Date: Sat, 3 Apr 2021 10:32:15 -0400
From: MC VT
Subject: Render Gay Adult-Youth

Render
©MCVT2017  29 Mar 2021

Small kindnesses free two men.

Thanks to FEC for invaluable assistance.

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100% fiction, adult content, Mb, Mt, inc, rom,

Render

I tried finding work.  Gave up, found a shack to live in.  Grew my weed,
had enough to get by.  PO refused to visit me here--met him at the road.

Outside town is a rendering plant, I live just past it.  Hear the trucks
day and night, smell the stench day and night.  Rotting animal carcasses
get boiled down, hides processed.  People avoid the area.

"Recluse" they call me.  They're right.

...

Remember that day, first warm day of spring.  Rinsed out my old clothes,
worked the soil in my patch naked.  A Southwester blew the smell of rot
away.  People who built my house planted Ligustrum.  Sensual smell to the
blossoms, heavy, obesely sweet.

Opened all the windows in my rickety hovel; stuffiness from winter fires
and stale sweat dispersed.  Spread the blankets on the overgrown hedges to
sweeten them.  My sixth winter here.  So far, so good except for hauling
water.  One whole day every week spent on that.  Have to ration it.

...

Heard footsteps, someone rustling through the mast of acorns, scuffling
among the leaves, breaking twigs.  Slipped my jeans on.  Rustling continued
across the bog to the east, along the edge of the copse of saplings by the
stream.  Climbed a pine, saw him crossing the meadow.

Go on by, don't stop here.

He slowed, took a slug of water, looked around.  Must have seen the corner
of the roof, he headed that direction.

My castle was abandoned around the same time rendering plant came.  Built
decades ago--plumbing and wiring were added; neither worked.  Had to chase
out the opossums and snakes when I came.  Roof leaked throughout the place.
My cot was in the driest place, near an old wood stove in the kitchen.

I'm not greedy till it comes to my privacy.  I slipped through the
underbrush near the house watched him look through the windows.  He got on
the porch, looked in, then just opened my backdoor and walked in.  Heard
him rummaging around.  Must have dropped his backpack, something heavy hit
the floor, shook the panes.

Nothing worth stealing but he'd breached my refuge.

...

Jumped hard onto the planks of the back porch, "Get outta here!"

He spun, "Who're you?"

"Git!"  Stuck my hand in my pocket, made like I had a gun.

He laughed, "Dial it down a notch, old man.  I don't want any trouble, need
a place to stay a few days."  He stuck his hand out, "Name's Howell."  He
smiled, wide--row of even, white teeth.  Dimples appeared.

Pretty kid.  His age... I don't know--young.  Dark locks of hair fell on
his forehead; tanned skin, eyebrows like a woman's and long lashes.  As
tall as me, slender, at ease with himself.

Confident; gotta watch people like him.  "Get outta here.  This is my
place."

"I'm tired.  Been on the road over a week--I'll pay."

"Hundred dollars."  Maybe that'd chase him off.

"How about I work it off?"  He chuckled, looked around the small room,
"I'll chop wood."

"Get along."  Pointed to the door, stomped my foot.

Turned and leaned, dug into his backpack, held a thin, rectangular object;
a gold tin. "Would you take this as payment?"

"Smoked oysters?"

I took the tin from his hand, "Yeah, well don't bother me and don't make a
mess."

Hadn't had oysters since... years.  Grabbed a sleeve of saltines and went
to the back porch.  Sat myself and slowly pulled the small ring.

Howell came beside me, "On the run, desperado?"

"Did my time."

"Whaddja get pegged for?"

Upsetting, this line of talk. "Why're you on the road, bubba?  Rob a bank?
Serial killer?" Snapped back.

"Did other people's time, and not wasting a minute of freedom.  Going to
Tucumcari--ever been there?"

"New Mexico?  Nah, nothing but desert."  Took each oyster, put it on the
center of a cracker; tasted rich, strong.  Oil greased my teeth.  Didn't
chew, just let the cracker dissolve and squeezed the smoky meat against my
palate.  Smell of the ocean and smokiness rushed out my nose.

"Blue skies, sand; seldom rains.  Gonna get a job, build up some cash, buy
a place of my own."

"Don't have to leave to do that."

Howell ignored me, pulled a harmonica out of his shirt pocket and played
Red River Valley, interspersed an unusual tale:

Young Howell came from a farm family.  When he was five, the barn and
several out buildings burned down.  No one else around that day so the kid
got nailed as an arsonist.  Arson's a serious crime, he was sent to a
mental institution instead of a detention center.

Parents visited weekly, then stopped.  Howell's mother and father were
taken down several years later on insurance fraud about the fires.  Family
was in debt, then lost everything.  Howell was transferred into a
children's home.  No family wanted to adopt a child associated with arson.

Till recently, he was institutionalized, he said.  Didn't seem upset by it,
told me he learned a lot in his warehousing.  "Not as bad as living like
you do, desperado.  Which train you waiting for?  Don't tell me you want to
die in this dump."

Impertinent bastard, "Shut up."  I grabbed a bucket in each hand and headed
for the stream.  "Bring those other pails, c'mon."

...

Day had warmed, we filled our buckets; I turned to take mine back to the
house.  Howell didn't.  He stripped naked, stepped into the stream.  Began
splashing water, squatted.  "Hey, old man, you stink.  Rinse off--feels
good."  Motioned for me to join him.

Smooth skin, muscles covered with a thin layer of fat made him appear
doll-like.  Moved easily, smoothly, finding a place to sit and wet his
hair, face.  Beautiful body, straight, shoulders weren't wide, had no chest
hair but dark nipples.  Uncircumcised cock swung from a scraggly bush of
hair, small scrotum dark, almost gray.  Thighs and calves strong from his
travels.  I watched, sun on my bare back, then waded in beside him.

Careful.

 "I'm not an old man, I'm only... around forty."  Sat beside him and
started rubbing the crud off of myself.

"Hung like a bull."  He mumbled.

I turned away.

Lay in the water, letting it flow around us for a long time; watched clouds
through the boughs above.  He rinsed his clothes, tied them together and
slung them around his neck.  Carried the water back to the house.

Quiet evening, he went to gather kindling while I heated water, got the
radio out.  Sun was setting when he brought the third load back.

Old house was dark; gibbous moon rose.  Howell came in with a handful of
something, scattered it over my cot, the floor.  "What's that?"

"Pine needles, blossoms.  Smells like a snake den in here."  He strew them
over the floor, glanced at the radio.

"Wind it up--there's a crank on the side."

Peanut butter and crackers, tea with dry milk and sugar.  Brought out my
pipe when we were done, filled the bowl and took a hit, passed it to the
kid.  He handed it back.

White briefs glowed in the dim light as he unrolled his sleeping bag.
Tucked himself into the darkness near the old pantry.

...

Weed kept my brain from bleeding, it held the knives of memory away until I
fell asleep.  Old visions came; reached under the bag of rags I used for a
pillow, pulled out a toy soldier.  They were scattered around the house by
a boy who lived here.  Almost a hundred years since the tiny infantry saw
an imagined war.  Held the figurine which forever stood at attention with a
Lee Enfield; WWI.  I'd fill my mind with a dark-haired boy, around
nine-years-old mounding dirt bunkers, hiding his army in the chickweed.  A
boy who was my spitting image.

My boy.  Distant now, his tenderness still burned my eyes.  Gone forever in
a few hours.

Heard popping joints.  Howell was up, went out to pee.  Came back and
sighed.  Heard tiny clicks--pulling one off.  Heard that a million times
before in the dark.  I turned to the wall; my dick wanted attention.

Attention denied.

...

Got up before dawn, almost tripped over Howell.  Heated water for tea, took
the radio outside.  Rain in the forecast, no dawn.  Birds' songs began
around five.  Began heating water when Howell got up, "I'm still alive,
desperado.  Guess you didn't serve time for murder."

"No--and stop calling me desperado.  I'm not hopeless and I'm no thief."

"Not hopeless?  Sure looks that way."  He snorted, grabbed a cup and took
his tea straight.  "Musta served time for something serious to act so mean.
Bet you got caught for something weird--playing with animals?"

Without thought, I sucker punched him square in the face; twisted my torso,
right hand fisted and swung right into his nose.  Rubbed my knuckles
watching him back away several steps, surprised.

Deep red blood came from his nose, he wiped it with the back of his hand
and left for the stream.

Calm down.  He doesn't know anything--just a stupid kid.

...

Suddenly regretted losing control; assault.  I followed him, "Hurt bad?"

He looked at me, no expression, hung his head.  "I deserved it for mouthing
off."  Came to me, arm around my shoulder, "Sorry."  Diluted blood dripped
from his wet face onto his chest.

Slipped my arm around his waist, "Gonna haul groceries with me?"

Turned and hugged me, "Sure, pops."

"Name's Dade Dailey.  Not `desperado.'  Not `pops.'  Not `old man.'  Call
me Dade."

Had to clean him up, check his nose.  Howell lay on my cot while I found a
clean rag and wiped his face.  His hand went under my pillow, "What's
this?"

"Tin soldier, found lots of them around here.  My memento, a charm of
sorts.  It holds a certain memory."  Brought a bag of them I'd found.
"That one's mine.  Pick one for yourself."  I got my boots and shirt on,
grabbed my rucksack.

The kid found a tiny soldier, its rifle drawn, and put it on his sleeping
bag, "I need a few easy memories myself."

...

Cut through the back way to town, dewberry vines in blossom, poke
sprouting, ready to eat.  He played the harmonica as we walked the edge of
town.  I went to the grocery, he saw the library, told me he'd be in there,
tossed me his empty backpack.

Got real food: meat, potatoes, bread and butter.  Soap--two kinds,
toothpaste instead of baking soda.  Oranges, grapes and bananas.  My usual
cashier gave me a strange look, "Getting healthy?"  I smiled, which
perplexed her.  Me too.

Heavy load.  I left it inside the door to the library.  Howell was on the
computer, "Look.  These toy soldiers are worth a mint.  You don't have to
squat in the woods."

"Sell `em.  Get yourself a grubstake."  Sat with him for a few moments,
"I'll wait by the door."  Got a newspaper, read a few articles.  Waited
outside.

...

On the way back, I noticed he went through several recycling bins, found a
tin can, scraps of wire.  We ate oranges while we walked.  "Researching New
Mexico?  Gonna have to live like a horny toad, find a rock to crawl under."

"Found a program in Hobbs, I can learn a trade."  Noticed he ate the orange
peel as well as the pulp.  "Do you gamble?"

"In a casino?  Never."  Cut back through the woods.  Howell took his tuna
fish can outside.  He was out there a long time while I put the groceries
up, built the fire.  Skillet-fried chops and potatoes.

The kid came in, dug through my rag-pillow and stripped a slender ribbon of
fabric from an old shirt, wound it through a wire coil he fitted inside the
can.  Poured some cooking oil in it; he'd made an oil candle.  Pushed two
old crates together next to my cot and we ate high.  Chops, potatoes,
canned tomatoes and bread, listened to the news.  Ate grapes and made jokes
about politicians.

Afterward, we sat on the edge of the porch as a light rain begin, him
playing the harmonica, me content with a full belly.  Howell told me about
his friends in the institution, close friends.  Got in a lot of trouble as
he grew, he had a boyfriend in a religious orphanage.  Howell ran away;
boyfriend stayed.  "Won't whore anymore."

"Whore?  In an orphanage?"  I guessed it happens.

"For privileges--night staff always ripped me off.  They made videos of
me."

...

Temperature dropped as we readied to sleep.

In front of the sound of rain, "Move over, it's cold."  He shoved me over,
threw his sleeping bag over me and crawled in.  Cold skin of his chest
pressed against my back.  His arm came over me.  Cold feet touched my legs.

Don't move.

Couldn't sleep, thinking of the day.  "Sorry to hit you.  I'm touchy about
some things."

"Still hurts that much?"

Why did he keep stabbing me with his questions?  "Shut up."

Howell wriggled closer.  Felt his breath on my neck, hand on my chest.
Felt his face on my shoulder, his hard dick on my tailbone.  He put my hand
on my dick, shoved my boxers down.  Felt his hard cock leaking, opening my
cleft.

Stopped breathing; soft hum as he pressed.

Didn't move, paused over the threshold of pain to get to the fullness, the
rub.  Burn subsided; familiar expectancy burst inside me with his strokes.
He kept mumbling as tears filled my eyes.  Something broke lose inside me,
I began sobbing.

He stopped.  "Are you hurt?"

"...been so long."  Warm skin, a man's sweat, his breaths, kisses, that
deep twisting tension inside.  He rolled me face down, going deeper.
Humping against the mattress, I gasped, crying long moans.  I hunched; he
pistoned.

Warm, sated, he began snoring.  My mind stayed awake, feeling every part of
him that touched me as foreign, damp, desperately needed.  Pulled the
sleeping bag over us to capture the scent of cum.

...

Rewound the old film of the day I lost my boy.  My Boy.

Long since forgiven my mother-in-law, I should have been more careful.  She
was protective.

Saturday morning, holding my son against me.  Decided it was time to give
him more than a quick suck.  He came so fast and tasted so good--my perfect
treasure.  Tiny rod I twirled around my tongue while he grabbed my ears.
Game to him--ecstasy to me.  Craved more of him every day.

Fifth grade-sized dickie on my face....  Though I was rubbing his butt,
only one finger inside, it was enough that we were naked together.  Wife
shopped; mother-in-law arrived unexpectedly.  She saw us and left the room.

My boy and wife left while I was at work on Monday.  Came home to meet two
plainclothesmen.

...

Waited for the birds' songs and got up, "How old are you?"  Heated water.

He looked right at my face, "Sixteen."  Slow smile, "Does it matter?"

"You have to leave."

"In the rain?"

"When it stops, you gotta get out."  Couldn't look at him.  He was
violating my terms of release.

Howell spent that morning gathering the tin soldiers, carefully placing
them in an old box.  Threw his poncho over his head and left with the box.
Didn't come back till almost dark.

"Where've you been?"

"Librarian took photos of the soldiers, I posted them on an auction site.
Now I need a bank account, or some way to accept payment."

"I have a bank account.  We'll straighten it out tomorrow."  It had welled
inside me though the day, "You can't stay--if anyone finds out, I'll go
back to jail."

Staring into my face for several moments, "How old was he?"

"Ten."

"You loved him?"

"More than my own life."  Had to turn away.

Long pause, "Is he okay?"

"Last time I saw him, he was smiling."  Started crying, went to the porch.
Howell tried to comfort me; I pushed him away.  He'd never understand.

...

Two days later, under clear skies, we went to the library.  Bids for
twenty-three tin soldiers was up to six-hundred dollars.  I looked at the
page, not much activity, "Take that high bid.  You gotta leave."  Entered
my account information.

The next day, we went back to town, my account held the money, "Go get the
address, we'll go to the post office."

Grabbed some real estate flyers, wrapped the figures, and bought a box.
Packed it up and mailed it that day.  Back to the bank, I withdrew a
thousand in twenties and fifties.  "Don't thumb, take a bus."  Hurt to send
him away.  He was a good kid, more worldly than most yet still held a
tenderness.

As we walked back to the bus station, "Hate it.  Having nothing to hold on
to, everything's always changing...."

"You'll find your place.  I know you will."  Eyes burned as he left.
Another boy just disappeared from my life.

Took a deep breath catching whiffs of the rendering plant.

...

Back to my stinking, decrepit life.  Howell stayed in my mind, ushering
some strange fantasies, and I'd restrained myself while he was here.  Proud
about that, then pride changed to disgust.  Disgust became anger.  Laws and
terms of release warped my brain, every part of me.  I'd never be able to
stand up straight.

Went about my days devising a plan, considering everything I'd learned as
an accountant.  With some luck, with a few keystrokes I could rebuild my
life under another name, in another place.  I'd never be able to completely
unwarp, but I didn't have to punish myself any longer.  Clearly saw myself
with that thought.  I'd replicated jail with rendering stench as bars;
walls of fear.  Self-loathing formed me into my own wicked warden.

Started going to the library every other day when school children were in
school, left when they came in.  Reading gave me new ideas.

For the holidays, I celebrated with a tin of smoked oysters.  Ate them by
the light of Howell's candle, wondering if he'd found his place.

Two more quarters; two more check-ins with my PO.

...

Hard winter, barely made it through without frostbite.

Warmth reliably returned; a wind-blown seed took hold, sprouted inside me
as I worked the soil.  What was left of my investments had increased
steadily through the years. Began depleting my bank account every week by
amounts that wouldn't raise red flags to the system.

Mind fixed on other things, didn't hear him rustling through the trees.
From across the meadow, "Desperado!"

Howell came running, "I borrowed a truck.  Hurry, we're going to Hobbs.
Got a job in the casino--learning slot repair."

Pulled him against me, kissing his forehead, as close as we could be. "How
did you know I've been thinking about you?"

"My little tin soldier holds memories--of you."  We held hands as we walked
to the house.  "I got a friend who makes IDs.  I'm eighteen and my name's
Kendall Dailey now."

Chuckled, "Kendall Dailey?  Sounds good."  I kissed his lips, mind
spinning.

Old rucksack held my cash, tin soldier, a few things.  I slung it over my
shoulder, handed Mr. Kendall Dailey a box of matches.  "Been dry for almost
a week now.  Disappear Dade from the planet."

Stench of the rendering plant was overwhelmed by the smell of a burning
shack, then the grasslands as we left for Hobbs.



Render