Date: Mon, 06 Mar 2017 14:16:02 -0500
From: 86tigers <86tigers@protonmail.com>
Subject: "Four Tales" Tale one: the Hitchhiker. Chapter one: Driving in the City of Angels

Out there in the ether, a platonic form of perfect erotica floats, waiting
for the right writer to commit each perfect word to paper. If it ever
succeeds, that author will step back in shock as the paper starts to
burn. Raw sexuality will consume each page, curling the letters back on
themselves, consuming the ink, and pluming into the cloud of musky pink
smoke.


Until we reach that level of skill, we rely on archetypes: the sexy
librarian, the beefy cowboy, the twink pizza boy. We rely on these tropes
to get us off, and so often they deliver--because they fulfill the
adolescent fantasies numbered among the first stirrings of our sexuality.


In our realm of adult youth, the archetypes are more salacious: the burly
scoutmaster and his troupe in 70's era short-shorts; the blonde and
petulant spoiled boy with a crush on the black neighbor who pays him to mow
the lawn; the headmaster surprised to hear cries of delight when he whips
the school's bad-boy. But far more often than not, the stories on nifty
fill predictable holes with predictable pegs, and some of us are want
more. In these four tales, I intend to take four tired, overused, endlessly
rehashed adult/youth archetypes and perfect them.



- The hitchhiker


- The scout master


- The teacher's pet


- The best friend's Dad





Disclaimers: These stories are in no way factual. All stories should be
interpreted as a role-played kink fantasy between consenting adults, and
the stories in no way condone, encourage, or describe any illegal or
unlawful activity. This author, and these stories, are in no way meant to
justify, encourage, depict or condone grooming, exploitation, abuse, or sex
trafficking of minors.



That said, all relationships, even between consenting adults, are fraught
with complex power dynamics based on age, sex, race, class, etc. Nearly all
romantic and sexual relationships carry specters of past traumas, and hold
the possibility of abuse, deception, or exploitation. These risks are much
more likely when one of individuals is a minor and the other is not. The
vast majority of M/M sexual relationships that are cross generational are,
in fact, abusive rape perpetrated by a "straight" man.



These stories seek to entertain fantasy while holding deep respect for the
importance of good consent, egalitarian power in relationships, and the
rejection of any form of rape culture and the behaviors associated.








Story One: The Hitchhiker



Chapter One: Driving in the City of Angels




After practice, all sweaty from exertion, the members of a band called
Sigourney climb out of the basement of a punk house with beer on their
minds. The new guitarist in the band, a lanky guy named Joel, tells a story
about hitchhiking all the way from Idaho to Las Vegas when he was just
nineteen. At the conclusion, they walk into the mercifully air-conditioned
bar, past the green glow of the pool tables, and proceed to order.


"Nobody does that anymore," Joel says, with a tone that implies that
everybody knows why. At this point nobody even remembered what he was
talking about.


"Does what?" asks one of them.


"Hitchhike," he blurts. The other guys at the bar agree weakly, more
focused on pouring golden lager and slaking their thirst. Miguel, however,
sipped his beer and checked out Joel.


The story conjured an image of the lanky musician as a nineteen year old;
was he cute? Dark black hair and the whisper of a mustache above his thin
lips? Possibly cute, Miguel thought. More likely, he'd have been the kind
of 19-year-old Miguel would glance over and then murmur, "maybe three years
ago."


Miguel is one of those.


He is a thirty year old musician. To his Chilean parents, that means he is
the ultimate failure. If he played charango, maybe it'd be a little
different, but bass guitar is low class and "reprobate"-- one of his
mother's favorite words. He came to the states on a scholarship, for
science, but switched his major as soon as he could to music theory, and
lied about it to his family for three years. They spent half a year's wages
to fly here to see his graduation, and found out when he walked. He thought
they'd never speak to him again, and part of him was relieved. Eventually,
they adjusted, but they harass him about wasting his life on music every
time he saw them. That, and harass him about marriage.


Little so they know he was queer. He was out to his friends, but the truth
was the only sexual encounters he enjoyed and the last same-age crushes he
had were in high school. He got older, but the boys he liked didn't. Miguel
was stuck on boys. Not men, but boys. Thirsty bottoms came around all the
time, hitting on him with everything they had; he was tall, masculine,
muscular, and covered in tattoos; he was everything that so many fags
wanted. Unfortunately for them, he wanted nothing to do with them.


His heart withered on the vine. Left with nothing but abstract
impossibilities, he got off three or five times a week to porn that did
little to satisfy what he really yearns for. So, instead he poured himself
into music by day and drowned his sorrows by night.



Not 24 hours later, a rare Los Angeles rainstorm caught Miguel on his way
home from his last day at work. Rain poured an inch thick over the road,
culverts and canals quickly flash-flooded, and cars splashed only as fast
as they dare. Making his way up the treacherous curves of steep hillside
route, Miguel swore aloud in shock and pumped the brakes--he almost hit
somebody.


A dark figure walked up the shoulder; not even a shoulder. He goosestepped
up a curb of asphalt next to a road barrier, beyond which plunged the
ravine. Cars shot past, drenching him up to the waist each time, and Miguel
had nearly run him off the road. The soaked form held an outstretched left
thumb that shines white in the headlights.


Nobody was behind him. Miguel rolled down the window.


"Hey!" he said.


The hitchhiker leans in, says a muffled "hey."


The boy is an angel. Drenched, but fresh from heaven.


"Get in!"


The boy dripped into the vinyl of the passenger seat. He hugged a denim
backpack that looked like a giant sponge, at this point. The boy studied
Miguel intently for a moment, then looked back at the road for the
remainder of what will be a very short journey. His face in profile, which
Miguel only sees three or four times when they stop, was too much for the
man to bear.


He only encounters boys he finds attractive perhaps once or twice a
year. Regardless of race or color, their skin is always radiant and clear,
they tend have long eyelashes and full lips, pert buttocks, and a smile
that melts ice. This boy has everything but the smile, and Miguel was
willing to bet that it would kill him if he saw it.


"Where are you headed?"


"Nowhere," the boy said flatly. "However far you wanna take me."


Miguel's attention went back to the road; we shot through a yellow light
and splashed into the neighborhood around U.C.L.A.


"Do you mind if I ask a few questions?" the man said, trying to think of
what they'd be. In his periphery, he saw the boy shrug.


"Do you need some help?"


Again, the kid shrugged. "I'm not gonna suck your dick for a warm bed,"


Miguel's face burned with emotion; he was stunned more than anything else,
and blurted "Jesus, kid! I just want to help!"


They sat in silence. A red light seemed to last forever.


"So where can I take you?"


"Here's fine."


"I can take you wherever you need to go. It's obvious you need a
ride. You're totally saturated."


"Just let me out."


Miguel pulled over, the kid jumped out with his bag, and slammed the door
with one foot. The man watched him walk away, bewildered. What the fuck
just happened?



Miguel gave his two-weeks notice at the cafe precisely two weeks ago that
day, as we have mentioned. He is leaving the U.S. Not because he wants to,
but because he was denied a visa. He had a string of work visas after
college, but for no apparent reason, the U.S. decided he wasn't the kind of
immigrant they wanted anymore. Maybe he should have gone to med school
after all.


Donald Trump had just been inaugurated, I.C.E. raids had happening all over
town, every latina and latino he knew was biting their nails. Everybody's
abuelas and aunties were lighting novena candles and praying rosaries like
it was a part-time job.


For once, he agreed with his parents: fuck America. His whole world was
here in L.A., he had been here over a decade, but he was taking my
hard-earned Toyota and driving all the way to Chile starting on Monday. A
friend had taken over his lease, nearly everything was packed, and he had
saved four grand by selling some weed last summer, working overtime at the
cafe, and playing standup bass or cello at weddings. He turned everything
to cash and hidden most of it in a Cafe Bustelo can buried in the bottom of
his trunk. The last weekend he would be in town, his friends called with
one more business opportunity.


Busking. There was a gallery stroll was in Century City and Luis said it
was flooded with wealthy and famous assholes. The streets would be swimming
with entertainment world people, and Luis said he generally made a killing
if he just went and played Flamenco or some blues. So Sigourney set up on
what was soon to be a very busy corner. Dan tapped bongos instead of a drum
set. Joel had a flashy turquoise guitar, and Miguel was playing the standup
bass. They played some bossa nova style lounge lizard shit from the 60s;
Sergio Mendes, Tijuana Brass type stuff. The honkeys were loving it. They
periodically had to pull hundreds from the guitar case because they were
worried that it might walk away. Nearly a thousand had already accumulated,
and they were only halfway through the night.


Fingers and feet tired, they took a break. They stretched out, drank
screwdrivers from innocuous-looking orange-juice jug, and chatted with
people who had stood around just to listen. Right about then, a small
figure in a black hoodie walked by, dove for the guitar case, and then
ran. He had snatched a two-handed wad of bills up and ran, knocking past a
guy who tried to intercept.


Some animal reflex took over, and Miguel found himself running. The thief
ran fast, but not as fast as Miguel, who was at least two or three heads
taller, and probably in better shape. Judging by his clothes and pace, the
thief looked bedraggled and fatigued, and after running down an alley and
tripping, Miguel grabbed his clothes with both hands and yanked
backward. The kid lost his footing, and the man dragged him back into a
bearhug and dropped both of us to the ground. He kicked but Miguel pulled
him backward and then rolled him onto the ground, using his whole body
weight to immobilize him. His smaller form was beneath the man, struggling
, but I pulled his hood off and grabbed a handful of his-- beautiful blond
hair. The angel looked up at Miguel over his left shoulder, the one brown
eye the man could see was full of panic and anger.


"It's you?" the kid blurted, "get the fuck off me!" he said, breathless.


"Like hell! Miguel shouted. His voice sounded unfamiliar: ferocious, a
leonine snarl. At the same moment, he realized that my cock was
throbbing. It pulsed in a vain attempt to come to an erection, even as it
was ground against the boy's buttocks.


In resignation, the kid just lay his head against the concrete and panted.


"You gonna give me back the money?"


"Yeah."


"Why the fuck should I trust you?" I asked.


"You can't," the boy admitted.


"Ok."


"Ok what? I can't breathe."


"You're breathing enough to give me an attitude."


"What do you want me to say?"


"I don't know," Miguel said, genuinely puzzled, still panting. Then in a
near whisper, he admitted, "I don't know what to do about you."


"I can feel your hard-on."


Miguel blushed. Shifted off of him involuntarily, shocked that he had been
called out, shocked that he had also forgotten that he was nearly at full
mast, his cock near-bursting against the waistband of my jeans. The man
shifted into a squatting position.


"Don't fucking move," Miguel said, his voice firm. "Or I'll really fucking
lay you out."


The boy just lay there, his face resting against the side of his hood, his
cheeks flushed. The two of them just tried to catch their breath.


"You gonna call the cops, perv?"


"Nope."


"So what are you doing? Citizens arrest? Or are you taking me back to your
trailer to let your cholo friends fuck me?"


Miguel's face burned red. Not because of the slur, but because that was
exactly what he wished he could do. The boy had dealt with men like him
before. Well--not like him. Men with his sexual tastes, but far less
conscience.


"I'm sorry I tackled you. I was angry," Miguel said, getting to his
feet. "You should keep the money. I just want you to get by."


Miguel walked away in a daze. Pulled his hands over my face, rubbed his
beard, and tried to shake off the feelings that were coursing through
him. When he glanced back, the kid was just sitting up on one elbow,
staring at him in disbelief. The man didn't look back again.



On his way back to the busking corner, Miguel went down streets nobody
cared to use because they lacked galleries or venues; streets of nothing
but plate glass. He saw my own reflection, then, and noticed that he was
bleeding.


An abrasion on my elbow was running freely down to his palm. He had been so
overwhelmed he hadn't even noticed. His reflection looked back at
him. Thirty. He had black curls pulled back in a low bun. A strong jawline
still evident through my thick, well-groomed beard. Deep olive skin. He had
big black eyes, and what his grandmother called "movie star eyebrows."


When he got back to the busking corner, he lied and told them that the kid
got away.


"Did you figure out how much he got?" he asked.


"At least two hundred. It's okay," Joel sighed. "We'll just play extra
late."





By the time they finished, it was after midnight. They packed up, said
goodnight, and staggered off their different ways. His car was in a parking
garage a few blocks back toward where he tackled the kid. He paid in the
lobby, took the elevator up to the roof, strapped the bass onto the roof
rack, and slammed the door. He shot down the tight spiral of the exit loop,
his steering wheel pulled all the way over to the right.


He was still ruminating over the events of the last two days--what a wild
coincidence. How could it be a coincidence? At once, he recalled the silken
texture of the kid's hair, the movement of his taut body underneath--it was
thrilling as it was frightening. His arm was still bleeding a bit, in spite
of a bandage he made out of duct-tape and a napkin. What if he had hurt the
boy? It was possible that he did some real damage. What the fuck was he
thinking?


His ruminations stopped as soon as he saw movement out of the corner of his
eye. At the exit of the garage, hiding in the shadow of a column, was a
human figure. Miguel's breath caught in his chest for a moment until the
stranger stepped out, and gestured for the man to stop. It was the kid, of
course. He came to the passenger window. Miguel unrolled it a crack.


"Are you okay?" the man asked.


"Wha--you're so weird," he said. "Yeah. I'm fine. I--want to talk." He
said, each syllable full of hesitation.


"How did you know I was here?"


He didn't answer.


"Well I can't idle my car here. Get in."


He opened the door slowly, as if uncertain, but then slid down into the
passenger seat and sighed. They drove out into the downtown.


The streets spanned out, vast and empty. The usual congestion cleared,
replaced with open space and yellow light from street lamps. They sped
along, stopping and starting again at red lights for no real reason besides
the fear of the cops. Miguel waited for the kid to say something, because
he was flummoxed.


"This is the most comfortable spot I've sat in like three days," the boy
whispered.


"Where can I take you?"


"Anywhere. Just like last time," he said.


"What did you want to talk about?"


He was quiet for a long time. He shifted around in his seat for a while. At
last, he said, "I wanted to say, I'm sorry. And I want to give you the
money back."


He began unloading the wads of bills from his hoodie and shoving them into
the glovebox.


"Whoah, whoah," Miguel said, putting his hand over the boy's. "Don't do
that."


"It was wrong."


"Whatever then, I'm giving it to you. It's a gift."


They came to another long red light. The kid looked over, his face so
gorgeous and filthy, and his eyes watery. Was he crying?


"Where are you gonna take me?" he asked, choking up.


"Wherever you want, like I said."


"What if I want to go somewhere I'm not welcome?"


Miguel paused. What? He wasn't sure what to say. Did he mean--was he
talking about what Miguel thought he was talking about??


He glanced back at my strange companion a few times.


"You said I can't trust you," Miguel said.


The kid nodded. "You can't. But," he stammered for a moment, "I-I trust
you. Plus I think you think I'm cute."


My face flushed and Miguel raised the tone of my voice more than he meant
when he said, "no no no! I only--that was just because I was so
pumped. Adrenaline. It happens, ok?"


"It's not just because you had a hardon," the boy said. "It's the way you
look at me."


"What can I say," Miguel murmured, "I can neither confirm nor deny."


"I've been with a few older guys," the boy said.


I was merging onto the freeway, super distracted, even though the lanes
were practically empty. What the fuck was happening?


"And you said you weren't going to suck my cock for a hundred bucks. And
I'm not trying to make you, ok?"


"I don't do that anymore, anyway!" the boy said, growing angrier.


Anymore? My heart skipped a beat. This kid had seen shit. Still, I kept my
guard up.


"You accused me of wanting to take you back to a trailer and make my
`cholo' friends fuck you," Miguel said, feeling a little vindictive. The
boy nodded again. A teardrop clung to his delicate, hairless chin a moment
before he wiped it on the wrist of his sweater.


"So. What are we really talking about here?" Miguel said, his tone sharp.


"I'm a really fucked up person. Is make really bad decisions. I hurt
people. And I don't expect you to help me. Especially after all--all of
that. But," the boy trailed off. How could he say it? Though he didn't even
know his name, the boy trusted Miguel.


"Sorry I tackled you," Miguel said. "I was really worried I hurt you."


"I scraped up my one elbow."


"Me too."


"Weird."


He sat there, leaning his head against the glass, and Miguel felt my heart
swell up--to bursting. He just wanted to help him, at the least. At the
most, I wanted to adore him. Every day. Just like he was doing now, every
time he could steal a glance at him from the corner of my eye.


"How old are you?" the boy asked.


"Thirty-one. You?" Miguel said, then thought twice, "nevermind. I don't
want to know."


"I'm sixteen," the boy said.


Miguel was surprised. He looked young for his age, partly because he was so
thin, partly because he was pretty petite in general; he only stood up
maybe to Miguel's shoulders.


"Are you Mexican?" the boy asked.


"I'm Chilean,"


"Oh!" he said softly, "my mom's Mexican."


"Really?" Miguel asked, incredulous, you sure are a guero.


"Yeah. I got my looks from her though."


"Thanks mom," Miguel said.


"Chile is where my favorite poet is from," the kid said.


"Neruda?" Miguel asked, stunned. This kid was pretty worldly for a sixteen
year old.


"Yeah," the boy said. "I only know like two poems of his, actually, one is
my favorite."


"Which one?"


"Corazon Amarillo," the boy said. His accent was pretty good! The man had
no idea what that particular poem was.



*******





De tanto Andar una region


Que no figuraba en los libros


Me acostombre a las tierras tercas


En que nadie me preguntaba


Si mi gustaban las lechugas, o


Si preferia la menta, que devora los elefantes.


Y de tanto no responder


Tengo el corazon amarillo.



Always wandering a region


Never charted in books


I'm used to stubborn lands


Where nobody asks


If I eat lettuce, or


Prefer the mint that elephants devour.


Always silent of response,


I have a yellow heart.



**********



They stopped at a 24 hour taco stand and Miguel watched the boy wolf five
without pausing once except to gather up the dropped chunks of steak and
pollo. Miguel didn't know how long he was going to drive around L.A. with
this boy, hedging his bets and worrying what to do with him, but for now,
things were going a little better.


"My name is Ryan," he volunteered at last. "Well, my first name is. Mostly
I get called my middle name, which is Samuel. But everybody calls me Sam. I
hate getting called Sammy."


"Who called you Sammy?"


The kid went quiet. He looked out the window.


"I'll call you Samantha, how bout that?"


"Asshole," he said, but he was grinning.


In a section of Larchmont, the trees were so thick that they blocked the
streetlights, Miguel pulled over. We sat there for a moment. Their eyes
hadn't adjusted, and Miguel could only see the faint silhouette next to
him. The boy shifted forward to open the door.


Miguel grabbed his arm. Wiry, firm inside the black cotton of his hoodie.


"Wait."


The kid looked back, still poised to leap out the door.


"Part of me wants to be your savior," Miguel said. "I mean, most of me. I
want to sweep you up and fix all your problems."


"You can't do that," the kid said.


"I know. And I shouldn't try. It's a power trip."


"Probably."


"So I don't know what to do."


"How about you don't have to be my savior," the kid said.


"I want to help," I said, "But you said and did some shitty stuff. It's not
about the money, it's about bigger things.."


"Like what?"


"Like my feelings, you douche," Miguel laughed.


He laughed too. Wiped his nose.


"I don't want to hurt your feelings again," he said. Sparks from the
streetlights glittered in his eyes.


"I feel really weird," he said, but with a big abrupt inhalation.


"Me too."


"What's making it happen?" asked the kid, with the genuine ignorance of
someone who hopes the grownup will have a tidy, simple answer.


"We're nervous," Miguel said. "Because we're both risking something right
now. Risking a lot, maybe. We both have a lot of things to lose if--" if
what, Miguel? "If, I guess, if we don't do this really carefully."


"What's `this'?" the kid asked.


"This?" the man said, turning the ignition, "is me giving you three
choices."


"Shoot."


"One: I drive you somewhere you can get help or shelter or to people you
know, anywhere you want. I don't care how far it is, I'll take you across
state lines, literally anywhere that we can get to in the next day and a
half."


"Okay," the kid said, dragging out the word in anticipation of the next
option.


"Two: I leave you here. It's a nice white neighborhood. Maybe you can get
some family to help you out."


Silence. That wasn't appealing, apparently.


"Three," Miguel sighed, "three is the tricky one."


"I want the tricky one," the boy said.


"I thought you might."


"Ok. You can stay with me for the weekend. But only to help you figure out
something else longterm. I know a lot of social workers, and at the very
least you gotta get some shelter, right? I'm kicking you out on Monday
morning though, but not onto the street. Even if I gotta find some
benevolent punks who don't mind you sleeping in their squat or
something. Is that cool?"


"It sounds really cool," he whispered. "I promise-- I won't fuck up again,"
he said halting with a little emotion.


Miguel realized aloud. "You feel really guilty, huh."


The boy nodded.


"I do too," Miguel said, and he put a hand on the back of the boy's head to
tousle his hair just the slightest bit. The boy smiled, and the man knew he
was doomed. He would never be able to resist that grin. The man shook his
head, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Should he say it aloud? Dare he?
What the fuck. He was only here for two more days.


"I admit it. I think you're cute," Miguel said. "You're so fucking cute it
gives me butterflies."


It felt good to say it. Sam, or Ryan, or whatever he went by, was quiet. He
pressed his hands together between his knees.


"Did I embarrass you?" Miguel asked. "I am gay--I'm not patronizing you, I
really do think you're cute."


"I know," Sam said. "I mean, I didn't know you were gay. I knew you--I knew
you were serious. When you said that. A lot of guys think I'm cute
actually. Older guys usually. They always think they're straight
though. They have wives and girlfriends and stuff."


"How do you meet them?"


"On grindr."


"You have a phone?" I asked.


"Yeah. I've seen you on Grindr, too, actually."


Miguel let that sink in. The game had just changed so much in the last ten
minutes. He was confusado profundamente.



So what am I doing? I am driving home with a homeless teenager. I am
driving home with a homeless teenager. I am driving home with a hopelessly
gorgeous, vulnerable, bright, resourceful angel of a boy who has survived
more ugliness than I have ever seen.



Miguel lived at the edge of L.A. proper, in a neighborhood where grand old
victorian houses were falling apart, and landlords sectioned them off into
as many apartments as they could to rent away to poor young bastards like
him. His particular house was surrounded by big palm and madera trees, and
an overgrown cactus had taken over the corner it sat on. Only one other
person lived in his building, and he rarely saw them.


They walked up the steps slowly. Miguel unlocked the doors. He turned on
the lights, and the boy was behind him, looking awkward, like he didn't
want to contaminate the place with his presence. He was still real.



*********



The typical things that happen in these stories now happen, because at last
our valiant hero has come to some sanctuary. He was hungry, thirsty, tired,
cold and filthy. He is in deep fear, still, sick to his stomach. Because he
had done this so many times before, and even though his brain knew it was
different, his body wasn't on board yet. Because one nice guy can't erase
three or four devils.


But Miguel is so fucking cool, and gentle, and softspoken, and tall, and
overwhelmingly fucking cute. The boy feels a flutter whenever the man makes
eye-contact.


Sam slowly lets his guard down as he eats even more, showers, puts on fresh
clothes, and pets a sweet grey cat named El Rey. Or Shithead, depending on
how naughty a feline he is. As Sam finishes a pile of leftover spaghetti,
Miguel pours the boy a tumbler full of beer.


"This will help you sleep," the man says. "I get the feeling you might be a
light sleeper."


"Yeah," Sam murmurs, but omits that he has nightmares half the nights of
the week.


"Like I said, I'm leaving town on Monday morning," the man says.


"Yeah?"


"Yeah. I'm pretty much ready to go, but the rest of the weekend I'll just
be reading and hanging out with the King.


"His majesty," the boy says. "I love cats. And I love reading too."


Sam is feeling sleepy and comfortable, wearing a giant St. Louis Cardinals
hoodie.


Miguel grabs some blankets, a sleeping bag and pillows, and leaves him the
living room. The man says goodnight, and locks the door to his bedroom.


Ryan Samuel O'Shea lays down, and his body seeks to fall apart like a
chicken in a stew, but his mind is racing: Miguel can play piano, guitar,
and drums. He has a degree in music theory. He is Chilean and
wonderful. All night, Sam kept glancing at the bulge in his ripped
jeans. He wore a punk denim coat and a T shirt with an orange-haired David
Bowie smoking a cigarette. How fucking cool can a person be, Sam
wonders. Thoughts roll through the boy's mind, feelings up and down his
body. Confusion: he felt safe. Really, really safe.


(((In our next installment, there are hasty preparations to commit a
felony; why not throw some misdemeanors on the pile?)))

*******



Thank you for reading! There is much more to come from this; now that our
hero has his foot in the door! If I've piqued your interest, or you have
other comments, let me know at 86tigers@protonmail.com