Date: Thu, 24 Aug 2006 07:04:23 -0700 (PDT)
From: Red Head <redhead_1829@yahoo.com>
Subject: Twisted Nifty 1-2

Readers of Tristram Shandy, Cat's Cradle, At Swim Two Boys, Cosmicomics,
and Hitchhiker's Guide, welcome!  All others, stop reading.  This story
could be seriously harmful to you, as it runs the danger of giving you a
sense of humor about yourself.

Disclaimer: This story is fictional, entirely within the realm of fantasy.
The author knows very well that a boy is not capable of consent, so sex
between men and boys is rightfully illegal.


Chapter One

Jamey Topia calmly trimmed the hedges of his posh mansion as the breeze
blew through his long auburn hair.  Having a special affinity for yardwork,
he had neglected to hire a gardener; better to be out in the open air, with
all the opportunities that that afforded.  God, but he loved summer.

James was twenty-two years old, a well-built young man with a handsome face
and striking brown eyes. He wore a thin undershirt, through which one might
discern a supple torso and a formidable chest.  He prided himself on his
looks, although he never seemed to get around to dating any girls.  His
strong arms flexed effortlessly as he worked.  He wore a baggy pair of jean
shorts that obscured what were certainly a fine pair of legs.  His
sunglasses were made by Armani.  His boxers were made by Abercrombie.  His
shoe size was 11.

In high school, when he was in the gym showers, he had checked out the
other boys to compare the length of a certain appendage.  He would sneak
peeks--

[Here the manuscript is obscured.  Apparently it is been tampered with by
someone with good taste.  My apologies to those of you who had already
begun drooling.]

-- every night thinking of what he had seen in those showers.

So yeah, James was really attractive and all, dudes.

James continued to trim the hedge, completely oblivious to the tangential
writing of his narrator, all morning.  By noon, he was soaked in sweat from
the heat of the midsummer sun.  Exhausted, he went to go inside for some
water.

Fortunately for our narrative, he saw something on his way.  Or rather, not
something, but someone.  [Or perhaps, on second thought, considering that
this is an "erotic" -- and therefore objectifying -- story, he did not see
someone, but rather something.  But that is neither here nor there.  I will
return to my hole].

A boy.

As James was completely unaware that he was the main character in a story
written by a PEDOPHILE, and what's more, a BOYLOVER, he had not been
expecting to see a boy.  Fortunately for us, though, he immediately took
note of the boy in a suitably comprehensive and sexually suggestive way as
to enable the narrator to include a completely unnecessary paragraph about
the boy's looks.

The boy looked to be about 11 years, twenty-two weeks, and two days old
(although James wasn't sure).  He had jet black hair, with black shorts to
match.  For no conceivable reason he was shirtless, revealing a good
portion of smooth white skin.  He casually stroked his hand across his
tummy.  He wore dark sandals and a goofy grin.  He had no socks on, but the
socks he owned were bought at Target.  His underwear size was eight.

[For the love of all things holy, are you going to tell us his social
security number, too?!?]

He had never worn spandex, but found the concept interesting.  His favorite
color was blue.  He liked to scratch his balls when no one was looking.

So there, Mr. Grumpy.

Where was I?  Ah, yes.

Circumstantially, James Topia was a born hetero-sexual.  He was straight --
that is, he liked girls.  Liked them in a sexual way.  I mean, like, wanted
to do them and such.  OK, I mean, he had never actually dated a girl and
technically he had a knack for interior decorating and a subscription to
Tiger Beat magazine, but he was hetero-sexual in that he liked having sex
with women (despite having never done so).  He had certainly never thought
of a boy in a sexual way.

[Now, in order to qualify for being a character in a Nifty story, James had
been given a number of tests.  These tests had literally thousands of
questions.  Interestingly enough, when our analysts looked at the tests,
they seemed to be seeking to ascertain the same bit of information in
different ways.  See for yourself:

1. Have you ever felt any sort of sexual attraction to a boy?
2. If you answered no to first question: Not even at all?
3. Do boys give you boners?
4. Here is a picture of a semi-naked boy.  Do you have a boner?
5. What size is your boner?  (We ask for research purposes only.)
6. Do you like boys, that is in the sense of drooling at the thought of them?
7. Ewww.  Stop drooling.  You'll mess up the paper.
8. Here is a boy.  He is going to [line omitted.  Darn editor!].  You like?

[...and so on.  The purpose is, presumably, to make sure that the character
does not like boys, not even at all.  Whereupon the sadistic author may
take cruel liberties with said boy-indifferent character, resulting in
eventual fluid exchange.  Yadayadayada.]

Secure in his hetero-sexual masculinity, James noticed that this was a
particularly attractive boy -- if boys could be attractive, which they
could not -- so rather, this was an ordinary boy, completely uninteresting
to look at just like all other boys.

"Excuse me, sir?" the boy approached casually.

"Yes?"

"My friend and I are selling lemonade two doors down.  Would you like to
buy some?"

"Well, I should really go and get some lunch."

"It's delicious homemade lemonade, ice cold.  You look like you need it."
The boy looked James up and down, surveying the red hot specimen of manhood
that was standing before him.

[Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!  What was that?  What real boys actually
think that way?  Maybe he would be attracted, but he would feel guilty for
it!  He wouldn't casually look up and down a grown man's sweaty body --
what planet do you people come from?!?  "Red hot specimen of manhood"?
Pul-lease.]

James reluctantly followed the boy to the sales table, sorry that he wasn't
able to sit reading his Maxim magazine during lunch, while thinking about
how he liked to have sex with women.  He found himself staring at the
waistband of the boy's underwear, which was clearly visible above his
slightly sagging shorts.

The lemonade stand was two small card tables, on which sat three pitchers
of ice-cold lemonade and a motley assortment of cups.  A small piece of
cardboard read: "Cold Lemonade: $1."

The second boy was younger, maybe nine, perpetually counting the slim
earnings the duo had earned so far.  He had blondish hair and a --

[At this point the writing becomes illegible.  Thank heaven for small
miracles.]

The older boy whispers something into the ear of the younger.  The two give
each other a sidelong grin.

"Hi, I'm Jimmy," the younger boy says.

"Hi, I'm Skyler," the older boys says.

"Hi, I'm thirsty," James says.

[Yuck!  Couldn't you figure out a less atrocious way to supply us with
names?  And SKYLER?  I know you're going for cutesy and effeminate, but
Skyler is just way over the top.  You might as well just have him wear
makeup and curtsey, for the love of God!]

[Oh, and, Einstein: you changed tense.  If I have to read one more friggin'
story with inconsistent tense, I will give up reading for life!  Really, I
would.]

"Want some?"

"Do I ever!"

Jimmy pours, Skyler collects the dollar.  Except a problem: there is no
dollar.  Our hero searches through his pockets thoroughly, but to no avail.
He apologizes profusely, and starts to go back to his house to retrieve
one.

"It's no biggie," says Skyler.  "Just come back and pay for it later."

James takes his lemonade and sits on the grass.  The taste is tart and
refreshing.  The sun continues to beat down.  He leans back, stretches his
arms, and takes his shirt off.  Unbeknownst to him, Skyler is gaping at his
firm muscles, his lithe torso, his sweaty calves.  Jimmy punches Skyler.

"Hello!  Earth to Skyler.  Shall we?"

"Uh, shall we what?"

"The plan.  You know..." he nods significantly at James.

The plan, in short, is this: after James finishes his lemonade, Skyler is
to approach him and ask him if he would like another glass.  (Skyler's
having a boner at this point is not absolutely essential to the plan, but
does line up quite well with the author's nefarious plans).  He is to tell
James that the drink is "on the house."  Meanwhile Jimmy is to carry up a
pitcher of lemonade and a cup.  Skyler will take the cup to hold, while
Jimmy pours.  The only thing is, Jimmy won't pour the pitcher into the cup
at all; he'll pour it ALL OVER JAMES' HEAD.

Needless to say, the plan works like a charm.

[Dahhhh!  Meeeebeeneebeenee!  Stop the setup!  I see it right now.
Whenever phenomenally unrealistic things start happening in a Nifty story,
things that get characters wet or muddy or sticky or whatnot -- you know it
right away: it's a shower setup.  Stop.  Illegal.  Bad.  Ick.  Dahhhh.]

[If you want your characters to fuck like bunnies, put them in bunny
outfits and make them fuck.  If you want your characters to be in the
shower together, put them in the damn shower together.  But this whole
business of setting it up -- as if there are, conceivably, in a world not
unlike our own, situations in which a boy would take a private shower with
a complete stranger -- the only word is dahhhh.  You violate my soul with
your sense of narrative.  I will sulk.]

Hehe.  I could just have them lick off the lemonade.

[I am sulking.  Do your worst.]

"What the heck!" James shouts.

The boys laugh maniacally.

"Errrr, Jimmy?" Skyler begins.  "I guess the drink wasn't quite `on the
house'."

"On the neighbor is more like it!"

James is shocked, angry, and just a bit sour.  [Ha. Ha.]  He starts to get
up and walk away, but he sees something that catches his attention first.
He sees the boys smiling and having fun (even at his own expense) and it
makes him miss something, or rather someone -- perhaps, the fun-loving boy
he used to be.

Skyler is laughing and pulling up his shorts.  Jimmy is wildly
gesticulating how James responded to being doused.  James is forming a
plan.

"Shit, small fries, now why did you do that?"

"Uhhh, shit?" Jimmy giggles.  "We didn't shit.  Did you?"

Hilarity ensues.

James begins again: "Could one of you get me a towel, at least?"

"Sure thing, big guy!" Jimmy shouts.  "I'll get it, and my friend here is
just dying to dry you off with it."

"I am NOT!" Skyler retorts.  "You are, gaywad."

"Yeah, right.  You know you want it, Sky-boy."

[Wait!  Stop the presses!  Did you just write some semi-realistic
dialogue?!?  Holy %$2*!  I mean, sure, it was sexual, but that is actually
how boys sound.  Bravo!]

Before Skyler could catch Jimmy and start pummeling him, Jimmy was gone
toweling.  James walked up to the table (realizing with every step how
thoroughly sticky he was) and poured himself a cup of lemonade.  He took it
to his mouth to drink, but then suddenly tossed it at Skyler, soaking the
boy's chest in citrus.

"This one's on you, Sky-boy!"

"Hey!  You owe me a dollar for that!"

"Oh, yeah, how you gonna get it?"

"Don't play hard to get, hotshot.  I know where you live."

[You know how I said you were writing realistically a moment ago.  I take
that back.  What is this crap?  Get us into the damn shower if you must,
and quickly.  I know the drill: Skyler chases James into James's house,
where they land exhausted in a sticky pile, calm down, and realize that
they'd like to be clean.  Then one or more of the following happens:

1. James decides that there's no reason not to share the shower (after all,
he is SO not tempted, being a hetero-sexual man attracted to females).

2) Skyler spies on James showering, blah blah blah, James notices and likes
it, they share the shower.

3) James spies on Skyler showering, blah blah blah, Skyler notices and
likes it, they share the shower.

4.  James's penis -- presumably of its own accord -- slips into Skyler's
elimination station.  (Damn that soap!)  James laughs it off and talks
about how very hetero-sexual he is.  Skyler recommends therapy.

Pick a number, loser.  Get on with it.]

OK.  Number four?  Take that, baby boy.

[Number four was thrown in for humor.  The other three are much more
realistic -- "realistic" in this context meaning "likely to happen in a
narrative written by a sex-crazed but not yet institutionalized boylover".
Pick again].

Drat.  OK.  I'll take #2 then.

[#3 it is.  They're in the shower.  Go with the flow.  Perv away.]

This is not what James had bargained for.  I mean, sure, he had cracked
open the bathroom door to see what was hiding under Skyler's shorts -- who
wouldn't?  [All rational people wouldn't.  The premise is absurd.]  But he
hadn't expected the boy to notice.  What was he, paranoid?  [He had reason
to be.  With the onset of erotic stories, fictional boys are never safe;
they ought to reinforce their belts with superglue and never, I repeat
NEVER, take a shower.]

And now, the boy was beckoning to him.  And -- as James was stripping off
his clothes, as Skyler was eying his crotch curiously, as the hot steam
filled his nostrils -- it first occurred to James that boys were kinda
cute, actually.  Even, perhaps, vaguely sexy.  Sexy.  That thing that girls
were supposed to be, but never were.  Sexy.  Was that the adjective to
describe Skyler's thin hips, his bubble butt?  The curve of his hardened
dick as it reached for his belly button?  Was sexy the word?

It was fortunate that James considered himself so securely a hetero-sexual,
because otherwise he might have been worried at the enthusiastic
engorgement of his penis, on seeing this boy shower.  He might have been
concerned with his desire to pin Skyler to the shower wall.  He might have
found his need to suck on the youth's genitalia somewhat disturbing.

But James had no such qualms.  When Skyler started passionately kissing
him, he found it cute, and decided that such games with boys were actually
quite fun.  This was, in essence, a new kind of sport for James.  His
strength was exerted in a new direction -- the boy's soft skin becoming the
turf of a new ballpark, the boy's ...

[The boy's dick becoming a cocked bat, the boy's balls becoming perfect
spirals, the boy's ass becoming the freaking endzone.  We get it.  James
finally figured out he was the protagonist in a sex story, and is reading
his script.  It takes no rocket scientist to figure out that they end up in
bed and...]

"Damn, that thing is big!"

James was lying on the bed, and Skyler was sitting between his legs,
staring at the Ivory Tower.  Skyler kept moving his head around it, like a
jeweler assessing its worth.  His attentions, in turn, made James' cock
swell larger still.  James squeezed his PC-muscle a couple times, making
his member bounce up at the boy's face.

"I think it likes me," Skyler said, blushing adorably.


Chapter Two

It's much more fun thinking about these things than writing them.  Not more
arousing, mind you -- the author gets to control words and bodies.  In
short, he can make his characters do whatever he wants (talk about a power
trip!).  But, in exchange, the author has to do the difficult work of
finding words.  This is the work that most authors do not do well, which is
why most written pages are more suitable for use as Kleenex than for
reading.

The standard response to this is: figure out what the reader wants, and
then learn to write that as effortlessly as possible.  You'll see this all
over Nifty; guys want to get off, so writers fill their stories with
gratuitous sex -- spending an obligatory two paragraphs or so detailing a
setting.  Yippee kye yay.  If you keep reading past the sex part, it's just
because you want to avoid your "real" life so much that you will jack off
multiple times to the same sad story.  Or you'll hold off on masturbating,
teasing yourself little by little, letting the story work its magic.

But most stories don't have magic.

And furthermore: this IS your real life.  (Pay attention; you might learn
something).

And furthermore: Gratuitous sex isn't interesting.  Sure, your body can
respond to it -- your body can respond to asphyxiation -- but your mind
isn't engaged.  That's the sad part about immersing yourself in Nifty (or
in anonymous sex, or in porn): you're bored out of your skull, but you
pretend to enjoy it.  Or perhaps you don't even pretend: you're just
addicted.  Yippee kay yay.

Where were we?  Oh, yes, that's right.  I was writing a phenomenally
unrealistic narrative full of naked bodies and gratuitous sex.

[Only you were doing it ironically.  I hope.  Otherwise, you are a bigger
ass than I thought.]

I think my ass is quite reasonably sized and shapely, thank you very much.

[Your ass is hot as lava, cute as Haley Joel Osmet, and big as New Jersey.
Proceed.]

Errrr.  I will.

So we left off with James' dick hard as...um...

[Rock candy?]

Sure.  With James' dick hard as rock candy and the neighbor boy (Skyler)
fawning over it.  A perfectly reasonable, everyday picture.  Needless to
say, James -- who had previously considered himself almost militantly
hetero-sexual -- found the boyish attention invigorating.  His cock was wet
and slippery with pre-cum.

Skyler was thirsty, and water wasn't gonna quench this thirst.

[Ahhhhhh, yes.  As the nice TV people tell us, "obey your thirst."]

"May I ... take it ... in my ..." Skyler licked his lips seductively.

"Heck yeah, you may!"

[May I ... take this ... opportunity ... to point out that teenage boys do
NOT lick their lips seductively unless they are girl-wanna-bes, in which
case they wouldn't be either boyish or attractive.  You are shaping your
story on a thousand impossibilities, which reminds me of one of those
stupid anime flicks.]

Will you shut up and let me narrate the blowjob?!?

[No!  You're making it impossible for the reader to suspend his disbelief,
which will fatally damage your already unbelievably-messed-up story.
Develop your characters.  Stop writing with your peter.]

Will you shut up if I give you a blowjob?

[Errrr ... I'm flattered.  But it'll have to wait; I'm going on a righteous
tirade right now.  Your story is messed up.  I'm half expecting a
photographer to appear at the door to take pictures.]

Good idea.  I'll order one immediately.

Here he is, creepy mustache and all!  Service with a smile.  *** Excuse me,
sir?  Are you the perverse photographer I ordered?  Good, good.  Nice to
meet you, I'm sure.  Where's the molestation, you ask?  Oh, just turn right
at the oak tree and it's the first house on the left.  Just knock on the
door and you're in.  Tata! ***

[You look awfully pleased with yourself.]

Really?  You can tell that I'm bulging?

[Every comment is sexual to you, isn't it?]

My shrink tells me I'm fixated on my first year of puberty.  You remember
being 13?  Everything IS sexual to me.  Get off my ass.  (I just got off
yours.  Hehe.)

Back to the story...

Skyler lifted his body upward in a long, luxurious stretching motion,
moaning slightly.  Settling back, he took his two hands and placed them
flat along the sides of James' penis.  He held them there for what seemed
like an eternity.  James breathed hard.  Then Skyler began to move his
hands ever so firmly in a circular motion, like this man's cock was a hunk
of dough that he was kneading.  James could hear his pre-cum being sloshed
and suctioned.  James could feel his pulsing member ache with rapture.  He
moaned.

But suddenly, Skyler's hands were behind his back, and his head was diving
down toward the man's crotch.  Mouth open.  Lips eager.  He collided with
James' cockhead almost violently, French-kissing it, making it sing with
excitement.  His tongue darted and pushed, his lips smacked and squeezed,
his--

The doorbell rang.

"Shit!"

There was banging on the door.

"Police!  Open up!"

"Double shit!"

"Am I gonna get in trouble?" Skyler asked.

[Errrr, what happened to the photographer?]


Email me with comments: redhead_1829@yahoo.com