Date: Sun, 29 Jul 2001 10:55:28 +0100 From: ben erikson Subject: My Summer with Carl: Part 6 Growing up in England: My Summer with Carl A story by Ben Erikson Episode 6 Our afternoon games and fantasies now sometimes led to bed. One time my Mum called round for me unexpectedly to drag me to the nearest town for new school shoes. Both Carl and I were upstairs naked as she called us from the hall. We had to dress so quickly, were so desperate, I ended up with vest and pants the wrong way round and hadn't quite got my trouser zipper right when I appeared on the landing, clutching with awful conviction the shaft of Carl's guitar. I had to go back to ruffle for my socks amongst the bed linen. Up until the night he'd painted me, the nearest I had ever come to bringing Carl to orgasm was when I had innocently (and in this area, at least, my explorations were, believe me, innocent), run my finger across the head of his already full-blown cock and taken the slick of seminal fluid onto it. It's texture was an enormous surprise to me. I knew how babies were made, all of that, but somehow I'd got the idea that semen (just "it" - I had as yet no name for this, not even a dirty one), was pollen-like, yellow, smudged and slightly crystalline. Just the kind of thing, in fact, a modernist painter such as Carl would use to suggest a sunrise or, maybe, rotting fruit. I let it sloop into a pendulum on my finger and held it up, my head tilted back, my mouth dentist-wide. I thought I could see tadpoles swimming in its' murky pool. I stuck my tongue out and waited a long moment for the drop. A shiver hit me at the salty taste and thick-spit texture. The room tilted strangely; we were suddenly in a Cubist bar, knocking back cocktails. Maybe there'd been an earthquake. I opened my eyes (when did I close them? Do you remember?), and watched blankly as Carl pulled his foreskin tight around the head of his cock, simultaneously arousing and stemming whatever it was he felt. My favourite thing was to lie snuggled in the crook of Carl's arm. I'd stick my nose into the hairs of his armpit and breathe easy. Sometimes I'd nibble at these hairs and, this way, loosened more than two or three. He had plenty to spare although his chest itself was hairless save for two long wires which reached aimlessly from his nipples. I loved these especially and only began to leave them be when once my teeth went too close and nipped a nipple, causing Carl real pain. I buried my face in shame into his crook until he gave a relieving squeeze to my shoulders. Another position I liked was lying sprawled indulgently on top of Carl, my head higher up the bed than his and slightly to one side. He'd cradle my buttocks in one hand, pushing the cheeks together with his pressure and stroking me gently with the inside of his thumb. His other arm was flung behind his head, his mane of hair. My arms would rest on either side of him and stroke its' curls. In this position, we told each other stories, invented silly voices or just talked or not talked depending on the moment, depending on whatever. He'd begun to slip into our talks the idea that the time had come for me to stay away and concentrate on school, which started in two weeks. I knew this would happen. There were no arguments I could prepare. How could I run away from home? I lived next door. And anyway, I knew he wouldn't want me to. These past few weeks, he'd taken me to task for my selfishness and lack of thought, the ease with which I'd colonised his life and now expected tribute paid on time, in full with no receipt. I stroked his curls between silences. His left hand drifted lazily over my behind. I raised it slightly to his touch and farted briefly. "Ben, that's disgusting! That's really disgusting!" He rolled me off and lifted his fingers to his nose. And he was calling me disgusting! I leaned my face towards him and we sniffed my smell together. "That's exactly what I'm talking about" he said. "You can't just carry on like that. It isn't fair. No-ones going to like you if you carry on like that!" This was a sore, sore point. "You do." I said. "Yes, Ben. I do. You know how fond of you I am. But this isn't about me. You should be outside playing with your friends. Friends your own age." That was all I needed, a reminder that my two best friends were him and Wasim. "I've got friends my own age" I said, although, in point of fact, no-one had suggested that I hadn't. "You'll be able to see me at half-term" he said consolingly. "I'll still be here." "That's ages yet." "Six weeks after you start. Not so long. And anyway, a lot can happen in six weeks." I didn't want a lot to happen in six weeks. I wanted nothing to happen, nothing to change. Six weeks not to happen. Not without my Carl. My Carl. "After all," he continued slyly, "six weeks ago you knew nothing about vot beans can do to small boyz, ja?" He'd slipped into a cod-German accent, taken from the corniest of B-movies. He was referring to a game we'd played and played again to fill a rainy afternoon. I'd earlier discovered whilst shifting through a draw, a thick, long leather belt, three-times as thick at least as any I had seen before. It looked like something horses wore. He'd used it in the game to tie me up. He'd stripped me to my underwear and sat me on a kitchen stool, bound my ankles loosely with the belt and then my hands behind my back with one of his silk ties. I'd been surprised to find a small hoard of smart clothes and expensive ties which didn't seem to fit the Carl I knew. He'd then spoon-fed me baked beans, I resisting all the while with bean juice smudging my chin until my giggles let him in and I was forced to take a mouthfull. He kept up a commentary in this crazy accent: "Ve haf vays of making you eat your beanz. Ve haf vays of making you fart." I'd hobble like a carthorse round the kitchen table, laughing bean fragments onto my vest. "Ze prizioner iz ezcaping! Ze prizioner iz ezcaping!" At one stage I had seriously to run for the bathroom and get on the toilet quick. When I came back, the torture resumed again. It only stopped when I turned on Carl and opened my mouth wide to show an orange cud of bean. He seemed suddenly annoyed with me and tired of the game. "Don't do that, Ben, love. It's not nice. I don't want to see that again, OK?" No funny accent there. I was so lucky to have found someone like Carl, someone so kind and sweet-natured. Any one else in his position would have long since used that belt on me. The evening before I had to leave for boarding school, I hadn't seen Carl for four whole days and nights. We'd said our goodbyes. I'd cried real tears; Carl, I suspect, cried tears of relief. He sat me on his knee and rocked me to and fro. He told me I was gorgeous; good enough to eat. I'd see him at half-term, six weeks away. Be good, be brave and watch out for ze beanz. I had to go to bed at 9.00 o'clock to make it fresh and zippy for the afternoon minibus. Given that I rose at 8.00, that gave me seven hours to wait tomorrow. That's a lot of zip even for a ten-year-old. Especially for a ten-year-old. I'd made a card for Carl. I wanted him to know I forgave him, didn't hold a grudge; that I might, indeed, in time accept his letting me go like this; his not tying me up and stealing me away into the night. It was a childish replica of one of his moon paintings done in crayon and signed inside with one red kiss. My Mum (bless her!) agreed that I could post it through his door before I went to bed. I sneaked out round the back, my card in hand and padded up the stairs to the window of the extension. I knew that Carl was decorating this room now, would be in here tomorrow. I'd surprise him with the waiting card, a gesture that might just about be enough to change his mind and send him running for me before the minibus arrived. Once inside, I placed it first on a beanbag, thought again and propped it on the rung of his ladder just above the roller in it's tray. That way he wouldn't miss it. Out of habit I checked the door that led to the upstairs landing just out of sight and sound, I knew, of Carl's bedroom. To my surprise it was unlocked. I'd really have to have a word, the security round this place was appalling. I shivered as I turned the knob, a better plan forming. I listened a second and went back to the ladder to retrieve my card. How witty, how artistic it would be, and how much more effective, to have Carl find it on his bed tonight, to wonder at my ingenuity, the dangers I would brave for him, the pains I would go to to verify our love. Silently, I stooped down on the far side of the door and listened for sounds of life. I left the door open behind me for a quick escape. My mum would be expecting me about five minutes ago. I froze to the sound of Carl muttering to himself from the bedroom. This was not supposed to happen. He was going to mess things up again. I had to take a minute to get my breathing right, so tight had it become. I crept almost on all fours to where I could catch a discreet angle into the bedroom. A man I'd never seen before was lying, naked, on the bed, bound, it seemed, with silken ties, his hands entwined above his head. Carl raised the thick, long belt and brought it down. The next day I had to be coaxed up at 9.00. My Mum told me I was too old to make a fuss, taking my introspection as a final sulk against the school bus. On the contrary. I wanted out of here. I sneaked the matches from the kitchen shelf and burned Carl's card in the bathroom sink and washed away the ashes of the moon. When I returned for half-term, Carl had gone. I'd thought about him on and off these six weeks now but had begun to find it difficult getting his face quite right. I was more mature now, no doubt about it. He'd notice the difference, I was sure. Perhaps we'd pick things up again, although I knew they'd never be the same. I pulled out my suitcase from the minibus and turned to our house, then his. The "For Sale" sign outside his porch creaked noisily in the first approaching storm of the Autumn.