Micah and Me Copyright© 2014 by Simon Campbell The following is a work of fiction. It contains graphic depictions of consensual sex between an adult male and a teenage boy. It exists for entertainment purposes only. There is a real boy named Micah (and Parker, too!). I was briefly acquainted with him and his mother (Kim) a little over two years ago. Liberties were taken with the details of their lives for the sake of the story and to protect their privacy. As much as I would like the events in this story to be true, they are not. Thanks to my intrepid beta readers (M & T) for their editing skills and invaluable suggestions. Please show Nifty some love with a generous donation. Feedback is always welcome. Drop me a note with your thoughts, constructive criticism, or ideas to micah.parker@live.com. The more you write, the more I'll write. ;) I'm also on AIM/MSN (micah.parker@live.com), Google Talk (simonwritesgood@gmail.com), and Yahoo! Messenger (ridethaskater). Author's Note: Just like Nifty can't survive without your donations, Nifty Authors can't survive without your feedback. If you're enjoying my little tale, please drop me a note and let me know (even if you've written before). You wouldn't believe how encouraging it is to hear from my readers. It won't cost you a penny, and it just might make my day. I'll keep writing if you do. ;) Chapter Four Even after stopping at McDonald's for breakfast – today was my normal shopping day and I had nothing to feed him – we arrived at the school with ten minutes to spare. The impressive campus was a hive of activity as dozens of parents waited in line to drop off their kids. As I pulled my Toyota 4Runner up to the drop-off point, I realized I didn't want to let him go. Suddenly, the thought of spending seven hours without my boy was just too much. "Well," I said, "here we are." "Yeah," he said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "I guess I'll see you later." I really wanted to kiss him good-bye. Not the wisest of moves with all these witnesses. "I'll pick you up at three-thirty." "I'll be here," he said with a hint of sadness. He reached over and placed his hand on my inner thigh. He smiled as he gave it a little squeeze. "Try not to miss me too much," he said as he removed his hand and opened the door. He grabbed his backpack from the floorboard and climbed out. Before he shut the door, Micah winked at me and executed a perfect hair-flip. "Bye," he said with a wave. I waved back as he shut the door and walked toward the school. I lingered for a moment while I enjoyed the view. Just as I was about to look away, and drive off, Micah turned and caught me looking. Busted again. He gave me a smile and shook his head as he disappeared into the building. With no small amount of sadness, I put the SUV in gear and pulled away from the curb, wondering how in the hell I'd let myself become so infatuated with this boy. It was going to be a long-ass day. You really had to hand it to Kim. After the death of her husband, she'd moved here to go back to school with the goal of becoming a registered nurse. She'd done that, all while working full-time and taking care of Micah. The generous life insurance payout, coupled with the wrongful death settlement she'd received from her husband's employer, had paid for her education, Micah's tuition at the private school, and enough left over to pay for a small chunk of his college education. Everything Kim had done, even those things that had bettered her life, she'd done for Micah's sake. I'd never known anyone in my life that worked harder and was less selfish. Micah's school wasn't cheap, but it was worth every penny. It was the highest-rated lower education facility in the entire state. A large number of parents wanted to send their kids there. The competition for the limited number of annual scholarships was fierce. Those fortunate enough to obtain them had to work their butts off to keep them because the academic standards were so rigorous. The school had a reputation for turning struggling students around. Micah had been one of those students. Kim told me that before they came here Micah dreaded even going to school. He'd had a tough time of it, barely scoring above a 2.0 with his grade point average. Now he was near the top of his class. That's why his mom had been so concerned about him missing any more school. It'd been difficult for him to catch up after being out sick for so long. He'd done it, but it hadn't been easy. The last thing she wanted was for him to get behind again. She called again not long after I arrived home. I was sitting at my desk trying to write when I took her call. "Did you drive Micah to school?" "No," I said, "I let him hitchhike. I was so tired after our trip to the meth lab. I'm sure he got there safely." She laughed. "There you go again." "Sorry. I couldn't help myself. How's your mom?" "She's in pretty rough shape," Kim replied, the laughter fading. She sounded as if she was fighting back tears. "The doctors expect her to stabilize but she's going to need a lot more care, if – when – she goes home, than my Dad is able to provide. My brother, sisters, and I have some decisions to make. I'm not sure how long I'll need to be here." "Don't worry about that. Micah's in good hands." Well, not yet, but he will be. I shut away the feelings of guilt that came creeping to the forefront. "I know he is," she replied. "I just hate that I dropped him in your lap like that." Great. Now I had the image of Micah bouncing up and down on my lap. "Seriously, you need to get over that. Just focus on taking care of your mom. Everything is okay here. Please don't worry." "Moms are going to worry no matter what. I'm just glad I could leave him with someone I trust." Feelslikeshit, party of one! My call waiting beeped in and I looked at the screen to see who was calling. Jake Perry, my agent. "I gotta run," I said. "That's my agent on the other line." "Okay. Thanks again, Simon. Bye." "Bye," I touched the accept button. "Hello?" "Why aren't you writing, Simon?" That was his standard greeting when I answered the phone. By his reckoning, I should always be writing. If I had time to answer the phone, then I wasn't busy writing. The rub of it was he'd be pissed if I didn't answer his calls. "Hey, Jake. What's the good word?" "I've got good news, more good news, and bad news." Most people asked which you wanted to hear first. Not Jake. "Penguin wants to republish your first three novels – not just the first one – as trade paperbacks and eBooks. I'm overnighting the contract for your signature. It's a great deal, Simon. It'll keep you in hookers and beer for many years to come." "Wow," was all I could say. "Yeah, I know. I'm awesome." "You are, my friend. I assume that's the good news. What's the 'more good news'?" "Ahh, prepare to be amazed. There's an option in there for a fourth book. They want the right of first refusal on your next novel. We're talking a very generous advance." I gasped. "Okay, I'm amazed. I'm almost afraid to ask the bad news." "Yeah, that. Well, they would need to see something." The euphoria deflated. "Oh, crap." "What do you mean, 'oh crap'? I hate when you say that. Tell me you have something written." "'I have something written,'" I answered sarcastically. "I mean, I have a basic outline, but I haven't actually written anything yet." He sighed. "Come on, man. You're killin' me here. I can work a lot of magic, but I can't write the shit for you." "I know, I know." "What's going on?" I thought for a moment, wondering what I should tell him. "I don't know," I finally answered. "I got the jitters when you started shopping the first book around again. Maybe I'm worried about where all this might lead. The pressure of performing, I guess. I've never been used to having any deadlines other than my own." He was silent for a moment. "I guess I can understand that. Fortunately, the deal on the repub isn't contingent on a new book. It's only an option. I can probably stall them for a little while." "Can you? That would be excellent." "Yeah, but you need to write. Do whatever it takes to get over this dry spell. Why don't you go away for a week or so?" "I can't." "Why not?" I explained the situation, conveniently leaving out the juicier bits. My agent was a pretty open-minded guy when it came to all things sexual, but somehow I didn't think he'd understand my wanting to jump my teenage neighbor. "That's unfortunate," Jake said. "It might've done you some good. How long is he staying?" "No idea. Few days, I expect. Maybe a week." "Well, maybe it won't be too much of a distraction." "Don't count on it," I said under my breath. "What was that?" "Nothing." "Is there something you're not telling me?" "Yes," I blurted without thinking. "Trust me, though. You're better off not knowing." Yeah, the legal term is plausible deniability! "Fine," he said after a pause. "Keep your little secrets. Just write something, Simon." "Roger that." "Alright. I'll talk to ya later." "Yeah. Bye." I hung up the phone and stared daggers at the blank Word document on the screen of my laptop. The cursor seemed to be mocking me as it blinked. Writing the first three novels had been far from easy, but I'd never had this much trouble. Maybe the pressure really was getting to me. You're a no-talent hack, Simon. The first books were a fluke. Great. It's always fun when the good old feelings of self-doubt come back for a visit. You're going to have to go back to work at the accounting firm. "Shut up! I'm not listening." I closed the laptop and decided to do laundry instead. Why procrastinate now when you can do it tomorrow? Besides, I justified, the laundry wasn't going do itself. As I made my way upstairs, my thoughts shifted back to Micah. So many things about this just didn't make sense. First, how had I gone from looking at him as just the kid next door to a full-blown sexual object? Very few days had gone by in the last five years that I hadn't been around him. It made no sense that I would suddenly be lusting after him as I was. Micah had stayed over at my house at least a dozen times since I'd known him, as recently as a few months ago. We'd gone a number of places around town alone and I'd even taken him out-of-state once. Not even one of those times had I ever looked at him as anything other than an awesome kid. Maybe I was just over-thinking it. It had happened and I just needed to figure out a way to deal with it. Secondly, and even more perplexing, was why the hell was he so into me? In all the times we'd been together, he'd never showed even the slightest sexual interest in me. It's possible it was just a simple matter of teenage hormones running amok. In fact, that was the most probable explanation. I still couldn't shake the question of why I was the focus of those hormones. "Way too much to think about," I said to myself as I grabbed the plastic hamper from my room. I did my best to ignore his underwear. No need going down that road again. As I entered the guestroom, I noticed that Micah had actually made his bed. What a great kid. A quick check of the bathroom revealed that he'd left it just as clean as it had been before his arrival. He'd even neatly arranged his toiletries on the top of the counter. This was not the state you'd expect a teenager to leave a bathroom. Where was the water on the floor? What about the sopping wet towels strewn about? There wasn't so much as a stray glob of toothpaste left in the sink. Great kid indeed. He'll make you a nice husband some day. "Very funny." I made my way back into the bedroom to collect Micah's laundry, questioning the sanity of a person who found it necessary to answer their inner monologue aloud. Perhaps some of that book money should go towards some serious psychotherapy. As I bent over to pick up the clothes from his hamper, I noticed something. While everything else – bath towel, hand towel, wash cloth, pajama pants, and t-shirt – had been haphazardly thrown in, my black boxer briefs, crusty and damp with seed, had been meticulously (reverently?) folded and set on top. I had no idea what that meant, other than he wanted to make sure I noticed them. I really didn't know what to make of this boy. Having gathered the dirty clothes, I walked back downstairs to the laundry room and fired up the washing machine. Filled with nervous energy at not being able to write, I almost wished I had housework to do. I had a service come in once a week that took care of everything but the dishes and the laundry. The housekeeper, Ms. Wanda, who'd been a friend of my family for a number of years, was greatly insulted if I dare cleaned anything for myself. "What the hell you payin' me for?" she'd say in her melodious southern drawl. Old and cantankerous, she wasn't someone on whose bad side you wanted to find yourself, so I tried my best not to poke the angry bear. My days were normally spent writing, but since entering the dry spell, I'd found myself bored and depressed. Because I'd been committed to hospital a few times in my life due to depression, I knew how important it was to keep myself occupied. Never a problem until recently, I struggled to fill my days with some sort of activity. I didn't want to find myself in a bad state again, but it was a distinct possibility if I remained idle. The last thing I needed right now was to find myself the victim of an involuntary admission. Don't think about it. Keep your mind on something else. If only it were that easy. I could feel the darkness creeping in, overtaking my mind like a fast-moving fog bank. All I wanted to do was lie down and sleep. Don't do it! Don't give in! Shut up! I'm tired. I didn't get a lot of sleep last night. Whatever. You're just rationalizing. Who cares? You should. Well, I don't. I'm not arguing anymore. You're arguing with yourself. You realize that, right? At least I'm not answering you – me – aloud anymore. I made my way to the living room, wondering if it was actually possible to win an argument you were having with yourself. Therapy, Simon. Therapy. After double-checking my phone to make sure I'd set a reminder to pick up Micah from school, I lay down on the couch and pulled a throw over myself. While I tried not focusing on how depressed I actually was, my thoughts drifted back to the boy. I was surprised at how difficult it had been to say goodbye this morning and how much I actually missed him. The feelings I found myself having towards him probably scared me more that what had transpired between us earlier. You could easily explain that away by saying the two of us got carried away in the heat of the moment (and/or I took leave of my senses). The deeper issue was working out how I actually felt about him. No. Not now. Think about it tomorrow. Yeah, Scarlett, you— "Argh!" I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was only eleven. There were still four hours until time to pick up Micah. I wonder what he's doing right now. You must really have it bad. What's next? You going to write 'Mrs. Micah Gibbs' on the outside of your Trapper Keeper? Pulling the throw over my head, I did my best to fend off the mocking taunts. It eventually worked and I drifted off to sleep. As I was jolted from my dead sleep by the annoying tone of the cell phone reminder, its shrill melody dancing on my nerve endings with all the delicacy of those tutu-wearing hippos from Fantasia taking a Jazzercise class, I realized the nap had been a terrible idea. Before the nap, I had only been mildly depressed. Now I was even more depressed and hella grumpy. "Be quiet, damn you," I yelled at the phone, hitting it harder than I intended to shut it up. "Bloody hell," I said, pulling myself off the couch. My brain felt as if it was submerged in a bowl of oatmeal. It took me a moment to remember why I'd set the reminder. Micah. I needed to pick him up. Glancing at the clock in a brief fit of panic, I realized I had plenty of time. It was only a twenty-minute drive to the school. I even had enough extra time to transfer the wet clothes to the dryer and start another load washing. I made quick work of the laundry chore, located my shoes, and started out the door. After retrieving my mail, I climbed into the 4Runner and steered it toward the school. Still feeling like crap, I tried to force myself into a better mood. The last thing I wanted was to take my funk out on Micah. Honestly, the thought of seeing him again did cheer me up, but I still felt pretty rank. Just put on a good front. You've done it many times before. Traffic was light until I reached the vicinity of the school. As I approached the pickup area, I noticed the line of waiting cars to be a little longer than usual. With it being Friday, I assumed some parents had tried to beat the rush and get an early start on the weekend. There probably weren't too many after-school activities either, which contributed to the congestion. Waiting patiently for my turn, I suddenly became aware of all the beautiful young lads roaming around. None were as lovely as my Micah, of course, but damn. Whatever had torn the blinders from my eyes where he was concerned had apparently awakened the ravenous boy lover I never realized lived within me. It felt a little creepy, to be honest. There's nothing wrong with looking, but these were new feelings. I wasn't sure I would ever get used to this. I continued perusing the merchandise until I finally saw Micah. A huge grin erupted on his face as he jogged over to the car. The door opened and he climbed inside, setting his backpack onto the floorboard. My boy was back. "Hi!" he said, flipping his hair. "Well, hello there. How was school?" He sighed. "Terrible!" he said with an overly dramatic flourish. "I almost fell asleep in Spanish class. ¡Ay, caramba!" He giggled at his own joke and I suddenly forgot all my troubles. "How was your day?" he asked. "Not great. I thought a nap might help, but it just made me feel like ass." "Well, I'm here now, so that should make your day a lot better." "It does, actually," I glanced over at him and smiled. He smiled back. Then, he reached over and placed his hand on my inner thigh again, just as he had done this morning before getting out of the car. It took me by such surprise that I nearly rear-ended the car ahead of me in the parking lot. Micah just giggled and inched his hand a little closer to my crotch. "Thanks for that," I said, laughing. "You nearly caused an accident." He had surprised me, but I think I was more surprised at how comfortable I was becoming with his displays of affection. "Hey, I can't help it if you can't control yourself." With his hand still glued to my thigh, my cock was very much enjoying the attention. "I can't control myself?" I teased. "What about you, Mr. Grabby Hands? You can't keep your hands off me." I kept glancing back and forth between him and the road. He gave me his best innocent look. "I'm just marking my territory," he explained. "Don't think I didn't notice you checking out the boys back there." "I was not—" My attention was on the road so I couldn’t see, but I'm sure he probably rolled his eyes. "Oh, please, Simon. You're the world's worst at discreetly checking people out." The traffic light at the approaching intersection turned red and I slowed the SUV to a stop. I took advantage of not having to focus on the road to look over at him. "Come on, I'm not that obvious." "Pfft," he replied, definitely rolling his eyes this time. "What?" "Nothing," he said, trying not to laugh. "Uh-uh. Out with it." "Okay, well, your eyes get all glazed over, your tongue hangs out, and drool starts to dribble down your chin. It's not at all attractive." "I do not look like that!" I said with a laugh. He nodded. "You totally do. I've seen it with my own two eyes." "I'm not speaking to you anymore," I said, pretending to be offended. "I'm only speaking the truth." "You're only being a punk," I said playfully. "I'm not a punk. And you said you weren't talking to me anymore." The driver behind us honked his horn. I glanced up – the light was green. I put my foot on the gas and raised my hand to the driver by way of an apology. "First of all, you are a punk. Second, I stopped not talking to you long enough to tell you you're a punk. Third, and most important, you're a punk. Now I'm really not talking to you." He laughed. "Not a punk." "You are a punk," I said playfully, enjoying our frisky back and forth banter. "Am not." "Are so. In fact, you're the worst kind of punk. I believe the scientific name is punkus painintheassus." "Take it back," he said. It was his turn to pretend to be offended. "I won't," I said, playfully pushing his hand from my leg. "I don't think I want to catch any of your punkiness." "Punkiness, huh? You weren't worried about catching my punkiness this morning." There it was. The elephant in the SUV. I glanced over at him to make sure he was smiling. He was. While there hadn't been a trace of malice in his voice, I needed to know he was only kidding. My guilty conscience at work. I knew we were going to have to talk about what had happened between us sooner or later, but I honestly didn't want to, mainly because I didn't know what to say. Additionally, I needed to do it in such a way that didn't hurt his feelings. I wasn't sure I could do that either. "Simon," Micah said. "You okay?" A long moment of silence passed between us. "Yes," I finally said. "And no." "What's wrong? Why'd you get so quiet all of a sudden?" I was about to speak when I realized that we were about to turn into our neighborhood. The drive home had whizzed by and I couldn't remember most of it. It's a good thing I'd glanced up when I did or I might've missed our turn. "Simon?" "Not now, buddy," I said, steering the SUV into our subdivision. "Let's wait until we get inside." He remained silent as I drove deep into our neighborhood. The two houses we occupied were located in an older, more wooded section. Ours were the last two on the street, making up the middle of four in a cul-de-sac. They weren't fancy, by any means. My house was a few months older than I was. I'd grown up in it, in fact. I'd bought it off my parents about seven years ago when they'd retired and moved further south. My best friend growing up, Tate, had lived in Kim's house. I didn't mind that the houses weren't new or luxurious. I just enjoyed living amongst the fond memories of my childhood. "Do you have your house key on you?" I asked as I pulled into my driveway and shut off the engine. He nodded. "Please go over and start packing some of your clothes. I'll be over in just a minute. I'm going to get your mom's mail." "Okay." He opened the door and stepped out of the car. As he began walking across the yard, I got out and made my way to their mailbox. You handled that well. Don't start. I'm not in the mood. You were having a perfectly nice conversation until you had to go and screw it up with your stupid angst. That'll do! Yeah, sure, I could've handled it better. He brought it up this morning and I panicked. He brought it up in the car and I panicked again.  I have no idea what I'm doing. They don't write self-help books for this sort of thing! There's an idea for your next book: The Complete Moron's Guide to Not Breaking Your Teenage Boy Toy's Heart. Not listening! I placed Kim's mail on her dining room table and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Micah was busy throwing some clothes into a gym bag when I walked into his room. I looked around. This was Tate's old room. I'd spent many a night in here as a kid. Other than Micah's unmade bed – a product of their hasty retreat earlier – the room looked neat and tidy. Either Kim ran a tight ship, or he just liked being tidy. An array of posters featuring everything from baseball teams, to video game characters, to movies, adorned his walls. His extra-long twin bed had winter camo print sheets (the boy obviously had an affinity for camo) and a gray fleece blanket. I briefly imagined him lying in that disheveled bed, doing what fourteen-year-old boys are wont to do, but quickly put it out of my mind. It was so not the time for those kinds of thoughts. A small nightstand, complete with lamp and alarm clock, stood on one side of the bed, a small computer desk sat on the other. Next to that was a small hallway – open closets on either side (one held a chest of drawers) – which led to his own bathroom. The wall opposite his bed featured a large bookshelf. In the middle of the unit sat a small widescreen TV and DVD player, surrounded on all sides by shelves filled with a modest collection of movies, various knick-knacks, and quite a number of books. A few were of the popular YA variety (Harry Potter, The Hunger Games), but most were actually classics. Though I knew Micah loved to read, I had no idea he had such an impressive library. In five years, I'd never actually been in his room before, so all this came as a complete surprise. "This room brings back memories." "Really?" He ceased packing and turned to face me. "Yeah, this was my best friend, Tate's room. It was cool living next door to each other." "I didn't know you grew up in that house." "Yep," I replied. I motioned to his books. "You read all these?" "Uh-huh." "Which one is your favorite?" "Dracula," he said, going back to pulling clothes out of a drawer and tossing them into the gym bag. The mood had changed slightly between us since I'd gone silent on the trip home. It wasn't exactly cold, not even a little chilly, but I didn't think he was happy that I'd suddenly shut him out in the middle of our conversation. There was no putting it off any longer. It was time for that talk I didn't want to have. I walked over and sat down on the edge of his bed. "Come here a minute," I said. He stopped packing and hesitated for a moment, as if he had to think about it. "Please," I added. "There's something we need to talk about." Micah sighed heavily. He walked over and sat down next to me. Still wearing his school uniform, he looked incredibly sexy. I tried to put that out of my head, along with the fact that we were sitting on his bed. How awesome would it be to do him in his own bed? No! Not now, dammit! "Micah, I—" I stopped. I didn't know what to say. He looked up at me with those eyes. Holy Mother, those eyes. "You're freaking out about what happened this morning," he said, "aren't you?" Perceptive little tyke, ain't he? I'm ignoring you—me. Ugh! I took a deep breath. "Well, yeah. I'm not sure it was the right thing to do." "Why not?" "Because—I—" You're a master of the English language, Simon. Stop it! Just shut the fuck up! How the hell did I say this without hurting him? "Micah, I'm sort of like an uncle to you. I take care of you when your mom can't. Not to mention I'm way older than you." "So?" "So that means it's probably not a good idea for us to be involved—you know, sexually." It would be so helpful if I could just read his mind. There was absolutely no reading his face. "You liked it though, right?" he asked. "You said this morning that you liked it." Come on, kid! Give me something I can work with! "I did like it, Micah. I liked it a lot, and I wish that's all there was to it. But—" "But what?" He looked at me pleadingly, his expression clearly indicating that he truly saw no problem here. My guess was he thought I was taking it way too seriously. I, of course, thought he wasn't taking it seriously enough. Regardless of who thought what, this wasn't getting us anywhere. I needed to fight this war on another front. "Micah, do you mind my asking why you did what you did this morning?" "What do you mean?" I couldn't tell if he was playing coy or pleading ignorance. "When you—ya know—" Micah shrugged and flipped his hair. "Oh, that," he replied nonchalantly, as if we were discussing how I'd loaned him a pencil in math class. He definitely wasn't taking this seriously enough. "Yeah," I said. "That." He took a moment before he answered. "I don't know," he finally said. "I guess—I guess I was just curious." Curious, huh? You were curious, too. Yeah, and considering how well it worked out for that poor cat, how well should I expect things to turn out for me? "Curious?" I asked. "Uh-huh. I guess I've sort of had—" he blushed, "like—a little crush on you for a little while." He had a crush? On me? Wow! "Seriously?" I asked. "Sure. I mean you're kinda hot and I've always really liked you. I've been thinking lately how it might be cool to mess around with you." That surprised me. He'd never even given the first clue. "Okay, but what made you take it from there? From having a crush on me to—" "Dude, you were totally checking me out this morning." I laughed. "I'm really that bad at it?" "No, you suck at it." "Duly noted." "So, anyway, I saw how you were looking at me and I thought it was really neat. Nobody's ever really looked at me like that before." I found that extremely hard to believe. I'd be willing to bet he had guys and girls checking him out all the time at school. "Yeah," Micah continued. "I already knew you were into guys, so when I saw you checking me out, I figured why not take a shot and see what happens. You should've seen the look on your face!" "I bet!" This was all just too surreal. To find out the boy you've been obsessing over less than twenty-four hours has actually been obsessing over you? Crazy. While my brain tried to process all the information, something he'd said a moment ago came to mind again. "Wait," I said. "How did you know I was into guys?" He rolled his eyes. "I just told you. I saw you checking me out." "I got that, but last night was the first time I've ever looked at you that way." "Nuh-uh. I've seen you more than a few times totally perving over me from the window while I was mowing your lawn." He'd seen me watching him? I guess I was obvious after all. Not only had he seen me watching him, he'd seen me watching him like that. Maybe I was lying to myself. Maybe I'd even been harboring these feelings for him all along and had just been too scared to admit it to myself. Denial is a beautiful thing, apparently. "Actually," Micah added, "I had it figured out before that." This should be interesting. "'Splain," I said. "You're in your forties—" "Early forties! I'm only forty-two." He sighed. "Fine, you're in your early forties and you're not married. I've never even seen you go out on a date." "Your mom doesn't date!" "True, but I have one more thing." "Really?" He reached over to his desk and retrieved his laptop. As he lifted the screen and typed his password, I wondered what in the hell he could possibly have on his computer that implicated me. Had he created a Power Point presentation? I couldn't help but notice the satisfied smirk on Micah's face. It wasn't just any smirk, though. This one practically screamed, Yeah, I've got something on you. Try to get out of this one! I watched as he clicked on folder after folder, finally opening one that contained a ZIP file. He double-clicked, typed another password, and the file opened to reveal a video file named "SIMON." He accessed the file and Windows Media Player opened. The file began to play. "Exhibit A," Micah said. At first, it was hard to make anything out because the camera was wiggling around. The picture finally stabilized and revealed a lighted picture window surrounded by blackness. The window opened into a bedroom. Inside, two men were going at it hot and heavy. One man lay on his back on a queen-sized bed, practically folded in half, while the other man stood at the foot of the bed, knowing him in the Biblical sense. The quality of the video was poor, so it was difficult to make out who the two figures were. "What the hell is this?" I studied the two figures, which looked vaguely familiar, wondering who they were and what they had to do with me. "Look closer," Micah said. I did, but nothing— "Holy shit!" Micah busted out laughing. "You should really close your blinds, dude." The video showed me very clearly fucking the nineteen-year-old hottie from a few weeks ago. I looked at him. "But how did you—" He pointed towards the window above his bed. I raised myself up and peered out. Sure enough, there was the picture window to my bedroom. You couldn't see in now because it was still daylight. But at night— Micah was a voyeur! He'd gone all Rear Window on me! I sat back down on the bed and laughed in disbelief. "You perverted little sneak!" I said with a smile. "You're not mad, are you?" "No, I'm not mad. A little shocked, and completely humiliated, but I'm certainly not mad. How did you come to film that?" I motioned to the laptop. "And turn that off, will ya?" He giggled and closed the laptop, replacing it on his desk. "Mom had the windows open that night because it wasn't too hot. I was doing my homework when I thought I heard a noise. I looked out the window and observed the mating habits of Simon the Manwhore. I believe the scientific name is simonus fucksalottus." "Manwhore?! I'll have you know that he's the first person I've had sex with in well over a year. You take that back!" "Nope," he said with a smile, "if I'm a punk, then you're a manwhore." "I hope you enjoy begging for your supper tonight, because I ain't feeding you shit." "Anyway, I thought it was hot, so I grabbed my camera and filmed it." "I see." This was all rather amusing, if not embarrassing, but there were far more serious issues at play. It was doubtful Kim would approve of him having a porn video on his laptop, but she would certainly frown upon one starring her next door neighbor and filmed by her teenage son. Our conversation seemed to be generating more questions than it was answers. Was Micah gay? If so, did Kim know? If not, then what the hell? You've forgotten the most important question: If he's filmed you having sex, what has he filmed himself doing? Oh, shit! I'm so not going there! You know you were thinking it. Actually, I wasn't thinking it. Until now. "Ya know," Micah said, interrupting my thoughts, "that video has come in handy these past few weeks." He made a jerk off motion with his hand. "If you know what I mean." After realizing what he'd said, Micah's face turned about eight shades of red. No, that's certainly not the visual – lovely visual though it was – I needed in my head right now. "In fact," he added, "I've thought about you doing that to me." As if my cock needed any more motivation to stand up and be counted after the jerk off comment. Damn him! He knows just what to say to get under my skin. "Okay, okay," I said, trying to redirect the conversation. "Let's put that aside for a moment, along with your budding career as a filmmaker. We really need to finish our talk." He raised his hand in objection. "Look, I've already told you. I don't see what the big deal is. This is no different than me and Parker messing around." The conversation certainly didn't need another detour, but who the hell was Parker? And exactly how did he define 'messing around'? "Who's Parker?" "My cousin," he said with a ubiquitous hair flip. "He's a year younger than me. He lives across town and goes to public school. He's hot, you'd like him." You know I had to ask the obvious question. Who wouldn't ask the question? Seriously! Who? "May I ask what it is you and Parker have done?" "Stuff," he said with a shrug. "Ya know, we make out a little, jerk each other off, suck each other off." My mind filled with the lovely images of Micah and the mysterious Parker, doing various things in various positions. There's no amount of money I wouldn't pay to see that. The little filter in my brain, that stops thoughts from becoming actual words, experienced a temporary malfunction. "You don't have any video of that on your laptop, do you?" He giggled. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Perv!" I would, yes. And it didn't escape my notice that he hadn't denied having such a video. As much as I wanted to explore that topic, we still hadn't finished our conversation. I placed my arm around him. "Parker's what? Thirteen?" "Yeah." "Parker's thirteen and I'm forty-two. That's the big deal, Micah." "Not to me." No black or white for Micah, just lovely shades of gray, perhaps even fifty of them. I had to make him understand. "It doesn't matter if it's a big deal to you, or to me. People like your mom, for instance, wouldn't understand. They wouldn't care whether you wanted it. I could get in big trouble for what little we've done already, not to mention if we go any further." "Simon," he said, placing his hand on my leg, "I haven't told anyone and I won't tell anyone. I like you a lot. You've been really good to me and Mom—" "That's not why you did it, right?" I interrupted. "Because you don't owe me—" "Simon! Ugh!" he cried in frustration. "Like I'd do that!" He jerked himself up from the bed and turned to face me, not quite 'all up in my grill,' but close enough to know he meant business. His face, previously so unreadable, now revealed all. He was aggravated. No, he was pissed. And I was about to get, as my Mom used to call it, a 'good talkin' to.' Micah took in a deep breath of air before speaking. "Can you just stop being a pain in the ass for five seconds and let me finish?" I simply nodded, afraid to say another word. "Good," he said, calming down a little. "You've been good to me and Mom and I would never do anything to hurt you. You got it? I won't let it happen." While I'd never known Micah to be dishonest, I'd never seen him this honest. It was in the expression on his face, and the inflection of his voice. He meant every word. "Second, we're just screwing around. We both want to, right? I'm not looking for a relationship. I don't need you to be my daddy, or my boyfriend. I certainly don't need rescuing. You're not taking advantage of me, Simon. I wouldn't let anyone take advantage of me. Have you ever known me to do anything I didn't want to do?" I shook my head. "So we're good now, right?" he asked. "No more freaking out or talking about our feelings?" "Yeah," I said with a nod. "We're good." "Thank you! Geez!" He turned back toward the closet. "You're still a punk, though," I added, needing to have the last word. Micah stopped and turned towards me again. He had the wicked grin back on face, which never seemed to bode well for me. "Attack!" he screamed, jumping at me. I outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds, but the force of his lunge knocked me backwards on the bed. Before I knew it, he was on top of me, with my arms pinned down. I feigned a struggle to make it look like I wanted to escape. I could've, had I wanted to. I didn't want to. "Say 'I'm not a punk'," he said, "and I'll let you go." "I'm not a punk and I'll let you go." "Oh, you're asking for it. Say 'Micah's not a punk'." "Fine, fine. 'Micah's not a punk'." "Much better," he said, climbing off me, and then the bed. "I knew you'd see it my way." I rose back up to my original position, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Micah stood before me, his eyes twinkling. You've heard of tension so thick you could cut it with a knife? Yeah. That. "Well," he said, "I guess I should finish packing my stuff." He began to turn toward the closet, but I reached out and grabbed his tie to stop him. "Not so fast," I said, giving the tie a gentle tug to pull him a little closer. "You're not getting away that easily. We have unfinished business, you and I." "Oh, yeah?" He flipped his hair. "Yeah, I said you weren't a punk, so you need to take back calling me a manwhore." He stood there saying nothing, that adorable grin on his face. "Come on," I prompted, "say, 'I’m not a manwhore'." "I'm not a manwhore." This boy cracked me up. "Wrong answer!" My hand was still on his tie and I gave it another tug, bring him in even closer. His grin grew wider. The tension reached the core meltdown state, surrounding us like a thick fog. There was no denying what was about to happen. "Say it," I said, my voice growing softer, inching him closer. "It," he replied coyly. That little flop of hair fell back over his face. I reached up and brushed it away. I just couldn't help myself. Opening my legs, I pulled him between them. Our faces were now centimeters apart. He was doing this adorable thing with his mouth, biting his bottom lip. "Say—" I began, barely able to concentrate. "Say 'Simon's not a manwhore'." "Simon's not a—" I pulled him the rest of the way and our lips met. All my life people had talked about seeing fireworks when they'd kissed that special person for the first time. I finally knew what they meant. It was the fucking Fourth of July! Our lips opened and our tongues met. The kiss grew more intense and more passionate. At that moment, any qualm I'd had, any lick of common sense, had gone right out the window. I'd given in to my baser instincts. Let the consequences be damned. We both wanted it. Why shouldn't we have it? I broke the kiss and tried to breathe. This was real; this was happening. Before it went too far (though most would argue – and argue correctly – that it already had), I had to be sure. He'd said he'd wanted it, but if I was going to risk everything I had, and, more importantly, his own innocence, I had to ask one last time. I took his head between both my hands and stared straight into those intoxicating blue eyes. "Are you sure – are you positive – this is what you want?" He nodded. "I need to hear you say it, Micah." "I want it," he replied with a nod. "I want you." Our lips met again in an aggressive collision. My hands dropped from his head and directly to his ass. I cupped his khaki-clad cheeks and pulled him even closer. In that moment, nothing else mattered. It was just the two of us – Micah and me. We were the only two people in the world. The air around us, charged by the white-hot current of our lust, turned electric. I moved my hands from his butt and slid them between us. His stupid clothes were getting in the way. I wanted to feel his bare skin against mine. I struggled while trying to loosen the tie, my fingers fumbling clumsily. This morning he hadn't been able to put it on. Now, I couldn't take it off. "Stupid – fucking – tie!" I said between the kisses. He laughed. "Just – leave it – on." That made sense. What I really wanted to see didn't lie beneath his tie. My hands moved down, scrambling awkwardly to undo his belt buckle. I eventually succeeded and moved onto the button and zipper. That proved somewhat easier and his khakis fell to the floor. I grabbed his cock and began kneading it through his boxer-briefs. "Fuuuccckkk," he moaned, breaking our kiss. "Watch your language, punk" I said with a smile, still playing with his cloth-covered dick. He rolled his eyes and grinned. "Shut the fuck up, manwhore." I shook my head and laughed. Removing my hand from his crotch, I gently inched him forward and stood up from the bed. "Let's get you out of these clothes," I said. My hands were shaking like a junkie in need of a fix, but I somehow managed to take hold of his tie and undo the knot with only a few difficulties. I pulled the tie through his collar and tossed it on the floor. The shirt buttons were a little more of a challenge, but I managed to undo them all. I helped him out of the sleeves and the shirt joined the tie. "Lift your arms," I said gently. He complied, and I pulled the tee up over his head and tossed it away. I stared longingly at the shirtless body that stood before me. He was stunning. I wanted to explore every inch of his frame. My shaky hands reached out hesitantly toward his chest, almost afraid to touch it, as if doing so might burn or shock me. He let out a little sigh as my skin connected with his. I gently slid my fingers over his pecs, stopping to tease his erect nipples. That action was met with a contented moan. I could feel his heart pounding in his chest. I shifted my eyes to his crotch, where his hard boy cock strained desperately at the fabric. His boxer-briefs were black, with little colored skulls and crossbones, perhaps a not-so-subtle hint that what lie beneath them was forbidden territory. Sexy, yet dangerous. I slid my fingers inside the waistband and slowly moved them down, causing his hard shaft to pop out and stand at attention. The briefs fell to the floor and he stepped out of them, patiently waiting to receive his next instruction. His slender, circumcised dick was a thing of beauty, created for worship by the hands and mouths of lucky souls like myself. Like the boy it belonged to, it was perfect. "Come lie down," I said. He did so. It's impossible to put into words how gorgeous he looked, his milky white skin glowing brightly against the gray fleece blanket, his rock-hard phallus raised in salute, longing to be pleasured. I watched as his right-hand made a slow, sneaky move toward his cock. "Hands off, Mister," I said. "I didn't say you could touch." He pulled his hands away, his gaze moving to the bulge in my jeans. "Where have I heard that before?" he asked. "Shush. Scoot over." He did. I lay down next to him on the narrow bed and propped myself up on my elbow. He turned his head and we locked eyes again. I reached up and brushed the hair away from his face. "You're so fucking beautiful," I said, not able to help myself. He blushed and shook his head. "You are," I argued. I placed my hand on his chest and he let out a sharp breath. His skin was so incredibly soft against my palm. Moving a little lower, my fingers found one of his nipples. I stopped to tweak it between my thumb and forefinger. He moaned. My hand slowly moved south, sliding down his tummy, ever closer to its final destination. He let out a cute little whimper in anticipation of where he thought I was going next. Just to keep him guessing, and prolong his agony, I lifted my hand from his stomach and planted it on his inner thigh, massaging the baby soft skin. Continuing my exploration, I shifted north, finding the loose skin of his ball sack. I gently took each of his grape-sized orbs between my fingers, testing their firmness. "Please," Micah said suddenly, pleadingly, "make me come." I reached up and enveloped his cock in my hand, jacking him slowly. He thrust his hips upwards, fucking my fist. "Oh, yeah," he moaned. "Tell me when you're close," I said. I continued pleasuring him and watched as his face contorted with the many different expressions of pure ecstasy. He continued with his upward thrusts, his body writhing in rhythm. "Oh, god," he said, breathing heavily. I increased my speed, jerking him faster and faster. His hips bucked wildly under me. A thin layer of sweat had formed on his body, causing it to glisten in the light of the room. "Oh, fuck, Simon. I'm gonna—I'm gonna—" My hand moved away quickly. He opened his eyes and stared daggers at me. If looks could kill. "What the—" he said, panting heavily. "What the fuck?!" My mouth formed a smirk and I chuckled. "That’s for teasing me this morning, ya little punk." "That’s not funny," he said, then added, "asshole!" My smirk turned into a wicked grin. It was high time he be on the receiving end of one of those. "It's a little funny." I was enjoying this, sick bastard that I am. "No, it isn't," he pouted. "Now finish me off!" "Oh, I intend to, but you needed to learn who's really in charge here." He rolled his eyes. "Fine, whatever, you're in charge. Now make me come." "Make you come, what?" "Make me come now!" I shook my head. "Now, I know you were taught better. That's not how good little boys ask for things. What's the magic word?" He smiled, finally beginning to get it. Lesson learned. "Please?" "Please what?" "Argh!" he cried in frustration. "Please make me come!" "That's better," I said, grabbing hold of his cock again. "Just for the record, you're absolutely adorable when you're angry." "Whatever, manwhore," he said dismissively. "Service me." "You're lucky you so damn cute, punk. I wouldn't let just anyone get away with that comment." I continued jerking him, slowly at first, letting him enjoy it. Gradually increasing my speed, I watched as his face contorted again. He thrust himself against my hand in a steady rhythm. "Fuck, Simon," he said, breathing heavily. My speed increased. His hips were bucking faster and faster. "Fuuuccckkk," he screamed, raising his ass completely off the bed. I looked down just as his cock erupted, shooting long rivulets of come high into the air. One shot hit him square in the face, another on the pillow behind his head, yet some more on the gray fleece blanket. The rest landed somewhere between his neck and his tummy. I continued jerking him until the orgasm had played itself out, my hand growing sticky with his seed. I then took his cockhead between my thumb and forefinger and teased it, just as he'd done to me earlier. His ass fell back on the bed and he squirmed. I continued to play with his head, determined to continue torturing him until he begged for mercy. His squirming became more animated, his body writhing uncontrollably. "Si—Simon—" he said. "Yes, Micah," I replied, increasing the speed of my fingers. "Stuh—Stuh—Stop." He was trying desperately to twist his way out from under my grip. I wouldn't let him. "Stop what?" "Puh—please stop." I gave his cock one last squeeze and let him go. He sighed with relief. "Holy shit," he said, trying to catch his breath. I smiled at him. "You're so damn sexy," I said, offering him my sticky fingers. "Here." He seductively licked each finger clean, each pass of his tongue against my skin causing my cock to twinge. He finished cleaning off my hand and smiled. "I've never come like that before." "I don't think anyone's come like that before," I replied. I rolled over and reached down to grab his undies from the floor. I tossed them to him. "Damn, you made a mess. Clean yourself up." He used his skivvies to clean up most of the spilt seed. "You know," I said, "I ought to make you wear those sticky undies to dinner tonight. It would serve you right." "Serve me right for what?" "'Service me'? Really?" Micah laughed. "I was desperate! You stopped just before I was about to come!" "This is why you had such an intense orgasm when I finally finished you off. You're welcome, by the way." "Asshole," he said, smiling. "Punk." "Manwhore." "That's it," I said, rolling off the bed and onto my feet. "I'm putting you out on the street." "It's my house!" "Fine, I'll take away your key, toss you and your spunk-covered self out the front door, and lock it behind us both. You don't have a key to my place, so lots of luck." "You wouldn't!" "Don't push me," I said. "You don't want me to take care of that?" he asked, motioning towards the bulge in my jeans. "No, this afternoon was all about you. Besides, a manwhore like me can have his needs met by almost anyone. Any street corner will do, apparently." I winked at him. "Ha-ha," he said, raising himself up and kicking his legs over the edge of the bed. He walked over next to me, stood on his toes, and kissed me on the cheek. "Thanks, Simon." I placed my arm around him and pulled him into me. "You're welcome, kid," I said. "Now, we should get a move on because we have lots to do tonight." "Like what?" "We need to grab some dinner, go to the grocery store, and you need to do your homework." "Homework?" he whined. "But it's Friday night!" "I know perfectly well what day it is. You have two lawns to mow tomorrow, young man, and after that you'll complain you're too tired to do your homework. That just leaves Sunday and you're not waiting until the last minute." "Fine," he pouted. "Slave driver." "Okay, smartass, when does your mom make you do your weekend homework?" "Friday night," he mumbled. "What was that?" I asked, putting my hand to my ear. "Friday night," he replied, flipping me the finger. "Yeah, I thought so. Now finish packing your stuff. We're burning daylight. Oh, and you should probably strip your bed. You shot all over the pillowcase and the blanket. We'll need to wash those and your spunky undies." "Yes, sir," he said mockingly, adding a salute. "And take a shower. You smell like a peep show booth." "Well, if anybody would know—" He tried to run, but I managed to smack him on his ass before he could get away. "Oww," he yelled, rubbing his backside. "That's child abuse." "No, it's punk abuse. Get a move on." "Geez," he said. "Somebody's in a mood." I laughed. "And someone's a pain in my ass." He giggled. "Hey, Simon?" "Whhhhaaaaaaat?" I whined. "You wanna take a shower with me?" Yes, please! I really did, but I was trying to establish order amidst the chaos. Shaking my head, I replied, "No, absolutely not. No fun until after you've finished your homework." "But—" "Shower, packing, dinner, grocery store, homework," I said. "And what comes after homework?" "Micah!" he said with a mischievous grin. I busted out laughing. I couldn't help myself. "Exactly. I'll be back at my house." While waiting for Micah at my place, I managed to fold some laundry (including his infamous undies from this morning), put another load in to wash, and even took a shower. Those things needed doing, sure, but I think I was just trying to keep myself busy to avoid having to think. While I had partially come to terms with what was going on between Micah and me, there was still an underlying layer of guilt just beneath the surface. People who experience any sort of downfall in their lives can usually trace it back to a single event that got the ball rolling. I couldn't help but wonder if one day I'd look to what was happening right now as my own beginning of the end. Not that it really mattered. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. I was in it. I was most definitely in it. Whether or not I had stepped in it, however, remained to be seen. Remember, your comments are appreciated. The more notes I receive, the more I'm inclined to keep writing. Drop me a line at micah.parker@live.com to let me know what you think. Many thanks to those who've written so far.