Date: Mon, 14 Jan 2002 00:52:01 +0000
From: Java Biscuit <javabiscuit@hotmail.com>
Subject: willow, chapter seven

This is a story involving teen/boy, adult/youth, male/male
graphic sex and not intended for reading by minors. If
you are underage, or this type of material is illegal where
you live, please stop now, and go read something else!
This is a completely fantasized story meant only for the
purpose of pleasurable reading. It's not meant to
encourage unsafe, unprotected sex, or to condone sex
with minors. These people aint real.

Feedback: javabiscuit@hotmail.com

Willow ~ chapter seven

by Biscuit


It was my mom who put things right for me about
my grandfather.

"I saw Manny at the A&P," she said to me, about
a week after it all happened. "He's wondering why
you haven't been down to the wharf."

I tried to shrug it off, pawing through the groceries
she was unpacking, making a beeline for a bag of
corn chips.

"Tom," she said my name like it weighed ten pounds.
"I know he said something to you about Willow. I
don't know what, but if it was anything like what he
said to me, it wasn't good."

Oh God.

"Honey," she started again, worse than saying my
name. "I know you don't want to talk about this."
Truer words had never been spoken.

She had already talked to me about Willow, herself.
Not disapproving, far from it. She'd let me know, as
gently as she could, that it was a fine thing to explore
my sexuality, so long as I did it in a thoughtful way.
The talk had been excruciating, but so like my mom.
She didn't need to tell me that stuff. We were nothing,
if not a so-called liberated, politically correct family.
She herself was proud of dating both men and women.
I came by my bisexuality honestly, so to speak. But
still, actually talking about it, about me. Well, no
thanks. I had managed to assure her, blushing like a
maniac, that I would never do anything to hurt
Willow and she'd finally shut up.

"I just haven't been down to the wharf," I tried to cut
her off. Talking about Willow was bad, talking about
my grandfather and Willow made me want to crawl
under the table.

"Fine. But listen to me. I know you love Manny and
can't stand to hear a word against him."

"It's all right mom." Stop, I prayed, just stop.

"It's not all right," she said sharply, forcing the issue,
in spite of my squirming. "Tommy, it's important
that you don't let him get to you about this. God, he
makes me so mad. I told him to mind his own damn
business." I cringed at the thought of it.

At least she stopped looking at me and went back
to unpacking the groceries. But she wasn't done, not
by a longshot. She was fuming.

"I should have confronted him," she said, half talking
to herself, half to me. "He's so pathetic. The man's
the biggest closet case on the face of the earth. I
should have called his bluff and rubbed his face in it."

Closet case? She said it like it was the most obvious
thing in the world. And, of course, it was. But like
trying to see air, for me; right in front of my face
but invisible. I was staggered. I stared at her back,
watching her juggle an armload of milk, butter and
cheese into the fridge.

"The nerve of him," she said into the open echo
of the refrigerator. "He can't even look my father
in the eye, but he drools over you and every good
looking boy that's ever worked on his boats. The
bastard's probably jealous of Willow."

Then it happened. She turned and saw me before
I'd hidden the look on my face. She must have
heard her own words echoing as she saw the flames
burning in my cheeks. "Tommy? Did he ever ..."

"God. Mom. No." She stared at me, searching my
overheating face, and drew her own conclusion.

"I'll kill him with my bare hands," she said. Then
right on the heels of her anger, I saw the flood of
guilt rise and couldn't bear it. She'd just freed me of
my guilt, and now she was awash in it herself. "Oh
God, Tommy ..."

My mom wasn't much taller than I was. I got to her,
I was squeezing her. So weird how thoughts pop up,
I was thinking how wrong she was to think of
herself as fat. She felt just right, just like my mom.
Soft; not young, not old, smelling vaguely of both
her darkroom and coconut soap. I knew she was
trying not to fly apart in a million pieces and I was
doing my best to help hold her together.

"Mom, no. Jeez, don't start." My throat burned,
feeling how she wanted to lash out at him, at herself,
thinking he'd put his hands on me. "Nothing like
you're thinking ever happened," I swore.

"Oh God," she said, taking a deep breath. She didn't
believe me. She as much as told me so, later, but she
was getting a grip and that was all that mattered right
then. She didn't want to add the weight of her guilt
to the rest of it. It couldn't help me. I didn't want or
need her guilt.

She was strong for such a small soft thing. Deceptive,
like Willow. Neither of them looked it, but they were
both so strong.

She gave me a hard hug and let me go.

"Don't kill anybody, okay" I said.

"I won't kill him, Tom," she said. "God, I want to.
Slimy, self deluding asshole." She wiped hard at her
eyes.

"Jesus! Mom, how do you really feel?" We were
saved by laughing, for a moment, though it was
right on the edge.

"Your friend Willow," she said, getting in her last,
serious shot, "is worth a thousand Manny Whaites.
Do you understand me? He's in the closet, Tommy,
you don't have to be."

"I get it, mom. Stop, already." I covered my ears to
indicate that I couldn't stand to hear another word,
but I was smiling. She shook her head, snatched the
open bag of corn chips away from me, and the two
of us finished up the grocery thing, with the hard to
hold back smiles that come with tension.

I know she wanted to rip Manny Whaite apart with
her bare hands. If she'd thought it would make things
right, she would have. But it wouldn't. I couldn't
have survived it.

What she did for me that day was much better than
tears or threats against my grandfather could ever
have been. She made sense of the world. A man in
the closet. A man in denial. Faggot, amado; that's
how he could see me both ways.

She'd toppled my grandfather, once and for all,
down from Olympus. For years she'd been trying to,
gently. It's not an easy thing to deprive a boy of his
hero, the misery plain in my eyes at the least bad
thing said about him. But the time had come and it
had to be done, and she took him down with a
jackhammer.

He wasn't innocent, and I hadn't fallen from grace,
my mom's scathing tongue made that abundantly
clear.

I didn't stop loving Manny Whaite, but I began
to love him as an aging fisherman that I pitied as
much as I loved.

When I saw him again and he mentioned Willow to
me, the power of my mom was with me. I gave him
a big grin and said, "I like that kid, what's it to you?"

I remember his black eyebrows shot up, his face
surprised, as he considered my meaning. Our two
pairs of dark eyes meeting and measuring.

He shrugged and shook his head and it passed. He
would never like Willow and never be happy with
that part of my life, but the balance had shifted. For
me to look him level in the eye and take a stand was
all it took to silence him. He loved me too much to
give me up. For me it was the same. We skirted the
parts we couldn't match up, and went on. I wouldn't
force him out of his closet, but I wouldn't get into
it with him, either.

That was the summer of change between me and
him. And for me with Willow, it was the summer
of kissing.

Every summer, it seemed like Willow threw me a
new bone, drew a new line in the sand that was
closer to him.

That was the summer of kisses. Me on my back,
trying to keep from grabbing him -- still forbidden
-- with his tongue licking mine and his fingers
working on my cock. He kept his body away from
me. He'd either kneel beside me, or just barely lean
his chest on mine.

The next summer, the year I was fourteen, and he
was God knows how old, take your pick from ten
to twelve, was the summer of Willow's cock. At
last I would get to look my fill, touch it, and feel
it in my mouth.

I was tracking that beach like a hound from the
middle of May on. Even before, if I'm honest.
They didn't arrive until the first of June.

That winter I'd let my hair grow, thinking that
maybe Willow would like it long, like Leon's and
his. It was straight and fine and would slip forward,
past my ears and into my face at the least tilt of my
head.

Willow showed up with his cut, shaved up the back
and sides, not more than an inch long on the top of
his head. The imp in front of me became the Willow
I adored. The haircut showed off his neck and
shoulders and not an inch of his face was hidden.
And I discovered his ears! Perfect, delicate shells.

Leon must have bought a case of these little, nylon
bikini briefs that Willow wore that summer, all
different colors. I could understand why. The more
solid definition of his body was irresistible and in
those scraps of underpants, the lines of his belly
leading down to his crotch, and the baby melons of
his backside were heart stopping. But it was the
triangle between his legs, with its plumped up little
dick and balls that drove me insane.

I think he was wearing red ones the first time he
stretched out on his back and spread his legs for
me. The pose itself, open, inviting, was so different
from how Willow acted with me that I stared.

It was one of the days that he wasn't going to the
flea market with Leon. One or two days, every
week, that summer. The big man was gathering up
the last of his stuff before heading out. He paused
near the bed.

"Baby, you're gonna give your boyfriend a
heart attack," he said, standing there for a long
moment looking down at him. I felt him having to
tear himself away from the sight of Willow. He
looked at me and winked, and I breathed a sigh
of relief when he headed out the door.

Thank you, Leon! Willow himself was smiling
a little. That summer, with his short hair, he
looked more playful, not so serious. I don't know
if it was coincidence, and he was more playful,
or if that tousled silk on top of his head just made
him look that way. The little earrings showed all
the time and I loved seeing his neck.

Talk about playful! He bent his knee, swaying it
wide and touched his stomach, running his finger
along the top of the top of the briefs. The red
triangle was poking out, like there was a fat
baby carrot in there about two inches long, on
top of a pair of cherries.

"Go on, Tom, if you want to," he said. Like I
might not! The only reason I stopped to touch
my own dick first was that it was stabbing
painfully against the fly of my cutoffs. I quickly
unzipped to let it out, with the loose folds of my
boxers, and I think my nervous fingers were
probably shaking.

I was trying to take my time, to fully appreciate
what he was letting me do. My hand looked big
and crude between his legs, my fingernails uneven,
the fingers themselves all knobby knuckles. Not
fit for what he was giving me to touch.

His dick was warm and hard except for the small
mushroom head that gave a little when I pressed it.
Willow made a little sound of pleasure. His hips
moved.

My own dick was getting wet, steadily soaking
my boxers. And my mouth was watering up as I
traced his cock and slid my fingers down over his
baby testicles. Oh God, they were like little baby
bird eggs or something.

Then he took the briefs off and there was nothing
between me and butter soft skin.

I didn't want Willow to suck me while I sucked
him. I didn't want to be distracted. I understood,
when I had him with his legs spread under my
face, why Leon always wanted us to plant our
butts on the pillow under him. That was the best,
to have him laid out for me to take my time and
get to every inch of skin that I wanted. I licked
him, I kissed him and I sucked to my heart's
content, all the while feeling the heat of it travel
straight to my own crotch.

He came. I know he did. I used the softest,
wettest inside part of my lips to rub the button
head of his cock over and over again. He popped
it into me when he came, deep as he could, and I
rubbed with my tongue, feeling it twitch and
his body shake.

I did it. Me, Tom Sterns Whaite. My pride knew
no bounds. When I looked up, I saw his coal black
eyes were dreamy, gazing at me all mellowed out
from coming. Three years it took me, to see that
look on his face.

If life were a cartoon, there would have been
little heart shapes floating up from me and
popping in the air.

I spent that summer with my face in his lap. Every
chance I could get. My mouth or my fingers; I
could hardly leave that two inches of cock alone.

And as the barriers to his body came down, so did
others. He came to my house more often. A couple
times, visiting in the afternoon when my
grandfather's friends gathered for cocktails. Unlike
me, he was fascinated to hear them talk about books.
He shocked them and me by piping up with a
comment here and there. Only George Boyd, from
the bookstore, was not surprised, knowing as he did,
what a little reader Willow was.

I know I was a lot more welcome than I'd used
to be when the old guys were having their drinks on
the deck. My grandfather didn't make fuss about me
and Willow. I know he was both pleased and anxious
about my having a boyfriend.

Like my mom, he'd felt he had to talk to me. How
to be careful. Sounding me out, while trying not to
embarrass me. I mumbled and lied through my
teeth about what Willow and I did together. He didn't
press me for details. Like my mom, he was satisfied
by my claim that I'd never do anything to hurt Willow,
which meant, of course, that I wasn't fucking him.
Which I wasn't. Not that summer.

Thank God he didn't ask me the next summer. I'd
have lied, but he'd have seen the truth in my face.

Willow claimed to be thirteen. Like I said, maybe
he was, though a littler thirteen year old would be
hard to find. I was fifteen.

The summer of fucking. Only it wasn't me fucking
Willow at first. It was Leon, fucking me.

I had a love hate thing about rain in the summer.
It was good, because it meant Willow probably
wouldn't go to the flea market. But it was only
so-so good, because it meant Leon wouldn't go
either.

It's true that I liked him. Being in bed with him
wasn't all bad, it just wasn't all good, like when I
was alone with Willow. Still, Willow shared was
better than none at all.