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.


Anyone wishing to contact me can do so at john.thestoryteller@gmail.com


Other stories on Nifty by John Teller/The Storyteller can be found here.


All rights reserved. All parts of these documents are Copyright 2012 John T. S. Teller, and may not be reproduced in any form without the author's consent. Nifty.org have permission to reproduce it on their website.


A small sermon. Nothing in life is free. Everything costs, and Nifty is no different, so please send them a couple of $'s/'s to cover costs and stuff. They're very discreet, and you won't get your name in lights if you do. Donate here.


Meeting Rebel.


By John T. S. Teller.


Part 5.


What a splendid day! It's 9.30 am now. You've been up since 7.30, have eaten a breakfast of muesli, pancakes with honey, and a large glass of orange juice, then, as usual, thirty minutes after breakfast, you've been to the toilet to clear your bowels. Only then did you bathe and dress. You considered wearing some of your best gear to impress Rebel, but this is Sunday when you like to dress down and work in the garden and just space out. So you do exactly the same, wearing a clean, but old checked shirt, and blue shorts because it's already quite warm.


      Fat-balls for the starlings and sparrows; mealworms for the robin; sultanas for the blackbirds; mixed corn for the pair of collared doves that have nested in the most stupid place - on top of one of the arched supports under the roof of the front porch - and then water in abundance in the many bird-baths and drinking spots that you arranged when you first moved in here. You love wild birds; just as you do most wild creatures. That was your interest before you specialised in microbiology. Life: beautiful life forms; each one so intricate and interconnected to the astonishing planet that you were so fortunate to be created on. Mankind is the odd one out. How ironic that the creature who does so much damage to this beautiful Earth turned out to be the most intelligent. Intelligent? Well, no! Many of them are as thick as pigshit: self-serving; control freaks; greedy; cruel; intolerant. Especially of you, David Johnson-Green! You're that sub-species of a sub-species: a lover of the boy child. It doesn't matter that you've educated yourself to devote your life to finding new ways of creating fuel to warm their homes; power their industries; even provide alternative nutrients to feed the bastards... they still hate you for what you have no choice about. You didn't choose to be a lover of boys; it was in your genes the moment you were created. Well, fuck you, Human Race! Today, one of the people you hate is meeting a boy child, and is going to enjoy the young man's wonderful company, and if it's what the youngster desires, then you're going to make love to him.




Boy Child. Rebel. You're just clearing a few weeds from the front garden when he arrives on his bike, wearing a green t-shirt and denim jeans that have been cut off no lower than ten centimetres below his crotch, with the straggly ends hanging seductively down his superb, boyish thighs, and when he wheels his bike through the front gate, you see that he's wearing black and white trainers and white trainer socks, and that means that you have a wonderful vision of his legs from thighs to his ankles.


      He grins at you. "Am I too early?"


      You smile, and shake your head. "No. I was waiting for you. That's why I was working in the front garden." He's sweating, and you ask, "Would you like a cold drink?"


      He swallows hard, and nods. "Yes please. Where shall I put my bike?"


      You go to him, take it from him, and wheel it to the back of the cottage. He follows you, and when you've placed his bike against the wall, you point at the open kitchen door. "Go in! Sit at the table. I'll get you a drink when I've washed my hands."


      He walks through the door. You follow him and admire his golden-brown, wavy hair that flows onto his neck, and you can't help but adore the beauty of his shapely body below the hanging locks. He is exquisite. You're nervous when you turn your back to him, wash and dry your hands, go the fridge, and ask, "Orange; pineapple; Coke; milk; water?"


      "Coke, please."


      You thought that would be his answer, and you're smiling when you take it from the fridge - together with some ice cubes and sliced lemon and to the table where the glasses are already out and placed on opposite sides of the table, which is how you want this first meeting to go: giving Rebel his own space, plus the added advantage that you'll be looking at each other. Your hand is shaking slightly as you pour, and you notice that he's aware of it. You shrug your shoulders when you sit opposite him, and say, "I'm nervous."


He nods his head. "Me too. I nearly didn't come."


You give him a wry smile. "I understand. But thank you for coming. If nothing else, at least we've met properly, and when you go back home, if you don't want to see me again, then no harm is done." Then, after you've taken a sip of your orange juice, you look directly into his eyes, and add, "There's just one thing I want to make clear, Luke. You can be sure of one thing: I'll never harm you. Is that why you nearly didn't come, because it crossed your mind that I might be a monster in disguise?"


He looks embarrassed for a moment, and then almost in a whisper, he says, "Yes."


You nod. "I understand. That's why I gave your mother my business card. It wasn't for her; it was to tell you that I was a genuine person. Then I showed you my car and where I lived, so all this information is available to your mother. If I was a monster, those are the last things I would have done."


"I know, but I was still nervous. There was something else I wanted to ask you last night, but I was too scared."


"What was that?"


He hesitates, takes another drink of his Coke, looks down, and says, "Why do you like me?"


You sit back in your chair, put your hands on the table edge, and look directly at Rebel. "I saw you in the mall a few weeks ago. The moment I saw you I liked you. That's why I've been to the mall for this last two Saturdays: not to buy stuff I hardly need, but just to see if I could see you again." You try to grin, but it's not a proper one. "I'm attracted to you."


Rebel doesn't smile. "But you still haven't answered my question."


You sigh. "No I haven't, Luke, but it's very difficult, and I don't want to lose you now I've found you."


Rebel stares into your eyes, and asks in a voice so quiet that you can only just make out the words, "Are you gay?"


You lean forward, pick up your drink, hold the glass in front of your face to try and hide yourself, and nod. "Yes, I am. But I won't molest you if that's what you're thinking."


"What will you do?"


Now you look at him directly. "What I told you last night when you asked me what I wanted from you; that whatever you want from our friendship will be fine by me. No more; no less. Now can I ask you a question?"




"What do you want from me?"


"I'm not sure, but I tried to tell you part of what I wanted last night." You look puzzled, and he continues, "When I told you I was in bed thinking about you."


You grin at him. "I was thinking about you in bed, too."


"What were you thinking?"


You chuckle. "I was thinking about what it said on your shirt."


Rebel giggles. "Did you?"


Your eyes meet again, and you love the devilment in his as he stares you down, and then you say, "Would you like some more coke?"


He grins. "Yes please, and then what shall we do?"


"I thought we'd have a morning in the garden. The back one where nobody can see us. What time do you have to be home?"


You think you detect a slight disappointment in his voice when he replies. "I told mum I would be home for lunch." Then his face brightens a little. "But I can come again this afternoon if you want me to, and stay until about five or half past."


You smile at him. "Sounds good to me." You look at your watch. "Ten-fifteen now, what time will you have to leave to go home for lunch."


"About twenty past twelve, and I'll be back here for two."


"Excellent. We should have finished all the weeding by the time you go home this evening."


Rebels pulls his face. "I don't want to be weeding all day!"


You laugh. "OK. Deal. Weeding this morning, and then we can do what you want to do this afternoon. How does that sound to you?"


Rebel grins. "Have you got SKY Sports?"


"Yes, the full package. Why?"


"The Monaco Grand Prix is on."


"Doesn't it start at one o' clock?"


"Yes, the coverage does, but the race starts at two, I think. Can't you use the pause function?"


You laugh. "Yes, I suppose so, but I'm so nervous that I might forget to pause it, so you'll have to hurry with your lunch or you'll miss it."


Rebel giggles. "I could have lunch here!"


You shake your head. "Too early for that. Your mother doesn't know about us, does she?"


"No. You won't tell her I've been here, will you?"


"Of course not! That's why I'm thinking it's best if you go home for lunch. Do you often go out on your bike all day?"


Rebel nods. "Yes. I go and play with my schoolmates lots of times. They don't live in our village, and I just tell mum I'm going to play footy or cricket. She always lets me unless she's going shopping or something, and then I have to go with her. The rest of the time I can pretty much do as I want, unless I have homework to do."


"Good. Right, shall we do some weeding?"   




You've not enjoyed a morning like this for a long time. Rebel isn't particularly fond of gardening, but you insist he helps with everything you do. Eventually, because it's fun being together, he begins to enjoy it, and even becomes rude when you ask him to move his bum when you need to get to a particular patch of weeds that you can't get to because he's in the way. His beautiful blue eyes sparkle when he turns his head towards you, and says, "Think of the message on my shirt!"


      You laugh, and rap him on the cute buttocks that are almost in your face. "Don't tempt me! Now just move your ass!"


      He giggles, and changes his position, and he's still giggling when you call a halt for a drinks break. When you walk into the kitchen, you pick up a towel, lift up his chin, and wipe away the sweat from his forehead. He looks into your eyes while you're doing it, so you take your time and gently wipe the towel around all his features; over his forehead; each side of his cute nose where the freckles are in abundance; around his mouth; across his full, sexy lips; and then you stop and return his gaze. Your faces are close. You want to lean forward and kiss those lips, but, instead, you give him a wry smile and kiss him on the forehead. You're about to turn away when he grabs you and hugs you. You can't help putting your arms around him and pulling him closer. You kiss his soft hair, and then you push him away. He looks sort of disappointed. You smile at him. He nods. He understands. Now is not the right time. Later, perhaps, when you're watching TV. You do hope so, because now you know that Rebel wants at least part of what you want: hugs and cuddles.  


To be continued...


You can find my other stories on Nifty here. If you wish to comment on this or any of my other stories, just drop me a line to john.thestoryteller@gmail.com Genuine comments will be appreciated. All flames will be extinguished in the trash bin.