Copyright 2008, 2012 by Carl Mason

All rights reserved. Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without the written permission of the author. However based on real events and places, "Mike Hennigan" is strictly fictional. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. As in real life, sexual themes unfold gradually. Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to the author at carl_mason@verizon.net.

If you would like to read additional stories by this author, please turn to the "Authors/Prolific Authors" link at the beginning of the Nifty Archive.

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both adults and teenagers. As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults. If you are not of legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral dilemmas in your life, please leave. Finally, remember that maturity generally demands safe sex.


(Revisiting Chapter 4)

As Forsythe walked off rapidly up the beach, Deputy Madson laid his hand on Mike's shoulder. "If you will let me, youngster," he said, "I think I can show you a few exercises from the Canadian army that are real killers." Mike looked at him with loathing and drew away. "Oh, so that's the way it's going to be," the fat pig grunted. "Turn over on your stomach...NOW!" There was no movement. "Butch, tell the bitch to turn over." Hearing a blood curdling growl coming from the German Shepherd, Mike turned over without further comment. Madson immediately began working on his crack, raising his head and shoulders to hock up a wad of thick phlegm and then bending down to propel it into the boy's hole. It was when Mike felt the end of the deputy's nightstick being positioned that he realized he was in deep trouble. He simultaneously rolled over and hurled a handful of sand into the officer's eyes. He was on his feet immediately and off running. He needn't have tried so hard, for Manson was in no condition to follow him. Further, the other Deputy wasn't going to intercept the youth. He had seen what had happened and enjoyed every minute of it!

Mike was not home when Forsythe returned. Nor did the man hear from...or anything about...the boy for three days.

(Continuing Our Story: The Phone Call)

A handsome, if sleepy and disheveled young man sat on a bench in the park across from the LGBTQ's (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, and Questioning Youth's) Day Center in the beach section of Playa D'oro. 'Damn it all, anyway,' he snarled to himself. He would give up part of his freedom if he entered that building! And, yet, he knew well the price of staying outside. He'd just spent another night on the streets under the old cement bridge out on Pearson Road - something he had told himself he would never do again - and it was just as bad as it had been before. It didn't do a thing to make him feel stronger or further along on his path to taking control of his life!

"You gonna sit here all day, bro?" asked a deep voice from a bench in back of him. He turned, grinned, and volunteered, "Hi! I'm Mike. You know anything about that place?" "Guess I do," replied the voice, the voice of a swarthy, thickset teen about his own age or, perhaps, a little older. Getting up, he came over to Mike's bench and sat down wearily. "I'm Carlos," he mumbled, sticking out his hand. "There are people in there who want to help. They've got hot coffee, and food, and showers, and clean beds...and medicine, and job trainin'. They couldn't care less if you're queer! They offered it all to me a few months ago. I told them 'No thanks' and just walked out. Lotsa bad things have happened since...two buddies shot down like dogs, a few days and nights in the slammer eatin' jailhouse burritos, my best friend is real sick. I'm scared he's got the Curse. Fuckin' dumbass! (Pause.) I guess I'm goin' back in, bro. Want to come with me?"

Mike clapped him on the shoulder and walked beside him up the stairs and through the door. A good looking jock in his late teens or early 20s got up from a chair in the lounge and introduced himself. (Another guy picked off Carlos.) "Buck Andrews," he said. "I'm from Wyoming. How about you?" Within minutes, Mike found himself with a cup of coffee, slouched in a comfortable chair, and unloading on the powerfully built young wrestler who was the State Champion in his weight class back home.

Essentially, Buck confirmed what Carlos had told him outside on the park bench. His fellow citizens had decided that the country needed him alive and healthy. Thus, were he homeless and destitute, they would provide for his needs, as long as he was determined to build a better life. During the week that followed, for instance, Mike slept safely in a clean bed in emergency housing and had access to a shower. Food and clothing were provided, he had seen an M.D. (and accepted his recommendation to have his blood checked for the HIV virus and common STDs), and had received clearance from a licensed clinical therapist who specialized in working with his age group. In some ways, most promising of all, he had been paired with a case manager named Cass Talbot who, everybody seemed to agree was the "best of the best".

Cass added other parts of the puzzle, e.g., how he could finish his high school education and then gain the other skills and resources requisite to a self-sustaining life, how he would receive employment help, and how he might make a contribution to the Center and the others who would follow in his steps. He also said that Mike would be considered for an apartment (shared with other LGBTQ clients) as soon as a spot became available. Not to worry... The "emergency housing" he had was his for six months. He even encouraged Mike to speak with Lawson Forsythe...both to clear his own head and to end the relationship responsibly.


Lawson's phone rang at a few minutes past ten on Thursday morning. It was Mike. He was calling from the LGBTQ Day Center on Pacific Boulevard in Playa D'oro. "Mike here," he said calmly. "I'm very grateful for all you did and tried to do for me, Lawson, but I think we proved that we can't live together. Further, I proved to myself that my dream of putting full control of my life in another guy's hands is a false dream. Maybe...maybe sometime in the future we can be friends again. I don't know right now. I'm kinda focused on food and shelter...and that kind of...stuff. Please just let me go... (Pause.) And, Lawson, please remember that I did love you." With that, Mike put the phone down. Forsythe had not been able to get a word in edgewise. However saddened, he agreed deep down with Mike's conclusion and would let him go cleanly. At least the boy hadn't died like his son, i.e., in a fiery inferno on a lonely highway to which his (i.e., Lawson's) anger, possessiveness, and other problems had contributed. He silently said a short prayer for both his son and Mike. How he had loved them...how he still loved them.


The months that brought Mike Hennigan's eighteenth year to a close and launched him upon his nineteenth were stable and directed towards his goals. Not long after he was accepted into the Center's "transitional" program for older gays (18-24), he moved into an apartment with Carlos and two guys in their early 20s who said they were from Washington State. (Next to its dining room, this program had its own small lounge in the apartment building with a TV, a couple of computer stations, and a small fridge. Other than that, however, they shared facilities maintained for the thirteen to seventeen year olds such as the pool, a well equipped gym, a coffee bar, and the library.) He studied like crazy to finish his high school studies - and was awarded his GED (General Equivalency Diploma) in a nice ceremony one night after supper. Thereafter, he took several of the short "mods" or modules (economic, personal-psychological, cultural, and sexual topics) that touched on subjects necessary to making it in the wider world. Together with advocacy in the community, providing various "work skills" modules, and searching for entry level jobs, the Center had long been committed to helping these young men become self-reliant.

Even though he spent many volunteer hours as a lifeguard at the pool and as a "Greeter" in the lounge, he always had a lot of "juniors" around him when he worked out in the gym. Having started seriously working out when he was around twelve, the effect on his physique was marked...and the kids wanted to look as much like him as possible! In short, Mike was immensely popular with his peers, the younger kids to whose programs he contributed, and to the adults active in the Center.

Don't think for a moment, however, that Mike was exclusively a "giver". In truth, he was a constant target of those who cared and who were committed to softening the scars that these kids invariably carried. There were always adults around, for instance, with whom a guy could talk. (While they never made a point of it, several of these volunteers were highly trained in adolescent psychology and most were successful dads!) He was also constantly exposed to good techniques of relating to others, techniques that didn't involve exploitation. Perhaps this was part of what led him to volunteer on several occasions to go into the Playa community and reach out to young male prostitutes. Several came into the Program due to his concern...and example.

"Hal" Bennett provides a case in point. (His real name was "Henry," but evidently no one had called him that since he entered first grade!) Hal was a thirteen year old who had run away several times from a miserable foster care situation up in the San Joaquin Valley. Growing fast and already developing physically and sexually, believe that the good looking youngster with a head of brilliant copper-colored hair hadn't had a problem finding a john since hitting the Southern California coast! Mike's schedule was such that they almost missed connecting with each other, but he had volunteered to go out into the community when requested by the Assistant Center Director. Faced with an epidemic of male prostitution, the Police Department had requested the Center's help in not just doing "something," but, hopefully, doing something positive. Mike was one of a goodly number of boys and young men - all clients of the Center, all volunteers - who were assembled for this task.

Mike had started by talking with youngsters out on the old road along the cliffs, offering his friendship and personal assistance in "working things out." (At first, the Center was presented as only one of several possible ways of helping them develop a better life.) In the course of those contacts, he heard of a newbie (Hal Bennett) who evidently had been extremely "active" since he had arrived. One boy said that he was now in increasingly bad shape. With that youngster's help, he located the small camp down on the beach just under the first bluffs where Hal was holed up along with several other younger lads. The redhead was evidently sick as a dog after some days of gradually going downhill.

Climbing down a steep trail to the newbie's lean-to, Mike found that only the top of the boy's hair was visible in the pile of coverings into which he had burrowed. The pile occasionally shook with groans and sharp cries of pain. The smell in the partially open lean-to was grim. Clearly, the youth had fouled himself. Uncovering the lad's sweaty, pain-lashed face, Mike softly tousled his hair as he called out to him: "Hey, dude, what's up, man? I'm Mike. Come on, man, talk to me. Tell me what's wrong." "Oh, man, I'm so sick," the boy choked, "and my balls are killing me. It's real bad today. Please do something!" the youngster managed to get out through his tears. "Will you let me get you to a doctor?" Mike asked. The answer was a somewhat relieved, "Will you stay with me, Mike? Please..." "You've got it, Red," the young man answered, taking out the cell phone with which each of the contact group had been supplied, and touching bases with a staff member at the Center. Within a relatively short period, both boys were on their way to the hospital in an ambulance.

Tests established that the youngster had gonorrhea, one of the most common sexually transmitted diseases, a disease that could have eventually led to permanent infertility. Additionally, his body was wracked with a second serious infection. Immediately treated with antibiotics, as well as other medications, he began to recover. Mike was involved from the time he entered the Emergency Room. For several days after he had come through the worst of it, Mike spent at least a few minutes with the grateful redhead...simply talking, showing a little affection, sometimes bringing in a small treat. In time, he introduced Hal to several thirteen year olds at the Center. All well and good, but hero worship is often a fact of male development at this stage of life. As the reader will guess, Hal promptly developed the strongest desire to involve himself in pool and gym activities - places where he could be closest to his god...and places where relative nudity was the general rule. Hal immediately became one of his most devoted pupils and enthusiastically made full use of his instructional skills and time! According to some, only one fact kept him from jumping into Mike's arms. Namely, this admittedly cute and exceptionally well endowed early teen developed a tendency to go hard erect whenever his hero even looked at him! (Naturally, this reduced his peers to hysterics! Over time, then, it was they who cooled him down...a little.)


Then, too, while it was "hands off" those younger and under his care, he didn't have to worry about his sexuality in responding to others. Buck Andrews had turned out to be a "special" friend...out on the beach, at the rear of the Center garage, and in one or the other's apartment when the roommates were gone. Those two outsmarted themselves only once. On one hot evening when their hormones were evidently surging beyond control, they made their way into one of the storerooms at the far end of the main LGBTQ building on Pacific Boulevard...next to the smaller building that housed the Day Center. Only one problem: That room was equipped with a TV camera...and on that particular night a supervisor was monitoring the cameras! The supervisor caught them stealing into a small open area deep in the room...but from different directions. No doubt about it...the game was afoot!

Suddenly, they rushed the open area, colliding with each other at full speed. The supervisor was suddenly concerned. It looked as if Andrews was knocked out cold! It was the supervisor's cock, however, that went hard as Mike recovered and gazed down at the hunky blond wrestler. The boy's hand reached out to the heavy shoulders, trailing down the muscled back until it began to explore his substantial buttocks. Breathing heavily, Mike managed to turn the lad over, bending down to stroke his jaw line, his chin, and running a finger between his smooth, sharply defined pecs. One could see that the athlete's hairless cock was hard erect, pulsing against Mike's. Suddenly, the twenty year old came to life, folding the curly-haired one into his thick arms, passionately seeking his lips, insistently pushing his hardness up into the other's package as the youth writhed in his grasp. The hot action accelerated as they lay together, one body taking turns at lashing the other until their mutual screams shook the still air. Not until Buck seemed to hear a sound over in the corner did they really stop, shake themselves loose, and laughingly crawl off towards the entrance.

(The Only Constant)

[Author's Note: "Tis said that the only thing that you can really count on is...change. True enough, I guess...]

Within the week, Buck had been called into the Center Director's office, congratulated, and told that he had been offered an entry level job at the Lionside Films administrative office in Hollywood. There was no question, for Buck had been aiming at this type job since he entered the Transitional Program, i.e., the Center's program for older youth. Nevertheless, it was a wrench, for Buck had fallen for the curly-haired one on the first day he walked into the lounge of the Day Center. They promised to keep in touch...

Needless to say, Mike was at sixes and sevens for a good two weeks after Buck vacated his bed in the apartment next door. Then, he also received a request to stop by the Associate Director's office.

Mr. Henley was honest and straightforward. "I don't know whether you'll be interested in this job, Mike. All of us think you have a good mind, and we're impressed with your personality. This job is part-time - and some say it demands more by way of a strong back than a strong mind. Nevertheless, you're four days from celebrating your nineteenth birthday, and the staff thinks you're ready to take the next step as soon as you decide it's time. You've earned our respect. Hence, we decided to tell you about an opening in Playa.

"Thanks, Mr. Henley," Mike replied. "I can't begin to tell you how much I appreciate your confidence. However it turns out, I'm really interested in hearing about this opportunity."

Picking up a letter from his desk, Henley said, "Ok, Mike. Here's a thumbnail sketch. We have a man who is occasionally able to corner an International Longshore and Warehouse Union Application for us. Unofficially, they often sell for several hundred dollars on the street. Note that it's an application to become a 'casual' or part-time longshore worker. The casuals are the grunts of the local waterfront. They don't have union status; they may have to wait a week or 10 days before they get a chance to earn a full day's pay. When they work, they do get paid well, but that's not the real payoff. The payoff is that they're on the inside track to getting what most blue collar workers consider to be the proverbial 'million-dollar job'. (How's a base pay of $46,000 annually for a 40-hour work week?" he continued. "But this figure does not include hourly premiums, a full package of medical and pension benefits, time-and-a-half pay for weekends or nights, or double time-and-a-half for Saturday or Sunday nights, all of which can increase salaries to $130,000 a year!) The successful applicants are trained; they become part of a pool of part-timers that keep our ports humming. They take waterfront jobs that union members don't fill. Their literature says that 'Casuals can either work in comfort as marine clerks tracking cargo with a computer, or they can wear a protective suit and shovel sulfur for hours in the stifling hold of a cavernous bulk carrier. Much of the work, however, involves typical longshore assignments--moving cargo around port terminals with small tractor trucks, known as UTRs, or lashing and unlashing stacks of 40-foot containers aboard ship.' It's hard work, Mike; it's rough work; it's dangerous work. We'd support you while you got your feet under you, but you might have to work more than one part-time job for several years to make ends meet. I'll be honest with you, son. You have some wonderful skills with people. I wonder if this would give you what you need for a satisfying life."

"Thank you, sir," Mike responded. "Again, I'm really grateful. Strangely enough, it feels right...exactly right. At some point, I know I have to go to college - but I'm not ready to do that right now. Frankly, I want to strengthen my body and my knowledge of the working world and the people who work in it before moving in that direction. I also need to sharpen my feelings about the contribution I want to make. (Pause.) May I ask how to take it from here?"

(To Be Continued)