Date: Tue, 09 Aug 2011 19:00:53 +0000
From: Jon Kent <jonkent@post.com>
Subject: OSCAR MY LOVE Part 10   Gay Male Youth Adult

DISCLAIMER

Everyone should accept the laws of his country, reserving the right to
strive democratically to change those he disagrees with.  Therefore, if the
laws where you live say that you should NOT be reading stories like these,
you are legally obliged to leave now and read no further. It does not
matter if these stories are fiction, made-up, only written to entertain,
instruct, engage, and inform.  If for any reason, the law where you live
says you are NOT allowed to read them, you have to go. So off you go. Live
a healthy and happy life, and come back, if you want to, when your laws say
you can.

And remember: these are only stories. They are made-up. They did not
happen. And the writer does not believe they should happen.  The first
responsibility of adults is to protect children and their innocence. It
doesn't mean some adults won't enjoy reading stories like this, but it
doesn't mean they should go out and do things like this. Who knows? maybe
reading stories like this will actually stop them going out and doing these
things.


Part 10

Every boy should have an obsession, and soon after his 11th birthday Oscar
found his. But it was not the one I expected.  His skill and devotion to
his Sony CX115 made me suspect I had a young Quentin Tarentino on my hands,
but that obsession was nothing compared to what Oscar found one sunny
Saturday morning, though this obsession, too, could be summed up in a
single four-letter word, and the word was GOLF.

This is what happened.

I was leading a Saturday morning seminar and expected Amy would look after
Oscar until lunchtime. I was surprised and not a little upset when Oscar's
mother announced she couldn't possibly change the plans she and Nigel had
made to spend the weekend in Brighton. My upset was not having to change my
own plans - it was the casual way in which Amy put her plans before Oscar's
needs. This was not the first time, and sadly it was not the last, as Amy
had become less and less involved in her son's needs.

I was on the point of abandoning the seminar when my deputy - yes, deputies
have deputies - stepped in. Though David carried the title Assistant Head,
he was in effect my deputy. I had a lot of time for David; he was kind,
considerate and damn good at his job. He also had two sons, twins, Sam and
Eric, often address jointly for the obvious reason as Sam'nEric. They were
13, so Oscar was within their range of acceptability. Amongst the young,
hierarchies are strict.

"Look, it's no problem, Tom. We'll look after Oscar," he promised. "We're
going Morton Golf Club. Sam'nEric bash their way round the nine-holer while
I'm making a full of myself on the 18th. If you're finished around
lunchtime, we could meet at the 19th and find something to celebrate."

Once David unravelled the mysteries of what he was talking about, I texted
Oscar with the invitation. Back came one word: FINE.

To say the seminar was tedious would be a useful short-cut but it would not
be true. It was fascinating though I doubt you are much interested in the
science, or is it voodoo?, of phonetics. I'll spare you the details, only
because of what happened at the 19th over a table groaning with pizzas and
assorted drinks, including Irn Bru to which Oscar has taken an inexplicable
fancy!

"I'm telling you the boy's a natural," says David, taking a moment to cuff
Sam'nEric who are squabbling over who'd taken the bigger slice of Pepperoni
Feast, with double pepperoni and extra mozzarella cheese. I'm silently
proud of Oscar who's quietly carving up his Veggie Sizzler, with green
chillies, jalapeños, mixed peppers, and onions into mouth-sized
portions. (Have I mentioned Oscar has become a vegetarian?)

"I'm not joking," continues David. "You sure Oscar hasn't taken lessons?"

I finish a mouthful of my Meat Machine, with pepperoni, ham, steak, spicy
minced beef, spicy pork sausage, chicken. (Have I mentioned I think
vegetarians are fucking nuts, present company excepted?) and repeat, "Oscar
has never held a golf club in his life."

"Crazy golf."

"What?" say Tom and David simultaneously.

"Mum let me play Crazy Golf when we were in Brighton."

"Fuck Brighton." That's me, but only in my head.

"How did you do?" asks David eagerly.

"Don't remember," says Oscar, swigging a mouthful of Irn Bru (so much for
his manners). I was only 5 at the time.

David turns to me again. I point at his Piri Piri, crust packed with piri
piri, reputed to pack a fiery punch, and say. "Eat."  He does so but it
doesn't stop him talking. I glance at Sam'nEric, they, mouthfuls, are
engaged in an intense, whispered conversation.  At least there's Oscar. I
glance at Oscar, Oscar my love. He has three, or is it four?, mouthfuls
jammed in his gob, and is trying to squirt in a topping of Irn Bru. (What
the fuck's in that stuff anyway?)

"It was Sam'nEric who brought Oscar over to me. Said they didn't want to
play with him. Said he was taking three or four shots when they were taking
eight or nine. They weren't upset, just didn't want to play with him."
(Munch, munch) "I took Oscar into my game.  I thought, couple of holes and
we'll let him caddy. Don't worry. We'd hired an electric golf trolley."
(Crunch crunch) "Well, bugger me..."  (Not an invitation I'm likely to
accept, but Sam'nEric... now there's a thought: two 13-year-old identical
twins. I began to wonder how identical they were. I felt a touch on my arm.

"Pay attention, Tom. I'm being serious." (Sam'nEric... so was I.)

"We're on the fourth tee. We take our shots. I shank. Donald hooks. We make
way for Oscar. I know he's a tall boy for his age, but you've told me he's
never played golf in his life. Donald and I stand a bit behind him. Don't
want our smiles to put him off. Up steps Oscar.  he puts his ball
down. Doesn't even use a tee. Steps back, takes a swing, and..."

"And?"

"And belts it straight up the middle of the fairway. 250 yards! At
least. Fuck me."  It's Sam'nEric's turn to cuff David. "Sorry," he says,
then, "I asked Oscar where he'd learned to do that. 'Don't know,' is his
answer. 'Just did it.'

"Of course it's a fluke Donald and I tell each other. We hit our balls -
the golf ones - then stroll on to where Oscar's ball is lying in the middle
of the fairway. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't ask if he should use a
different club. Steps up to the ball. Looks at the flag.  Looks at the
ball. Step backs and... swing. Up she goes, down the comes, tippy toe,
tippy toe, and rolls... Well, we're not quite sure, but when we get to the
green. there it is - five feet from the hole. 'Bet the little shit can't
putt,' whispers Donald. He loses his bet.  Up steps Oscar. Looks at the
hole, looks at the ball, looks at the hole, gets his head over the ball,
and... pings it into the hole, dead centre. Hey, your Oscar used a putter -
he might be a freak but he's not a magician."

I like the 'your' Oscar, but I'm not so sure about the freak.

"So he played a hole really well," I say, swigging Peroni straight from the
bottle, thus reducing myself to that of the present company.

"You don't get it yet, do you?" I admit I don't.

"Your Oscar played all the holes like that. He made 10 pars, 4 bogeys, and
double bogey."

"Dad makes lots of them. Double bogeys, I mean." That's from Sam, or it
might be Eric. Same difference. David ignores him, or them.

"What's a bogey?" asks Oscar.

"That's a booger, only bigger," says Eric. I know it's Eric because David
names him and cuffs him simultaneously.

"A bogey is when you take one more shot than par," explains David, "so a
double bogey is..."

"It flew right in the pond," interrupts Oscar. "How'm I supposed to play it
out of a pond?"

We both ignore Oscar. In fact, we both ignore all three boys. They don't
seem to mind in the least. Sam'nEric invite Oscar to come and watch people
teeing off on the first hole. Oscar looks to me. I wave him
permission. They disappear like meerkats down a burrow,

"Go on," I tell David. He has piqued my interest.

"Well," he continues, "I think you're Oscar's something special." (Tell me
about it.) "Would you mind if he comes with us next Saturday morning? I'd
like the Morton golf pro to look him over. We wouldn't any pressure on
him. To Oscar, it'll be just another game."

"It's up to Oscar," I tell him. "If he wants to play, it's fine by me. If
not..." A shrug of my shoulders completes the thought.

David beams.

"Oscar says it's up to you. He's really keen to play, but he says 'it's up
to my Uncle Tom. He knows what's best for me.'"

If I weren't a Deputy Headteacher, and David an Assistant Headteacher, I
know there would have been tears in my eyes.

"That's that fixed then," I say, "but remember - no pressure."

David reaches, takes my hand and shakes it: "No pressure. He's only 11."

And that's how one obsession began and one ended. The obsession is Oscar's;
the addiction was mine.

To be blisteringly honest, I'd been working hard to end my addiction for
months. I suppose I have to name my addiction, though you already know what
it is. I was addicted to small boys, and only the shock of watching Ray and
little Timmy had jolted me into accepting I was as addicted to small boys
as alcoholics are to alcohol, as junkies are to junk. Those afternoons with
Oscar, Charlie, Evan, little Jack, and the others showed me I was as far
from the Yellow Brick Road as I could be. The first law is 'Do No Harm',
but I'd convinced myself I was only giving these little boys what they
wanted; that their pleasures, needs and desires were identical to my own.
That was a lie, but I was prepared to live that lie. Remember, tell
yourself a lie often enough and you'll end up believing it's the absolute
truth.

It wasn't easy. Never let them tell you it's easy. No addiction is easy,
and the more harmful it is, the more difficult it is to give it up. But I
had one thing that helped me through - Oscar. The boy simply stopped. He
made it clear he was there for the taking, but when I didn't take it, him,
he smiled and got on with boystuff rather than manstuff. When he mentioned
Charlie and Evan, I murmured, "Maybe next time..." which he interpreted as
an absolute no, and got on with more boystuff. When I asked him if he'd
made or collected any more vids, he smiled and showed them to me - every
one would easily have found a place on youtube. When I asked him if he
still used Skype and MSN, he smiled and showed me his computer area. He no
longer used a password. Everything was as available to me as it was to him.
When all my porn DVDs went missing, Oscar explained he'd wiped them by
mistake. They were damaged beyond repair, but not to worry, he'd used his
pocket money and bought me 50 new ones from the £Pound store - total
£7.50p. We no longer watched TV or DVDs naked under our bathrobes. We
watched TV together, we cuddled, we wrestled... Oscar struggled as I tried
to lift him, carry him, and dump him in his bed at bedtime, with never the
suggestion he could sleep in mine.

And then came the day that changed everything. It was time for Oscar to go
to secondary school.

"Oscar might as well go to secondary school in Brighton," Amy tells
me. "Nigel and I are moving to Brighton in August. He might as well come
with us."

I am stunned.

"But he sailed through the test," I say. "He'll sail through SATS. He's
already got his place at grammar school. He won't have that chance if he
goes to school in Brighton." Amy shrugs her shoulders. "And what about his
golf? He's making terrific progress. He's already winning competitions."

"It's only a game," says Amy. "He'll get over it. We all have to get over
stuff. That's the way life is."

I play my last card.

"And Nigel... what about Nigel? He doesn't even like kids very much."

"Can't stand them," confirms Amy. Then adds, "But Nigel's got this
promotion in Brighton. He can't pass it up. And I'm not leaving Nigel.  I
can't pass him up."

I'm drowning, not waving.

"Mind you," says Amy. "Naw, you wouldn't be interested?"

"Interested? Interested in what?" I ask. I'm too miserable to be interested
in anything.

"Interested in taking Oscar on," she says. "You've got him half the time
anyway." she continues. "Oscar lives with you. He goes to your precious
grammar school here. He comes to us, in Brighton, say one weekend a
month. Maybe when he's older Nigel will start to appreciate him... but I
doubt it. What do you say?"

I can't say anything. I'm struck dumb, lost for words, literally
speechless.

"Aw, come on, you're a teacher. Teachers are supposed to have all the
answers. A simple 'Yes' or 'No' will do."

I can form the word in my head, but it's caught on my tongue.

"Shit, I'm going to take that as a 'Yes'."

Amy turns and opens the door of the apartment.

Oscar is standing there. He looks so young, so vulnerable.

"I think it's a 'Yes', kiddo," says Amy.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!"

That must have come from me.

Oscar runs across the room. He throws his arms around me. He hugs me so
tightly that I'm even more breathless. He is crying. Amy is crying.  I am
crying. Then we're laughing. Then I'm whirling Oscar round in mid-air. His
long legs make it look as if he's flying. I'm flying, though my feet remain
on the ground.

That night, as I tuck Oscar in bed, I whisper, "Good night, sweet
prince. Good night, Oscar. --- Oscar, my love."

And I hear Oscar whisper back, "Goodnight - Dad."

THE END
THE BEGINNING