me."

"It was special for me, too, Brady."

Brady was too ashamed to look at Dr. Proctor.

"You put your fingers in my butt."

"Your first time sucking cock should be special, don't you think?"

Brady gave a noncommittal shrug.

"You wanted to make me feel really good."

Dr. Proctor waited until Brady looked up. The blissful look on his face was unforgettable.

He continued. "Everything you do with Jack should feel good, and happen naturally. Taking Jack's semen in your body is natural, and it's good for you."

"Better than taking pills for depression, right?" Jack joked.

"Only if Brady has a daily dose." Dr. Proctor hesitated. "Please listen to what I'm about to say."

Brady nodded for both of them.

"The sooner you have anal sex, the safer Brady will be; you, too, Jack. It bonds you, physically and emotionally. I need to be certain that after you leave here today, it won't be long before your penis goes in his rectum."

Brady stole another peek at Jack, wondering if he was thinking the same thing.

"With the trip this weekend, I was hoping to get to home base."

"I'll expect a phone call during the weekend." Dr. Proctor cleared his throat. "For a boy to get the full benefit, he has to retain his partner's semen inside him, whether oral or anal."

Brady was more than curious. "For how long?"

"A couple of hours, whether you digest it, or it's absorbed through the rectal mucosa."

"You'll have to lie face down so it doesn't run out," Jack teased.

"There's a stopper in the HELP kit. Pop it in, and your semen stays inside, ideally overnight. Now, the bad news. Semen back there can have laxative effects, and absorption in the rectum isn't very effective. I'll be honest; Brady's better off swallowing it."

 Brady blushed. "I wanted to."

Dr. Proctor handed him the measuring glass.

"Now's your chance. I want you to drink it, all of it."

 

 

Episode 11. Friday Afternoon, November 2^nd.

 

With Thursday being the final day of the AMA Convention, the organizers and sponsors descended on Garçon for a celebratory lunch. At $100 per person, the menu featured Jacques Broche's prize-winning oysters, scallops, and lobster with Jerusalem artichokes and black truffles, and complimentary wine.

It was after 2:00 pm when Jack returned to his house in Cambridge, expecting to find Nancy and Brady waiting for him in the courtyard. They weren't!

With an awful sinking feeling, he called the Singer residence from his car. Brady answered. He'd already left two messages on Jack's cellphone to say his grandmother was sick.

Jack hustled through afternoon traffic. He double-checked the address before he parked outside the Singer residence, his second time there. In daylight, it was a typical Somerville two-story, dull grey with white trim, pediment with dormer, bay windows, verandah.

At night, it had been depressingly ordinary, of zero interest except for the fact that Brady lived there. He'd parked in the darkness, the engine still running. Nearly a minute of hot, wet passion; sweet boy-lips and wriggly tongue swapping saliva.

Suddenly, the urge was upon them, undeniable and overwhelming. As Brady hurriedly pulled down his zipper, Jack had rummaged through the HELP pack to find the small dark bottle of Amyl Nitrate.

However, Brady had retained his virginity—Ted appeared on the verandah, impatiently beckoning for his son to get out of the car.

All that was before Dr. Proctor texted him. KY and Lidocaine 2% cream was an alternative to poppers, although with dulled sensations he would have to be extremely careful...

Already late, Jack made a beeline for the front door. His first real visit to Brady's home and he was as tense as a teenager on his first date. He pressed the bell-button, telling himself there was no reason to be nervous; after all, he'd just spent two hours charming the presidents of the world's biggest drug companies. However, he didn't have an erection, then.

Grinning, Brady opened the front door. Jack barely had time to take in Brady's sporty attire before the boy grabbed his hand and dragged him inside.

Jack looked from silver-blond head to bare feet, and back up again. Words failed him, as they failed Brady, yet a feeling of enormous relief swept through both of them. Sure, they were smiling at each other, but the main reason was they were together again.

 "Snazzy outfit, Tintin." `Snazzy' wasn't nearly admiring enough for his beautiful boy.

It was `snazzy', though. Black-velour track pants and a hooded, zippered jacket, with shiny-silver stripes along the arms and legs. Brady spun around, showing off middle-America preteen ostentation.

"Grandma bought it for me to use at championships."

"I can't believe I'm looking at the cutest boy in all of Boston, maybe the whole East Coast." Jack kept his voice low.

Smirking, Brady stepped closer, his voice rasping. "I got a boner, Jack... so hard it hurts."

"Yeah, I see Junior sticking out. What do you think caused it?"

"Being around you. It makes me feel funny, really horny."

He pressed into Jack, resting his head on Jack`s big chest. He felt warm and alive with Jack's man-sized bulge rubbing against his front.

Unable to resist temptation, Jack hugged him tightly, a bundle of wriggling energy, mashing eager boy into his manhood. Instinctively, Brady lifted up on tiptoes and Jack leaned down to greet him. The kiss was dry and quick, just a furtive peck on the lips, nothing like the French kiss they'd shared in the car the night before.

After a few moments, not nearly long enough, Jack eased away, his lips tingling, his face glowing hot, nervously looking around, down the hall towards the kitchen, up the stairs.

"You sure this is safe?"

Brady licked his lips, eager for more. "Grandma's asleep upstairs. Mom's at work. D-D-Dad's in h-his w-workshop."

Jack smiled. Seduced by a barely eleven-year-old boy; it was all so obvious, it might've been planned.

Brady beamed back, looking up at him. He raised an eyebrow, pint-sized `Jean Harlow' playing femme fatale for his man. He lowered his voice even more.

"You could take my clothes off and no one would know."

Sultry eyes, sexy voice; he just stood there, waiting for Jack to take the next step. Jack's primal brain responded; he swallowed, inhaled, more tempted than any man could withstand.

 "Yeah, I could... Here and now, that's not a good idea, Tintin."

Brady regarded him curiously, head tilted slightly. Teasingly, he took hold of the silver zipper tab near his neck, slowly drawing it down. With nothing on underneath, he opened a narrow `v' of bare skin, all the way to the bottom of his jacket.

By the time the zipper tab passed his navel, Jack couldn't stop from staring at unblemished pale-almond skin.

"Um..." Jack gulped as more skin appeared.

Then, Brady plucked the zipper apart and the jacket opened, exposing his taut belly. From the front, his abdomen had zero taper, no girly hourglass.

Jack gaped; no wonder the Ancient Greeks loved boys; there was nothing more beautiful.

"Nice abs," he murmured.

"You like my tummy?"

"It's yummy."

He gulped saliva, wondering what it would feel like to spread spit over Brady's bare front, massage it into his wash-board belly...

Grinning, he circled his finger for his athlete to turn side-on. Then, he inhaled, absorbing physical perfection, sturdy chest, bony swimmer hips, pinched rump. Most of all, he was struck by the boy's incredibly trim waist—he was certain he could die happy after a mere glimpse.

"Nice, very nice," he whispered.

Brady's track pants hid his lower belly and thighs, too loose to have a bulge in front, yet still entrancing. He turned more, looking over his shoulder to see Jack's reaction.

Positioned like that, Brady's mostly concealed butt garnered an adoring smile. Imagination took over and adrenalin surged. Adoring became yearning, an insatiable hunger that left Jack wide-eyed, mouth gaping.

The seam in the rear defined `crack', yet was somehow unable to separate two small cheeks. It was like looking at... cantaloupes were way too big, although the shape was right. Scrumptious, sweet, rubbery boy-flesh, inviting investigation, tasting, and more.

"Your butt is so beautiful." Even to Jack it sounded faraway.

He came back to earth when Brady turned to face him.

"Now, you really sound like a pedo."

Stunned at the innocent yet shameful truth of it, Jack nodded. Brady was shameless, gleeful, scallywag-eyes bright, bee-stung lips with a melt-in-the-mouth smile. Happy to be a pedo's boyfriend.

"Garrett, Tyler, and me chatted for hours last night," Brady boasted.

Immediately, Jack had a bad feeling. Both Hart and Proctor had been explicit about Internet safety, absolutely no social media.

"Don't worry," Brady hastened to add. "BJ had me download and install security stuff on my laptop before we did anything."

The relief was slight, hardly comforting, especially after having watched Garrett and Tyler in action. God only knew what they did in private; and `anything'; what the Hell did that mean?

Brady's fingers slid under the waist of his track pants, pushing down far enough that Jack saw skin seldom touched by the sun. As exciting as that was, the bigger thrill was his `gorgeous gay boy' hadn't stuttered a single time, except talking about his father.

"That must've been fun," he ventured, nervous because he sensed there was more to follow, a lot more.

Brady smirked. With secrets came power; and he intended to enjoy it for as long as it lasted. He gave Jack a `come hither' look and headed into the living room, stopping before the bay window. He leaned back, his butt on the window seat, relishing his new-found authority. Jack, famous chef, four times his age, was at his beck and call.

"This is my favorite place in the entire house," he murmured.

"It's nice," Jack murmured back.

"I was sitting here when you drove up in your car." Brady lowered his voice. "I was pretending you were already here, doing stuff."

Jack took the bait. "Doing what stuff, exactly?"

"You were being bad... you were playing with my dick."

Suddenly, Brady wanted Jack to touch him more than he'd wanted anything in his entire life. He glowed at the prospect, face flushed, penis like a stubby lever.

"You wanna know what me and the guys talked about, Jack?"

Raspy voice, a young gay boy blossoming with desire, no longer burdened with shame, ready to play man-boy games.

"Sure, if you want to tell me." Jack's version of ambivalent sounded hollow.

Brady shrugged right back at him, already into teasing. He could tell Jack was as excited as he was.

Finally, Jack broke eye contact and looked around the middle-class living room.

No one had picked up for a day. A crumpled blanket tossed on the couch, Ted's La-Z-Boy recliner still with his morning coffee cup on the table next to it. Two plastic plates with lunch scraps lay on the coffee table, a diet pop can, one of Brady's school notebooks lying open next to it, as if someone had been checking his homework.

"Three gay boys; I bet you talked about s-e-x," Jack said quietly.

He wasn't the kind to pry into private lives; however, he wanted to know everything about his boyfriend, everything.

Then, Brady lost it. Gaydar Junior activated, on full alert status, drawing its power from long hours spent looking at naked men on illicit websites. He gushed giggles, infectious, girlish, gleeful.

"I know all about..." He made Jack wait for it. "... fucking."

Jack looked at him blankly. The word sank in, exciting as it was disturbing.

"The sooner we do it the better," Brady added.

 "I'm ready if you are." Of course, he was joking. No way was that going to happen.

"I've been practicing all day."

Jack looked around again; impossible to believe they were talking anal sex in the Singer living room.

 Brady erupted in giggles. "Miming, you doofus. Are we going to your place or not?"

Jack jerked back to reality. "Not enough time. Your try-out is at 4:00 pm. The coach said to arrive a half-hour early for warmups."

"Let's do it in our kitchen. It'll be like a dress rehearsal." With that, Brady headed off.

Jack followed him down the hall. The Singer kitchen was a boat galley compared to his glamorous kitchen; a combination range/oven, a large sink, microwave, and apartment-sized refrigerator. Needless to say, squeezed into the center was the McMansion-standard island bench with bar sink and track lighting to show off suspended pots and pans.

With his hands in Brady's armpits, Jack boosted his boy onto the granite countertop, and took a step back. Enraptured and contemplating `Jean Harlow Junior,' he debated his next move.

Jack Broche, French dilettante and Italian cognoscente, was a an unlikely alpha-male. He was also a gourmet chef; he always took charge in the kitchen. Cultural aesthete and connoisseur of fine wine, yet he was ready to rape the Singer son.

"Kiss me. Not a lip smack, a proper kiss."

Brady's head lifted, eyes nearly closed, lips ready to press, parted in anticipation. Jack was about to French-kiss the kid on his beautiful bee-stung lips when buzzing started. It droned on, constant volume, seeming to come from all around.

"D-Dad. D-downstairs. H-he's s-sanding, duh."

The moment had passed even as Brady pretended to use an orbital sander, his expression demented, the motions exaggerated. Then, he pretended deafness, cupping his ear, shaking his head.

 "You could fuck me right now; no way h-he'd h-hear."

"You really think your boy-hole is big enough for my cock?" Jack teased.

Brady did his eye-roll of preteen irritation. "Remember what Dr. Proctor said; the plug makes it bigger."

"I was there, remember?"

"Garrett told me to move the big balls in and out, so I've been doing that on and off. I showed him about an hour ago. I'm as big as I need to be. Anything bigger is icing on the cake, only I've got to be careful I don't get over-stretched."

"It's not as much fun for me if you're loose, huh?"

Brady grinned and took hold of Jack's hands, pulling them down and under his velour jacket. Jack touched ever so gently, fondling firm pectorals, scrawny ribs underneath.

Brady closed his eyes. "Mmmmmm."

Then, Jack's thumbs massaged his breastbone. There was no flab on Brady Singer, none at all. Jack soon exchanged massaging pectoral muscle for gentle caresses of baby-soft skin. Running mostly on instinct, his fingernails scratched dime-nipples, giggly delicate, pinching with his thumb tip and index fingertip, curiously thrilled because each careful nip caused a twitch.

Brady whimpered, inhaled. "You're making me feel funny."

Jack watched firm points appear, switching to rolling, pulling on now-reddened nipples. Still, he worried about the wide-open door to the basement stairs. Finally, Brady's incessant loud whimpers every time he squeezed and tugged made him stop.

"You sure we're safe here?"

"H-H-He's s-still sanding. Can't you hear?" Trembling, Brady slowly got back his breath. "You can do that some more if you want."

Jack squeezed both tiny nipples. It was like electric shocks zapping the kid. Brady abruptly jammed the heel of his hand into his crotch, not rubbing, grinding. Oddly, Jack could see almost no pleasure in his face, just urgent need.

"You like me doing this, huh?"

Brady panted, nervous excitement raging. No longer confused about his sexuality, he longed to be touched, desire and need belying his age.

"It's nice... really awesome."

The demanded `proper' kiss long forgotten, Jack pointed to the open door. The sander had stopped.

"Safe, right?"

"D-D-D-Dad n-never c-comes u-up t-till d-d-dinner."

Jack hugged him, smooching bristly hair, pushing his head back so he looked up, wide-eyed and licking his lips. Breathing together, inhaling, exhaling, sharing more than just air. Quintessential experience. Simultaneous attraction, both wanting what came next, inevitable and intense; yet somehow Jack resisted the impulse.

"Must've been some chat session last night," he teased.

Brady giggled. "Um, Jack..." He turned serious. "Be honest, okay? If I was big enough, would you want to... you know? Put it inside me?"

"Honest, huh? Okay. There's nothing I want more than to make love to you... when you're ready."

Licking his lips again, he pulled Jack closer, puckering up, big blue eyes imploring. Jack kissed his forehead, his eyes, the top of his nose, anywhere but his lips.

"Right before you arrived, I did what Andy said, you know, with my fingers; both fingers. I got them inside easily."

Jack hugged him again, still keeping an eye on the open door, hoping he'd hear Brady's father if he came up stairs. He was barely in control when they finally kissed. Urgent and spitty, making up for lost time. There were butterflies in his stomach when they separated.

"B minus," Brady said with a straight face. "You have to suck my tongue to get higher than a B."

Horny and hilarious, Jack went for prime ribs, making Brady swivel away and lean out of reach. He pinned slender thighs to the counter, one hand apiece, thumbs sliding up, stretching back black velour, revealing Brady's crotch beneath, no more than a hint of erection and balls below.

"You know you wanna take my pants off," Brady snickered.

Jack laughed, his thumbs circling, playfully manipulating a spongy lump before probing toward the bulge, fingertips expecting to find a stiff boy penis.

"You're wearing a Speedo."

"Not exactly. Wanna see my dick?"

"Hell yeah."

Even as Brady leaned back on the counter and lifted up his butt, Jack promised himself he'd just pretend, nothing more. It was crazy to do otherwise when Ted could come up the stairs at any moment.

"You sure it's safe?"

"Duh. Take `em off, Jack me quick."

Jack was already working on Brady's track pants, mostly teasing, slowly inching down velour. Then, the sander started again. With a tug, he had the waist down far enough to see taut black nylon with a neon-blue stripe, and a neatly tied white bow. Commonsense said `far enough,' yet he kept tugging on Brady's pants, past his butt, halfway down his thighs before he stopped.

Brady grinned and lowered himself onto the counter. Both of them stared at his skin-tight jammer, and a tiny boy bulge.

 "Look at you! So cute all boned up," Jack whispered.

Overcome by silver-blond hair and Brady's shy smile, magnetic blue eyes nervously meeting his supposedly sophisticated grownup gaze. All that remained of his self-control was about to go out the window. It struck him like a Boston city bus; his boy was barely male!

"He's kinda cramped. Take it off, if you want to," Brady whispered.

It didn't matter that Jack had seen him naked before; he was infatuated; there was no other word to explain his scrutiny.

"You're everything I ever dreamed about," Jack murmured.

He sounded so lovesick that Brady nearly giggled.

"You really want to do me, don't you?"

Offer waited for acceptance, anticipation raging; however, Jacques Broche wasn't ready to `do' his gorgeous gay boy, not yet. Maybe after a few dates. Still, he fiddled with the drawstring, temptation raging. Unable to stop, he pulled open the bow.

"Lift up, Tintin!" It didn't sound like Jack's voice at all.

No longer playing around, urgent, demanding, taking what was his for the taking because Brady complied, eagerly elevating his butt.

"A bit friggin' tight! Need to put you on a diet," Jack complained, struggling to get the tiny jammer down.

"They have to be tight or people see your junk sticking out."

They looked down together. Brady's `junk' was properly flattened, a small hemisphere and half a thumb pointing at his navel. As boy bumps went, it was precious.

Brady shoved at the front of his jammer until it was down far enough to see the foreskinned tip of his very stiff penis. A moment later, he flopped back on the counter, pulling up his legs. Like that, he skinned off his jammer, shoving it down with his pants.

With everything interesting in view, Jack gaped. Hard boy-penis, wrinkled tight scrotum, and the curved blue handle of Brady's training plug; everything was his for the taking. It boggled the mind.

"All this time?"

Brady nodded, his flat tummy rising and falling, shivering slightly. Not cold, or scared, so excited gooseflesh pimpled his thighs. Any second and he'd start trembling.

Dumbfounded, Jack didn't dare touch the plug. Five `balls' on the shaft; the `Whopper' as big as a man's swollen glans. The smallest one was six inches inside him.

"Sweet!"

Brady grinned, pleased with himself. "When I took it out after lunch, it stayed bigger."

Jack inhaled. "Bigger..."

Brady looked up at him. He licked his lips and swallowed.

"I told you already. Garrett said I'm big enough."

Like any man who loved boys, Jack instinctively extended his hand and cautiously touched the curved silicone handle. It was warm, smooth, squishy.

Brady looked him in the eye. "Once we start doing it regularly, I won't need to wear it. Your dick keeps me bigger."

"He wants to keep you bigger, Babe. More than anything."

Jack's finger encircled the end of the handle, slightly doubtful, yet hopeful. Maybe it didn't hurt as much as he imagined. What if Brady liked the sensation as much as having Jack's finger inside his rectum, what then? The very thought made him hot.

"Wanna d-do it while D-Dad's in his shop?" Brady tugged eagerly on Jack's other hand. "Say yes."

Jack pointed to the floor looking for excuses. "He's down there until dinner time, right?"

"Stop worrying and fuck me, will you? H-he won't c-come up."

The giggles that followed surprised him. Of course, Brady was joking. Still, Jack played along. He stroked Brady's lean thighs, his fingers wedged between cool granite counter and warm soft buttocks.

"You really want to lose your virginity, Tintin, it can be arranged," he whispered.

KY and Lidocaine cream in his pocket, mixed the way Dr. Proctor said...

`Use lots on both you. Be very careful. You'll barely feel it. The same for Brady. The first time, just get the head in and masturbate...'

It wasn't the way he imagined, or wanted Brady's first time.

His heart racing, Brady watched Jack's reaction. He smiled shyly, lowered his voice.

"Let's do it, Jack."

"I want to, Babe. So much. More than I can stand. Only it wouldn't be right."

Jack lifted Brady's chin, gazed into eyes he adored. He ached, impossibly hard, throbbing. Temptation raged.

"I respect your parents, especially your dad. If we did this in his house, with the way he feels right now, what does that say about us?"

Brady frowned. "I respect you, not him."

"If this is going to work, you have to respect him. I also want you to love him."

"I do, just not as much as I love you."

Jack shook his head. "He loves you, Brady. Deep down, you're all he really cares about. But he's frightened of losing you."

"I wish you were my father, Jack."

"I'll always be part of your life, if you want me."

Shoulders slumping, Brady nodded meekly.

"Starting tomorrow night, I'll be a way bigger part; however, I'll never take you away from him. Now, let's get you dressed."

Ted Singer stood near the top of the basement stairs, the door to the utility room open to let in light from the adjoining kitchen.

His son's playful giggle burned his ears.

"Your s'posed to lift it over my dick, Jack."

"It wouldn't be a problem if it wasn't so stiff."

"What about `yummy cummy in my tummy'?"

"It can wait until after tryouts. I don't want you to be late."

"Jack, what's the point? After what Dr. Proctor said about delaying puberty, I know it means I'll never win a race."

"I also talked with the diving coach. She's is going to be at the pool as well. Being smaller and lithe gives you a big advantage."

Ted wiped a tear. As much as he wanted, he dared not go up. Instead, he descended.

"You guys need to get moving," he called over the sound of the sander, upside down on the workbench. "Go fast, Brady... I love you."