WARNING: This story is about an affair between a boy and a young man. Do not read the contents if it will offend you. If accessing this story causes you to break local laws (village, town, city, county, province, state, or country, etc.), please leave now.
Any characters portrayed in this story are fictional and not representative of anyone living or dead.
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This story is dedicated to Nathan.
By John T. S. Teller.
He's there again. This is the third time you've seen him on a Saturday afternoon in the mall. As usual, he's with his mother and his younger brother. Last week he was wearing blue jeans and a GAP t-shirt, but it's colder this week and he's wearing blue jeans and a leather bomber jacket. He looks a little older: probably twelve years old. Last week when his slighter frame was revealed, you thought he was eleven. You love his hair. He's not had it cut, and the blonde/brown waves are flowing over the collar of his jacket, and hanging a little lower on his forehead. He does his usual thing flicks his head to remove the hair from the front of his eyes. It won't be long before he does it again. It's a small trait that you're beginning to like about him. The same goes for the way he keeps a distance between his mother and younger brother as if he doesn't want to be associated with them. You've worked it out that shopping on a Saturday afternoon is not his thing. They're standing by a clothes shop window now. His mother points to something, and he backs away slightly. You know he's not going to wear that, and you smile to yourself. He's about a metre behind them now, his hands half buried in the back pockets of his jeans, clutching his cute buttocks. You're jealous.
Yes, it was two weeks ago when you first saw him. The mall is a two story one, and you were coming down on the moving elevator and he was on the one going up by the side of it. He looked at you, and he couldn't have missed the fact that you were staring at him before you hastily looked away. Why did you look at him? Because he's one of those stand-out boys who attract you, is in the range of your age of attraction, which is ten to about a young-looking fifteen. So, you looked at him, and he looked at you. You saw him once more that day, and again he looked at you.
The following week last week you went to the mall again, hoping to see him, but expecting not to. You were delighted when he and his family made an appearance; this time while you were in The Bookstore buying A Biographical Notice Of Atticus Herodes: Prefect Of The Free Cities Of Asia; in hard copy, because the love affair between Atticus and his beautiful boy, Polydeukes, has always fascinated you. You'd ordered it three weeks previously, and were just paying for it when you saw Him flipping through the pages of a book in the children's section, so you took a seat at a reading desk to study him more. He seemed to like books, which you thought was nice. Unfortunately, he chose one almost immediately, and in no time was gone from the store with his family. You followed him out, but they went into another store, and you thought it wise not to go in there after him. The only glimpse of him you had after that was when he was walking purposefully behind his mother and young brother, and they were headed for the exit. But at least you'd seen him again, and that made your day.
You lower your Kindle, pick up your half empty cup of coffee and look over the top of the cup to study him more. The first week when you saw him he was just another boy, but a very beautiful one. That's why you looked at him, just as you do when you see other beautiful boys. Certain boys attract you. Not all. Some of them are just not your cup of tea... or coffee. But this one you like. Really like. You like the cut of his jib; the way he walks - sometimes dragging his shoes across the paving slabs as a show of defiance that he'd rather be playing with his pals or whatever. He's a rebel with a cause, and a good one he wants his independence. He's at that age when he thinks he's entitled. But his mother is cramping his style by making him go shopping with her. Rebel. Yes, that's a good name for him. You'll call him that whenever he's in your thoughts.
They've turned away from the shop window. Mission unaccomplished, Mother! You should listen to Rebel and buy clothes he wants to wear. He's not a little boy now... he knows what he wants! Silly woman! He points to the small café where you're sitting... at one of the outside tables in the covered mall. You get excited. Will they? Won't they? They will! Rebel has got his way. Good boy! But will they go inside or outside?
Fate smiles on Kindle users. Rebel is sitting at the table next to you; facing you, and his mother's back is to you. You relax and adopt your best demeanour - an interesting look on your face as you don't read the story you're supposed to be reading. You turn an unread page, pick up your almost empty cup of coffee and look over the top of it. He looks at the bags by your feet, and then his eyes flick upwards until he's looking into yours. What can he see of you? Dark hair; a face half hidden by a coffee cup, and brown eyes that are looking directly into his own blue ones? Yes, that's what he sees. A twenty-eight year old researcher of autotrophic organisms? No, he can't see that. A good looking, well built young man who loves boys? Yes and no. Well, maybe not. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and Rebel's eyes are not your eyes, so you don't know what he's seeing. But at least he's looking at you, which is damned sight better than being ignored.
What's that you see? Was it a half interested, curious smile that crossed his face for a moment before he looked down at the menu his mother placed in front of him? You feel very nervous, so you take in a deep breath and exhale slowly. Rebel is getting to you. Why shouldn't he? He's your kind of boy. You fancied him the first time you saw him, and that fancy is growing by the week; day; hour; minute. That's why you're here today. You don't need the things in the bags by your feet. They've been bought to give you some measure of respectability; the difference between a genuine shopper and the real you: a lover of boys who's in this particular mall hoping you would see him again. Does that make you a stalker? Maybe, but not the bad kind. You would rather cut off your dick than harm a hair on his beautiful head or put him in a situation where he was even slightly alarmed. When he leaves, you won't follow him. You'll just allow him and his mother and little brother to walk away to wherever, and then you'll be back next week hoping he'll make a return showing.
You put the coffee cup back in the saucer and return to non-reading of The Day of the Triffids. You're not looking at him, but you see everything he does.
He places the menu flat on the table, puts his hands behind his head, and leans back in his chair. He thinks you're not looking at him, so he looks at you. You turn the page when his mother asks what he wants, and you're pleasantly surprised when he speaks. You expected the tinkling tones of a pre-adolescent, but his voice has the timbre of boy just reaching puberty; the soprano changing to falsetto when he says, "A cream bun and a Coke, please, mum."
Good manners! You like that. He might be grumpy because he's been dragged out shopping on a Saturday afternoon, but he still has enough respect for his mother to speak to her properly. Rebel goes up another notch in the Liking Him Stakes. Your thoughts are interrupted when a waitress attends to them, and after she's taken their order, she politely asks if you'd like another coffee. You give her your warmest smile, and even though she's a pretty young lady, you're being disingenuous, because the smile is to show Rebel how nice you are, and when you speak, your voice is quiet and over-polite and respectful to impress Rebel even more. Breaking away from looking at the Kindle also has another advantage; you can look at Rebel again before you begin to non-read, and when you do, he's looking directly at you again. This time, like his, your face is serious when you look into his eyes, and this time you allow the gaze to last a little longer than propriety should allow. You close and open your eyes to give him a signal that you know you've connected, and then look to down to continue non-reading.
This is it. This is as far as you can go. Whatever comes next, if there is a next, has to come from him. There will be no more stalking. You will be here each Saturday afternoon waiting for him. That's what Boylovers like David Johnson-Greene do: they wait. Some wait all their lives and nothing happens. You're twenty-eight and you've never connected. This contact will probably go the same way as all the others, but that's how it has to be. Not to wait for the boy to desire your affection, and maybe more, is the difference between a lover of boys and a paedophile.
The waitress brings their snacks and drinks, places them on the table, and then turns and places your coffee in front of you before collecting the now empty cup. The new cup of coffee is a signal to Rebel; it's telling him that you'll be here for a while.
Do you detect a slight change in rebel's demeanour? The sullenness has left him, and he's now become a nice table companion to his mother and brother. He's laughing and giggling at times, and his voice is just that bit louder than necessary. You're beginning to get goose bumps when you see that he looks at you often, and you have to reward him by smiling at some of the things he's saying. You don't look at him when he giggles because his mother tells him that he has cream all over his face, but you smile to let him know that you think cream all over his face is amusing to you. And when he wipes it off, you do look at him and smile. He's marvellous! You're not a fool, and you know that Rebel is putting on an act for you. He even tells you his proper name when he corrects his mother on one occasion. "Call me Luke, not Lucas, mum! Everybody else does!"
You reward him for that piece of information by smiling at him, and he grins back at you. Operation Christian Name successful. Luke or Rebel? You decide to keep the Rebel for now. You like it. It suits him.
They're ready to leave. You feel depressed, but there's nothing you can do about it. Mum pays for their snacks and they get up to leave. Rebel looks at you. You look at Rebel. He's not happy, and if he can read your face, he'll know that you're not either. You put on a worried look. He gives you an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, and then turns away to follow his mum. You see rebel saying something probably arguing that he doesn't want to leave yet but mum taps the watch on her wrist and points towards the exit door. Rebel's shoulders slump, and he drags his shoes across the paving slabs, reverting to his entrance mode. When you think all is lost for another week or maybe forever - he dawdles behind his mother and brother, and then turns to look at you and sees you staring at him. This will be your only chance, and to take it you have to be brave, something which, where boys are concerned, you never are. You make a sign by tapping your index finger on the table. He looks puzzled; sort of asking what you're trying to tell him. This time you don't tap your finger on the table; instead, you clamp your lips firmly together, press your index finger firmly onto the table until it's bending almost backwards with the pressure you're applying, and look very seriously at him. You don't move a muscle, and then you see his face light up when he realises what you're saying: See you here next week. His attitude changes immediately. He grins at you, and runs briskly to catch up with his family. He doesn't even look at you again. Why should he? If he's a bright boy, he'll come and get what he wants. And that's the most important thing of all: what he wants and not what you want. Rebel is now calling all the shots, which is exactly how you think an intergenerational liaison should develop.
To be continued...
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