Date: Thu, 9 Feb 2017 22:13:24 +0100 (CET) From: monkeyprince@tutanota.com Subject: Wonderland, Part I - The List, Chapter 2 - Resolute AUTHOR'S NOTE This story is a fantasy. It did not happen in real life. The characters portrayed in this story do not exist in real life and any resemblance to a real person is coincidental. This story involves friendship and a romantic relationship, including sexual encounters, between an adult man and a young teenage boy. If you are not allowed to read it or don't want to read it, please don't. This story is my original work. Please do not copy or reproduce this. Nifty Erotic Stories Archive has a non-exclusive license to display this work. I retain sole authority, copyright, and other rights and title over this work. I enjoy chatting with new people and welcome new friends. I'm also happy to receive, and will respond to, comments about this story: thoughts, suggestions, critiques, questions, etc. But please no hate or meanness. Lastly, to set a proper expectation, this is not a quick sex story. It does have sensual and sexual scenes, but it is also about a relationship; it's about love. I hope you stick with it, and I hope you like it. Thank you and enjoy. Peace, -Monkey Prince monkeyprince@tutanota.com * Wonderland Part I – The List Chapter 2 – Resolute * I write in my Journal: The bathroom masturbation session earlier today caused me to think about other things I wanted to do. I probably shouldn't jerk off in the bathroom at my work, but that was a one-time thing—necessary after being so near such beauty. But there are other things I want to do, other sexual escapades I want to try. I decide to be methodical. I am a pragmatist, I think, and decide to make a list. What do I want to do? What do I want to do with a boy? Fantasies: Kiss Make out Grab butt Lick and suck balls and dick Put face in crack Slide tongue as far as possible in hole Put dick as far as possible in hole Cum inside a boy Make a boy feel good and cum Attainable desires: Bump into a boy and touch his butt Spy on a boy Stalk a boy Flash a boy Jerk with a boy's actual undies Massage a boy Have online boyfriend Be friends with a boy Dreams: Have a real-life boy boyfriend Fall in love with a boy and have a boy fall in love with me * * * * * That list is a good start at least. I think The List makes me seem like a scary molesting pervert. I cross it out and then rewrite it. * * * * * I write in my Journal: The List: Kiss Make a boy feel good and cum Be in a situation where I can legitimately touch a boy Follow a boy and learn about him Jerk with a boy's actual undies Have online boy boyfriend Be friends with a boy Have real-life boy boyfriend Be in love with a boy * * * * * Happy with my list, I get up from my couch and mix myself a gin martini, dry, with orange bitters and a twist. If more people would drink this drink, the world would be a better place. But that is imposing my tastes and views on others. Of course that's wrong, I think. So to those who would be shocked and appalled at The List, I say, fuck you. I don't tell you what to think. Even though this drink is the best drink. Objectively. "Alright," I say aloud, "how do I find sexy little boys to fuck around with?" I like how the words sound. Saying this out loud makes me feel like it's real, like my feelings matter, like I matter, and that I'm not actually two people, one public and one private, that I'm actually one person, one single moral and boyloving person. * * * * * I write in my Journal: I am a person that: has brown hair, has brown eyes, is white, works in a library at a college, is a want-to-be libertarian but is probably actually a flaming liberal, wants to be a professor or teacher, is good at tennis, is gay, likes the color blue, is sexually and romantically attracted to boys, likes the memory of going to Disney World but does not necessarily ever want to go back, feels strongly connected to Selena Gomez but not her music for no apparent reason, likes Justin Timberlake and Justin Beiber, likes singing in the shower, likes to hang out with friends, likes feeling loved and accepted, and likes gin martinis dry with orange bitters and a twist. That sums up a part of me, at least. Society would have you believe, despite all those disperate parts of me, that my desire for boys is wrong and outweighs all other parts of me and that I'm a pervert, a monster, a pedophile, a demon, evil, twisted, sick, disturbed, mentally unstable, amoral, lacking morals, a deviant, or that I shouldn't be here, that I should be tortured, or that I should die, or that my life is a mistake. I don't believe those things about myself. I am a moral person, a good person. I believe that we are all connected in ways we can't fully understand, though I don't believe in God as others do, not as an old man with a beard in the sky, but rather that the universe and our world exist, and that existence is a glorious thing. I believe we should share this glory together. Life can be so grand, so meaningful. But really, where is the meaning without someone to share it? What is existence without something meaningful for which to exist? What is more meaningful than someone to love? My wish is that I can find someone to share this life. I want a boy to love. I want a boy to love me. More than anything I want love. * * * * * I wake and shiver. I find myself on the couch, cold, with a headache. I think I must have fallen asleep after my third gin martini. I see the blanket next to me and put it over me and sit up. I see the Journal with drunken scrawls. I feel the empty glass roll against my leg. At least the drink didn't drip all over the couch—I can tell I drank it all because of the light pounding in my head. I walk to the bathroom with the blanket wrapped around me, piss, walk into the kitchen to get some water, and then roll into my bed and pull the blankets as I roll, wrapping myself. What can I think of to stop my headache? I imagine my liver sucking water from my other organs, starving them of water, in an effort to try to eliminate the poison from my body. In college I could have had four or five or six or . . . . But now two is plenty. I remind myself that 28 is not old. That someone who is 48 or 58 or 68 or 78 would think my thought of 28 as old is ridiculous and hysterical. Boys. That is a better thought. Thinking of boys will cure me. What do I want to do with a boy right now . . . ? The List! My list of things to do to and with and for boys. I crawl out of my blanket enchilada and backtrack to the living room to find The List. It is on the floor by the couch. On top of that is the empty bag of Jack's homemade pretzel mix. I pick up the notebook and place the bag on the couch, unwilling at this point to throw it away because Jack gave it to me. The first set of longer lists is scribbled out and then rewritten in a less perverted way on the next page. But, I think, these are pretty generic. Let's see . . . . I can work toward online boyfriend and get myself into a situation to legitimately touch a boy. I'd rather not look try to figure out social media and online sources to find and talk to boys online at this moment, so . . . to the mall! After coffee. * * * * * The day is Christmas Eve. I will head home to mom and brother tonight, but until then, I have time to kill. I shall kill it by going into the most crowded stores with the most kids and bump and jostle my way through, touching arms, chests, backs, and perhaps a butt or two. It's not molesting if they don't notice. Right? Well, probably not legally. But practically. I walk into the mall and take off my coat. The time is late morning and the place is packed. Many adults and also many kids. Most kids are younger, ten or under, but I am sure I can find some good looking young teen boys. I already have my Christmas presents, but decide in my journeys amongst the boys I should also find a thank you card for my sweet neighbor, Jack. I spot a local comic book chain and think that would be a perfect place to find and be amongst boys. I make my way inside and instantly spot a boy, about ten or 11, looking at comics toward the front of the store. His dad was feigning interest beside him. If I was this beautiful blond kid's dad, I would not feign interest—I would love the fuck out of that kid and make sure every word he uttered was meaningful to me and that this kid knew it. Or maybe not—I don't have a kid, and maybe this poor dad is just strung out trying to have his kid pick out something for his kid's mom but the kid would rather be in the comic store looking at cool spider man comics (I bet this kid has spider man undies), and instead of fighting it, the dad just lets the kid look at and talk about this stuff as the dad thinks of what to get this kid's mom and doesn't want the kid to feel left out so he feigns interest. Or maybe I'm overthinking this. I leave this kid for now—maybe I'll find him later. I move farther into the store and find the video game aisle, which thankfully is rather narrow and contains several kids in the aisle. Store clerks: Please continue to put items that are interesting to teens in the back corner of stores in narrow aisles. I take a peek at some of the games at the end of the aisle as I slowly make my way down. I move my eyes without moving my head to see the boys in the middle of the aisle. One boy looks maybe 12, with a nice bubble butt, in sweatpants! Parents: Please continue to buy your boys sweatpants, grey preferably. The other boy is about the same age or a little older, and much taller. The shorter boy with the sweatpants stands with his butt about hand high. I move toward him slowly as the boys are talking about some game. I lean into the games next to them, then look past them, then step back and start making my way behind them. The kid notices and moves forward a little to politely let me pass. I push by slowly, and then he backs up, his butt bumping into my hand. He backed up just right, too: My hand bumped into his crack—I could feel both butt cheeks, they had just a little give, at once soft and taught. I wish he backed into me with his dirty sweaty boy ass without any clothes. The boy didn't flinch or even slow the rythm of his voice, but did mumbled something that could have been "Sorry." His voice, I just noticed, was the tender near-break of a boy's voice on the cusp of adolescence. It was mesmorizing and I wanted another pass. Maybe next time, I could smell him . . . . A woman called over, "Sam, Jim, come on." They each settled on the game in the hands of the kid in the sweatpants and went after the woman that called them. I wonder if I touched the butt of Sam or Jim. I have a boner. I crouch down to hide my dick and look at some racing game I never heard of for a game console I don't own. After reading the back of the video game label, my dick starts to go down. I stand up and decide to leave this teen boy haven to find a card. I think after that, maybe I should go home and look at porn. * * * * * I write in my Journal: Christmas comes and goes. It was lovely, as it always is. My mom was gracious and bought far too many gifts for me and my brother for the amount of money she makes. My brother unfailingly bought me something that I sort of like but would likely never use/read/eat/etc. My mom liked my gifts. My brother liked the gifts he gave me. I eat too many cookies. And all is right with the world. Except I am lonely. * * * * * I walk into work for the first time on the other side of Christmas. I don't anticipate a strenuous shift. I always have an item or two or more to research for a professor or two or more. But I doubt any students will be here. I work. I read, I write, I think, I write. I write synopses of the items I research. I write phrases that I think the professor thinks will be useful to incorporate into his draft, which will become a book, wherein he will describe me as the chief researcher. I should have been a teacher. I'm not so sure I'd be great at the teaching part, but I think I would be good at the rest. I could plan lessons, grade papers, discuss ideas, sit in an office, suck my boy students' dicks, submit papers for publication, barter with students that want a higher grade to let them do extra credit or "extra credit," and all the rest. I guess that could be teaching. I'm not exactly sure. Jack's mom is a teacher. She teaches at a school different from the one Jack attends, as I recall. I think Jack may know my name, but I'm not sure. I think also that Jack doesn't know that I want to put my face in his butt crack and see how far I can slide my tongue in his hole. I think I might never get that chance. With Jack or anyone. Any boy, anyway. I wish I had a boyfriend. I can have a boyfriend. I remember The List. Online boy boyfriend. I stop avoiding work and decide to sign up for some social media pages so that I can meet some boys online. OK. What to do. I open up private browsing on the computer. I stare blankly. God, I'm such a n00b. A lame-ass douche that has no idea how to pick up boys. I don't have to pick up boys, just find a nice boy online. A nice boy to chat with. Chat. I search for online chats with boys. I find news articles about guys getting arrested. Fuck that. Blogs. I go to my favorite blogging website to find pictures of hot boys and create a profile. Remarkably easy. What to call my site? I'll name it after something I like. What do I like? I like boys. What about boys? I like boys who are sweet and kind and happy and beautiful and cocky and bashful and whistful and wonderful and horny and sly and shy and thin and pudgy and handsome and cute and silly and funny and ticklish and romantic and and and and. I think I need a new way to think of a name for my blog. What do I like physically? It's a blog about pictures, so it's a blog about how boys look. I like boys that are young teens. What things personify young teens? Just go with the first thing that comes to mind. Hair. Young teen boys with the first pubes and first pit hair and first upper lip hair and first ass crack hair. Where does first hair lead? Happy trails are hair that leads to a happy place. But not too much hair. Just whispy. Whispyhappytrail. That's my blog name. Hazzah. I find a few pictures of hot young teen boys and re-blog them on my site. They don't all have whispy happy trails just yet, but I love them just the same. I find blogs made by boys and also about boys. I send a few a private message just saying "Hi." I wonder if I'll get a response? I find more whispy happy boys with whispy happy trails and start to re-post them on my blog. Someone walks in the front door. I quickly close that browser and look up. Boy. The same boy with the wavy hair and ocean eyes and smirk and big stretch. The boy walks in and looks around. Other than me and the boy, there are two people in the place. Very quiet. Why is he here? The boy sees me. He looks away. He looks back at me. Does he think I'm cute? He walks toward me. He comes closer. He is looking right at me. I think I might be looking right at him. Am I staring? I think I'm probably staring. Does this boy think I'm a perv for staring at him. "Hi," he says to me. I was watching him more intently than I had ever watched anything and he had reached my desk without my knowing it. What magic, this boy. "Hi," I think I say in return. "Hi," I say, just to make sure I said something. He looks awkwardly at me. I will myself to say something, to stop staring. Also, smile. Make him feel happy. He seems sad. I suddenly remember that I'm the person working, that I'm in charge of this library, that I'm the service provider and this kid is in need of servicing. "Can I help you?" I say after an indeterminable pause. He puts his notebook on the desk next to the computer where I had been looking at sexy pictures of sexy boys about his age. "Yes, please." Manners. "OK. What can I help you with?" I reply. "Research," he says. "OK. Researching what?" I ask. "Biographies." "OK. Like, women astronauts, or dictators, or rules of grammar . . . ." I pause to let him fill in the blank. A moment of pause. "Dictators, I guess," he says. "Well, I'm happy to help you research whatever, it doesn't have to be those things in my list," I say. The List! What can I do with this boy that's on my list? "Well, no, I mean, I'm supposed to research Augustus." "Caesar?" "Yeah, Augustus Caesar." "I see. For school?" I ask. "Sorta," he says, shrugging. He looks down, hair bobbing in front of his eyes as he does. Then looks back up at me. "To get my grades up, or something." "OK," I say, neutral. I don't push him further on the topic. "Do you need help finding books and reputable websites?" I ask, trying to be helpful. I'd rather discuss how he can find disreputable websites. "Yeah," he says, breathing out deeply through his nose, like he thought of something he didn't like. I waited for a moment to see if he would say something more, but he didn't. "OK," I say, feeling like I need to take charge of this situation. "Come around to my side of the desk and pull up a chair. We can start the process together and then you can get into some things by yourself. Sound OK?" "Yeah, OK," he says. The kid walks around the side of the desk and pulls up a chair from another desk and rolls it toward the computer and plops into it. "Take off your coat; stay a while," I say, and smile. He pulls one of his Northface coat sleeves and wriggles his arm out, then does the same for the other. He is wearing a white long-sleeve T-shirt with jeans. He has Vans sneakers. Skater? Or just likes the style? "Is he related to Julius?" the boy asks. I don't think think, I just say, "Huh?" "They are both 'Caesar,' I mean," he says. "Oh, yeah. They're related, sort of. Julius Caesar adopts Augustus in his will, but it's before he became Augustus, and . . . well, actually . . . you should research this for yourself, right? To learn how?" "Yeah," he says. "It's, like, a paper for school that I already wrote. It's like, I mean, I wrote it, but got a bad grade, and my mom was mad and is making me write it over again." The kid stumbled over his words a bit. "OK," I say, in my most non-judgmental tone. "I'm not dumb," he says, matter-of-fact, not forceful or rude or defensive, a simple statement to provide me with factual information. "I didn't think so," I state, also factually. I stare into him, his eyes are blue, his cheeks ruddy and losing the flush from the outside cold, big upper lip pouting down at the lower lip, smooth skin with very light freckles across his nose that I didn't see before, a bit of fuzz on his upper lip, nose dilating with each breath, eye lashes a mile long . . . . "Can you hand me my notebook, please?" he asks. He left the notebook on the other side of the desk. I take my eyes away from him. I stand up and reach across the desk and get the book and hand it to him. I sit back down facing the computer and put my hands to the keyboard. "First let's do a general search online," I say. "You can learn a lot by searching for something on Google." "I mean, yeah, I did that a little." "OK. So what'd you find?" "Salad recipes." "Huh?" I make the gutteral sound inadvertently. "What do you mean?" "Like, salad. Caesar salad." I stare at him. Then, "Ha!" I laugh out loud, causing the two others in the library to look right at us. "That was punny!" He smiles and looks shy but pleased with himself. His cheeks flush slightly—blushing? His smile pulls up higher on one side of his face. A dimple beems out at me from his cheek. I want to kiss him. I want to pull him close and smell his hair and put my face in his neck and tell him that he is funny and perfect and that I want to have his first cum inside of me. "Thanks," he says. "Dumb joke." "It was a good one. I didn't expect it. That's the best kind of joke, one you don't expect the punch line," I saying, trying to sincerely compliment him without overdoing it. "Thanks." "Welcome," I smile at him, keeping my eyes on his, but it was just a moment. He looks to his notebook and I look back to the computer. "OK," he says through a sigh. "OK," I say in response. I start the search, teaching him about researching, and how to find resources, what to look for to seek good content, how to determine if the resources are reputable, how to use one resource to find others. Then we turn to the library collection, both online and books. "That one looks good," he says about a book in the collection. "OK, great," I say. "Let's get it." We both get up and he stands there, waiting for me to lead. "You have to lead us," I say. "What?" "Part of research is finding the resources—so find the book," I say, gesturing into the stacks. His eyes follow my gesture, possibly thinking I was providing him some clue about the direction of the book, his hair bobbing as his head turns away, then back. "OK," he says absently. He looks back at me. "How?" His quizzical look matching his perplexed inflection. Oh, this boy is heaven. My sweet, naive prince. I show him how the numbers in the online directory match the numbers in the physical stacks, and he starts off toward the book. His steps are confident until he nears the stacks, and he looks at the combinations of numbers and letters and starts down one aisle, before doubling back and heading down another. He's not going in totally the wrong direction. He looks back at me to see if he's doing the right thing. I encourage him with a nod and smile. He turns back, determined. I recall that the first time doing something can be daunting. The first time bike riding. The first time swimming. The first time having sex. The first time going to a grocery store by yourself. The first time moving out on your own. The first time trying to find a book in a library. I wanted only to be his encouragement and offer positive energy. I really wanted him to like me. I liked him. We eventually find the book and head back to the desk. I realize somewhat suddenly that we are the only two in the library. Where did the other people go? I then realize the time. The library, only open half days during winter break, is technically closed right now, with me and the boy still in it. "Oh," I say abrutly. "It's closed." The words came out of my mouth without my thinking—I didn't really mean to say anything. I could have sat with him for hours more. The boy closes his notebook. "Can I take this book? I mean borrow." "Yeah, man." I don't know why I said "man." Don't be a bro dude with this kid—be his friend and boyfriend and lover. "Sure." "Cool." "Do you have a library card here?" He looks off to the side. "Oh. No." I race through other possibilities. "OK," I say. "Well," stalling for time. "What if... what if I put it aside for you so you can be sure it's here when you come back, and then you can read it while you're here?" I am very proud of myself for quick thinking on how to get him to come back and stay here. I think of something else, too. "What's your name?" I ask. I add and explanation so the question doesn't sound creepy, "So I can put your name on it to reserve it." "Robby." "OK, great." I write 'Robby' on a post-it note and then stick it to the book and put the book on the 'Reserved' rack behind the desk. "Just ask for this book to whoever's here." "Thanks." "Nice to meet you, Robby," I say, putting my hand out for him to shake. "I'm Nate." He grabs my hand, just a little tentatively. He does not have a very firm handshake, but he does put a little force into the grab. His hand in mine, I can feel just a hint of dampness, perhaps from being nervous at having to navigate the library. "Nice to meet you, Nate," says Robby, copying my tone. "I'll see you when you're in again," I say to him, hoping it will not be long. I am still holding his hand. I don't want to let go of his hand. I try to sear into memory what his hand feels like in mine. Smaller than mine. Soft. Smooth though a bit damp. I can feel his bones in through his supple skin. "OK," he says. "Cool. See ya." Our hands part. "Yeah, see you." Robby puts on his coat, grabs his notebook, and heads to the door. He doesn't look back. He bobs up and down slightly when he walks. I like his gait. It's just a little awkward, which is endearing. He pulls out a blue beanie from his coat pocket and pulls it over his wavy mop of hair as he walks out the door. * * * * * I write in my Journal: Here's how my list stands: Kiss Make a boy feel good and cum Be in a situation where I can legitimately touch a boy (CHECK) Follow a boy and learn about him Jerk with a boy's actual undies Have online boy boyfriend Be friends with a boy Have real-life boy boyfriend Be in love with a boy I haven't made it very far through my list, but it's only been a week. Today is New Year's Eve. Perhaps I will make a resultion to complete The List this coming year. Tonight I hang out with friends. I'd rather make a boy feel good and cum. But friends are good. I think it is important to keep a core group of friends, people you really think are friends and who you know consider you a friend. I heard somewhere there was this study that up to half of the people you are "friends" with are not really friends. I can't remember exactly what it means, but I understand the signficance. If only half of the people you are "friends" are people you consider a friend and they consider you a friend in return, that really underscores the significance of keeping those close relationships you have. Human interaction is so important. Humans are social animals, of course, I'm certainly not the first person to think that. But I do think about things, maybe more than others do, I don't know. I am sometimes purposely thoughtful, and sometimes I can't help myself but think, and think, and overthink. Most of my overthinking involves one of two things: 1) potential ways that some circumstance could play out, often something that is or could be bad, and often something that I can't control; and 2) relationships. I may think about sexual things and boys more than the other two combined, or perhaps they may overlap, but I don't consider thinking about sexual things and boy thoughts to be "overthinking." Overthinking is more about thinking of the same topic over and over, incessant turning and twisting and reforming and replaying events that have happened or that I want to happen or that I don't want to happen. Sexual fantasies and thinking about boys involves constant new thoughts or repeticious thoughts that feel new each time. * * * * * I stand in my coat against the cold and hear the doorbell ring inside after I push it. I turn around and face the street, breathing in the night air, adjusting the banana bread and wine I brought to my friends' place. The door opens. "Hello," I hear as I turn around to face my smiling friend Adam at the door. "Hey," I say, smiling back. "Long time, no see," Adam says, opening his arms for a hug. "Yeah," I reply, pressing my body gently into him. He pats me as I stand awkwardly with hands full. "Let me grab those," he says. "Thanks," I say, handing him the wine. "I got this," I hold the banana bread up to show him I'm OK holding it. "Come in, buddy." Adam gestures inside with his small body as he holds the door open for me. I walk into Adam and Christie's comfortable, warm house. "Nathaniel, darling," came Christie's ringing call from farther in the house. "Come try this cookie dough," she says as she appears around the corner into the hallway. "Let me take off my coat and stuff," I say, narrating my actions. "Also, I brought banana bread." "Fabulous!" Christie says, looking at the banana bread in my hands, then taking the banana bread in one hand, the other with a spoon of cookie dough. "I shall have a piece, of course, of course, but first you simply must try my cookie dough." I give my coat to Adam and kick off my shoes and open my mouth. Christie puts the spoon to my lips and take the spoon the rest of the way in my mouth and slide the dough off the spoon with my lips. I taste brownies. "Mmm," I say with my mouth full. "Tashe wike bwownies," I slobberly state as I savor the sticky goo. In time with her head bobbing side to side she says sing-songy,"They are brownie cookies, dear!" Christie takes her big body and bounds loudly back around the corner to the kitchen. "Isn't it scrumptious?" she sings back in the kitchen. I yell back, "Just lovely!" She is a wonderful cook and especially likes sweets. She would be the first to profess her love of sweets and acknowledge her large size. "Jess, you here?" I yell into the house. "Hi Nate," Jess's voice yells back from the kitchen. "Come on in," Adam says as he heads into the kitchen with the wine I brought. I follow. "Hey guys," I say in a stereotypically gay voice. "We're cooking," Jess offers, "but eating more of it as we make everything." "Can I help?" I ask, then see Adam look at me and shake his head 'No' in mock warning. "Oh no, don't touch anything," Christie states. "I have everything ready and just so." I head to the kitchen island drawer where I know Christie and Adam keep their silverware and open it. I rummage through, looking for the wine opener. I move things around and I can't seem to find it as Christie and Jess continue a conversation they must have been having before I came in. Then Christie notices my failed efforts. "Wine opener?" Christie asks, knowingly. I nod in assent. "Oh, we took that sucker out long ago," she says. "It's probably on the coffee table in the living room." "I'll grab it!" Adam yells, heading to the living room, coming back only a moment later in dramatic triumph. "What did you bring us?" Jess asks, referring to the wine. We all prefer wine over beer or liquor, but it is really Jess and I that truly get in to the varietals and vineyards and years. "This is a Napa Zin," I respond, showing the label. "I've never had wine from here before," referring to the producer, "but of course it's Napa, so it's the best." "Only the best, better than the rest," Christie sings in a made up tune as she finishes mixing the cookie dough and as I peel the label off and start to twist the corkscrew into the cork. "Nate's in love with Napa, our lovely wine Papa." "Good job rhyming 'Napa' with 'Papa,'" says Adam, laughing, walking over to Christie. "Thank you, darling," Christie says, and gives Adam a peck on the cheek. I have some close friends, but Christie and Adam are the closest friends I know. They have never been romantic with each other. They don't seem to fit that way. Christie is larger than life in many ways, and Adam is diminutive, but equally fun-loving. Adam and Christie handle putting the cookies on the pan, and Christie starts singing the song "Belle," the opening of the Disney version of "Beauty and the Beast." I join in, too, with Adam and I trading off the "Bonjours" when we get to the part early in the song. But I along with Adam and Christie stop singing when we get to the part of the song where Belle sits and reads to the sheep in the movie. We let Jess sing that part alone. Jess can sometimes be tight-lipped or up-tight or dramatic or distant or too bubbly or too moody or too in-your-face or a number of other half-bad adjectives. But Jess is also fiercely loyal to her friends. She played Belle in a community theatre version of "Beauty and the Beast," which was the show I performed in most recently some years ago. I played Lumiere. I have a good voice. Jess has an amazing voice. "Oh, isn't this amazing," Jess sings. "It's my favorite part because.... you'll see!" Jess gets up and starts twirling around the room. "Here's where she meets Prince Charming. But she won't discover that it's him 'til Chapter Three!" Christie puts the baking sheet with clumps of dough into the oven and yells out, "Ten minutes!" Adam says, "Better get the savory snacking in, first." We gather around the couch to catch up and eat buffalo chicken dip and crackers and cheese. I pour the wine and easily empty the one bottle I brought in our four glasses. I know they have more drinks. We don't live far away from each other, but we don't hang out more than once every couple weeks or so. When we haven't seen each other in a while, we play a game of catch up, each telling what has heppened to them. Christie and Adam must know about teach others' lives, but they either really don't know or blissfully act as if they are hearing each others' stories for the first time along with me and Jess. Adam was just getting over a relationship with a guy named Sam. They were hot and heavy for a very short time, but then Sam decided he wanted to move on. The three of us provided the requisite boo-ing and demeaning and damning and name-calling of Sam; Sam, the small-dicked skunk, whose breath could smell like an elephant trunk. Adam entirely called off men for the foreseeable future and decided to spend his time courting women. He characterized romantic relationships with women as more emotionally draining but more emotionally fulfilling. Jess weighed in that she was considering swearing off men for the same reason, but I loudly refused to do any such thing to the sheer delight of Christie, the quintessential fag hag. Christie had actually just found a boyfriend, to which the three of us provide the requisite ooh-ing and ah-ing and "let me see his picture" and "how did you meet" and "what's he like" and "does he have a nice car" and "did you get very far," which turned into a very brief rendition of Summer Nights from Grease. "We should totally play your old record of Grease," I say. "Yes!" says Christie. Adam puts his finger up, "Hold that thought everyone. Cookies are ready." Just then, the timer started beeping. "How'd you know?" asks Jess. "I'm amazing," says Adam. "He can see the timer on the stove," I say. "Traitor," says Adam as he walks out of the room. I hear him rustle and pull the pan out and put it on the stove. He starts saying from the kitchen until he walks into the living room with the oven mit on his hand, "As the fellow penis in this house at the moment, I thought we were closer than that. As Jack McFarlan would say, 'I throw up my hands and jut out my hip!'" Adam made the movements with the words as he spoke. As Adam walks back into the kitchen, Christie turns to us and says in an operatic tone, "Drama queen." Christie runs into her room to find the Grease record and Jess and I head to the kitchen to find Adam trying one of the brownie cookies, simultaneously putting it in his mouth and breathing in because the cookie is still hot. "Good," Adam says between breaths. "Hot." Jess and I put the cookies on a cooling rack and fill the cookie tray back up with dough and put the cookies in for another ten minutes. As Christie comes into the kitchen with the record, Adam says, "Cookies are the best food." "Seconded," I say. "Third-ed," Jess says. "Motion passes!" sings Christie. We head back into the living room, periodically getting back up to make more cookies once the second batch finishes. We open another bottle of wine before the third batch finishes and drunkenly continue our catch up stories. Jess is bored at her job in HR, but is also auditioning for a commercial. She says she wants to get into the professional acting and singing career, if possible. She has a few friends from various community theatre productions that do the professional circuits occassionally and she got an audition with a friend of someone she knows because the friend couldn't do the audition. I think Jess could probably make it, but maybe not make it big—despite that thought, I say to Jess that I better see her name on something soon. Then they prod me for an update. "OK," I say, stalling. Really my life is pretty mundane. The most interesting thing that happened to me recently was meeting Robby earlier this week. I decide to play that up. "I guess that I met someone." The three of them all gasped. "Is that so surprising?" I ask half in jest and half because I actually want to know if that is surprising. "Yes!" says Christie at the same time that Jess says, "Certainly not!" Adam just laughs. "Well, come on, who is he?" Jess asks. "Well, it's a guy," I say, eyes squintly deviously at my lack of divulging. "Duh, yes, go on, go on," Christie says. "He's a cute guy," I say. "For fucks sake, you monkey-licking hair on a turd," says Christie dramatically. "Hey I like monkeys," says Adam in mock sadness while I laugh. "Get to the good stuff," Jess says. "What's he look like, penis size, etcetera, etcetera." "I haven't seen his penis," I reply. "Kissing?" Adam asks. "Not yet," I reply. "Name?" Christie asks, exasperated. "Mmm, secret still," I say. Jess eyes me skeptically. "Does he exist?" she asks incredulously. "Yes!" I say, pretending to get defensive. "I just don't know if he knows that I exist." I fib a little because I know Robby knows I exist, I just don't know if he knows that I like him. Likely not . . . . Christie says a long, drawn out, "Ohhh," and then states, "I know what's going on." I make a sassy face and shrug for her to continue. "You have a little crush on a straight guy," Christie wiggles her finger at me as she guesses. Adam gives a jeering, "Ohhh," while at the same time Jess says, "Straight guys, bah humbug." "Just keep away from straight guys," Jess says. "He's really cute, though," I say. "I helped him out at the library the other day, and he had no idea what he was doing." "A college kid?" Christie asks, only a little judgmentally. "Possibly," I hide my lie with a silly dance of my body indicating that it might be. "Definitely younger than me," I say truthfully. I muse with myself. Maybe Robby is my Prince Charming . . . . "OK, well, we need to get you a real man," says Christie. The word "man" in the context of romantic affection or sexual lust generally drains the affection and lust from me. But I feign interest. "Oh?" I ask. "How?" "Let's sign him up for a dating site!" Adam says, clearly proud of his idea. "No, no, no," I start to protest. "Yes!" Christie says while Jess just smiles. Adam runs into his room to get his laptop. "I'll sign you up for GuyHunt. I have a profile on there, it's a hot site. You can hook up with guys or plan a date or whatever else." "Gross," says Jess, "but I'm intrigued." Adam sits on the floor in front of the counch as Jess scoots forward on the couch to look over Adam's shoulder and Christie pushes me aside to see better. "Shouldn't I be able to see?" I ask. "That's not necessary, dear," says Christie. When Adam gets to the homepage, a guy in leather underwear with several days of stubble stare back at us. "Ah!" say Adam and Christie together. "Oh, lord almighty," says Jess. The guy on the front page is most certainly not what I want. "Ew," I say. "No-one is actually like that on here," Adam says. "How many guys have you met from this site?" Jess asks. "Oh don't ask that," Christie says. Adam ignores Christie and replies, "A few. I'm not a slut." "Are you on girl sites, too," I ask, keeping the focus away from me, as I start to get a bit embarrased and nervous about this situation. "Girl sites?" Adam asks. "You mean straight dating sites? Sure. Met several girls on those." "You're not a slut?" Jess asks. "No," Adam says while Christie says, "Yes." "We don't need to know the intimate details of your sex life," Jess adds. "What do you want to know?" Adam continues poking fun. "I like when girls wear strap-ons; I like to use Swiss Navy lube with guys, but KY with girl; I am submissive with girls but dominant with guys; I'm a top, well, mostly; I shave my balls . . . ." "Ew, OK stop," Jess says as Christie and I laugh. "Shaving balls is totally natural," Adam adds. "True," I say. "I shave my balls. I love smooth balls, mmm." "Jesus, Nate, don't tell me that," Jess says. "Why don't tell you that?" I ask. "You're like my brother, I don't want to know what you do down there," says Jess, nodding toward my pelvis. Adam chimes in, "I'm not like your brother?" "I mean, yeah," says Jess. "But I've known Nate since we were in high school together. That's like half my life. Picturing you naked shaving your balls is not appealing to me, Nathaniel." "You love it," I say, unzipping my jeans. "Lord almighty," says Jess. "Fine, put your smooth balls in my face," she says, calling my bluff as I rezip my jeans. "No thanks, sis, that's incest," I say childishly. Christie adds nonchalantly, "I shave my pussy." "What?" asks Adam, eyes widened. "Please don't use that word," I say. "Of course!" says Christie. "You didn't know that, Adam?" "I guess not," he replies, accepting. "Can we just get back to finding a guy for Nate?" Jess asks. The three of them make me a profile. They use one of my photos, one that I think makes me look silly but they think makes me look sexy. They answer the lame questions on my behalf, not letting me come up with ideas but at least giving me veto power over some of their lewd responses. Within the next 15 minutes, they create my profile, and start searching for guys each of them thinks attractive, then starts using the site's "wink" ability to get some of those other guys' attention. "Oh, please don't 'wink' at people," I whine. "I have to date these guys, or fuck them, or whatever happens. Shouldn't I get to pick who I 'wink' at?" Adam hands me the laptop. Suddenly I'm in control. I have already got a wink back from a handsome guy who is way outside my zone of attraction and, in any case, is at the ripe old age of 41. "Too old," I say. "Oh right, you want a college boy," Adam says, smiling. "Yeah, yeah," I acquiesce. Or a young teen boy. For the next half hour we look through the site at guys in nearby towns, with occasional input from my friends, especially from Adam who gives a quick, "Oh not that guy," or "I know him," or "He looks good." I try to keep any interest I express over college age, though there are a few hot late teens and early twenty-somethings on the site. I'll have to come back there. The time nears midnight, and the group breaks from me to turn on the TV to watch the ball drop and get the champagne and flutes ready. "I got strawberries for the champagne," Christie says. "Nice touch," I say. I revel in the rest of the night with my friends as we count down together and each give the others a big kiss on the mouth at midnight and then do a four-way kiss. I raise my champagne glass. "To the fabulous foursome!" I say. "Hazzah!" cries Adam. We drink our glasses and stay up for hours eating banana bread and drinking wine and playing Cards Against Humanity and laughing. * * * * * At the library, I sit at my computer trying to do research but spend more time looking at the door hoping Robby will come in and thinking about what words I would use to greet him. I feel impatient. I feel nervous, like the kind of nervous where butterflies swim and flutter in my stomach. Like I have a crush. My friends were right when they said I had a crush. I hope they weren't right when they said I have a crush on a straight guy. If Robby is 12, maybe 13, it is possible he already knows or suspects his sexual identity and likely has sexual thoughts. I remember for sure I knew by at least 13. Maybe I knew earlier, but didn't have a way to verbalize it. Maybe I could give Robby a way to verbalize it, to help him along with this sexual awakening. My eye attracts to the door as it opens, each time causing depression, if minor and fleeting, when I realize it is not the person I wish it had been. I quit looking at the door and instead focus my attention on the computer screen. The saying 'a watched pot never boils' comes into my head. I read the sentence I was reading on the computer for third time when I notice the door open again. Robby. He is here. I see him look at me. I turn my head back to the computer, but then realize that I don't want him to think I don't remember him, so I turn my head back to him. I smile as he walks toward me, his gait causing his wavy hair to bounce lightly with each step. He reaches me. "Hi." "Hey," I say back. "Happy New Year." "Happy New Year," he responds. He has a backpack over his coat and starts to take both off at once. "Remember, I was here before . . . ." "I remember," I say quickly. "Robby," I say, proving I remember him. "I have your book saved still." I look at him looking at me. "I'm happy to work through things with you if you want." He keeps looking at me. "OK, sure." "Great," I respond, purposely trying to sound enthusiastic without sounding giddy. I swivel my chair and walk over to the reserved books to find the one with his name on it. As I finger through the books, Robby walks around the side and behind the desk, which is normally an employees only area, but I don't say anything. I like that he walked right up to me. I like that he acted like he owned the place, or least didn't know to think that perhaps he wasn't allowed behind the desk, or if he did know, I liked that he thought he was special or that I was special or that I thought he was special. I scan the books with my eyes, but Robby brings his arm up, hands inside his black oversized sweatshirt, and I notice two fingers pop out from his sleeve. He touches his finger tips to the top of each book, one by one, scanning with his fingers. I watch his fingers slip across the books, caressing each soft cover and hard cover until he pauses with his fingers on a book. "I think it's this one," he says. He doesn't pull the book out or make any further movement except to look at me. I look at him. Then look back at his fingers marking the book. I move my fingers up near his to grab the book and he moves his hand to make way for mine. I slide the book out of its slot and turn to see his face as he sees the sticky note with his name on it that I placed there last week. "Good eye," I say as he smiles. I hand him the book and he takes it from me gently, almost gingerly. I wave my co-worker over to sit at the reference desk. "Robby," I say, intentionally using his name. There is a power in using someone's name, speaking to them directly, sparking attention to obtain focus on the words that follow. "Let's go over there," I say point through the stacks, not a command, but a gently firm suggestion. "There are tables where people can talk." "OK," he says. I begin to lead Robby through the Library, through the stacks of books, toward the back area. He follows with the book in one hand and his coat and bag wrapped in tangles in his arms. I feel good that I am going to help this kid achieve something. I would prefer a position of friendship and not authority, but without another context within which to continue our interaction, I proceed as the authority figure until we bond as friends. I hope we bond as friends. I turn back to see that Robby is still there. He is following close behind looking around and hoisting his coat-bag-book mess higher in his arms. "Want help carrying stuff?" I ask, showing him my empty hands. He shakes his head, "No thanks, Nate." I get a warm shiver down my body as I hear him say my name. I think the shiver from hearing him say my name and warmth from the understanding that he remembered it. His almost adolescent voice has the start of deepening, just as his upper lip has the whisps of first hair, as I imagine his penis and balls do. I also imagine the beginnings of a teen musk in his arm pits and his pubic area. Puberty in boys imparts such sweet sorrow. But it also stirs my lust and peaks my longing. As I hoped, there was no-one at the back of the library. With classes just starting at the college, not many students yet had cause to be in the library. As the semester continues, more students will come to the library, often by themselves to read and study and do classwork. I lead Robby to a cluster of the few tables in the back of the library, partially hidden by a wall. If students keep their voices down, the library permits chatting in this section. I pick a table randomly and sit down. Robby pulls out the chair opposite me then plops down and puts his stuff on the table between us in one motion. "OK," I say, in a getting-down-to-business voice. "First I want to know what you're doing and what you're writing." He bites the side of his lower lip and looks around for just a moment, then says, "I failed my mid-year paper for history." He pauses, perhaps for dramatic effect, and then continues, "And I got a 'D' on my mid-year paper in English." I think he is waiting for me to gasp or exlaim in some negative way. "OK," I say neutrally. I went to a psychologist a few times for stress in college and I tried to emulate the psychologist's calm and neutral tone that imparts no judgment. "My mom is making me do both of them again," says Robby, fidgeting just once in his chair, his arms still around his mass of coat-bag-book still between us on the table. I wait for a moment to see if he will add anything and then I ask, "Will your teachers re-grade it?" He shrugs. "Well, yeah, but it won't count." He looks at me, maybe trying to read my thoughts, perhaps wondering if I am judging him or perhaps just thinking. He continues, seemingly in response to an unanswered question, "I mean, I will re-write them, the papers, and then ask my teachers to read them again and re-grade them . . . ." He bites at his lower lip a bit and looks around and then back at me and then around again as he continues, "Like, they could grade what they would grade it, I mean if it was my first time turning in the papers, but the graded papers won't count." I watch Robby's mouth and eyes while he speaks. I see his body start to shake very slightly, and I assume he is moving his leg nervously as he speaks. "Or, I mean the re-graded papers won't count," he says with finality, stressing the "re" part of "re-grading." I purposefully think of something to say to quickly alleviate his growing nervousness or anxiety. "I get it," I say with a nod, emphasizing that I get it. Even if he is nervous or anxious about telling the story or admitting this embarassing situation to a stranger, I don't want him to feel nervous or anxious or embarassed about anything he says or does with me, so I think of something else to say to try to dispel any negative feelings. "That makes a lot of sense and I think it's a really good idea." "You do?" he asks sincerely. I can tell his leg stops bouncing and he looks into me. "Yeah, definitely," I say, though I feel a bit of an out-of-body experience with his eyes connected to mine. I continue, "Even though the re-grading won't count, like you say, you can show your teachers that you are really trying and looking for help, and that way you can get better." I watch him nod and open his mouth slightly then close it again. I continue, "And they also might grade you higher just for that extra effort." "You think so?" he asks innocently. "I think they might," I say, trying to psycho-analze the situation and teachers and convey it in a way that Robby will understand. "If the teachers see you trying to get better, they might expect you to be better, so when they grade your next paper, they might grade a little higher because people often see what they expect to see." Robby looks a little confused. "What do you mean?" "I mean, if you ask for their help," I say, simplifying, "they may want to grade higher on your next paper because they helped you." He begins to look a little irritated and says, "Yeah, but it's not like they are helping me re-write it, it's just something my mom is making me do." "I know," I say. I look in his eyes, "But I'll help." Robby looks at me, his head cocked slightly, then looks at his hands, which are laying across his coat-bag-book pile on the table. Did I say something wrong? I need to test it, make sure he knows this is a good thing, to be with me. Robby looks back at me, nodding his head a little. "I think together we can make your writing really good. You have to work hard, but I bet you can show your teachers that you can be awesome even without their effort helping you." He smiled, and I could tell from how his eyes crinkled it was a real smile, that he was actually happy. "OK," he says simply. "Let's do it." "Excellent!" I say, holding out my fist to him; he fist bumps me. Our second touch. I think a moment, then say, "Next time you come in, bring in the old papers, the ones you are going to rewrite." Robby groans slightly. "I know it sucks," I say. "I want to read them so I can get a feel for your writing and talk about ways we could clean up the writing in those papers before writing anything new." "OK, I'll bring them next time," says Robby, scratching absent-mindedly at the back of his head, then starts playing with his hair, twirling it between his index finger and thumb. "What should we do this time?" "I think we should talk about how to write a paper, and then you should spend some getting into this book and starting your research and outlining." I tell him about the process I like to use: research, think, develop thesis, research and gather important points keeping track of which resource offer which points for the bibliography, outline the points in rough order of the intended paper, then expand the outline to include phrases I want to use, then draft, then edit for understandability and obvious errors, then edit reading it backwards sentence by sentence to catch non-content mistakes, then edit for clarity and understandability, then finalize, then read it one last time. As boring as the topic is, I find that this kid, this lovely boy, listens to me. His attention on me kindles something within me, as if finally I figured out how to start getting warm in a chilling world. I speak directly to him and try to focus on his eyes rather than his luscious pouty lips or his fidgeting hands or his bobbing hair. His focus on me is intoxicating. I lose my train of thought. How intently he watches, how closely he listens. I can tell by the way his big, glorious eyes follow me that he could be a good student, or that he is a good student but just a bad writer or bad test taker, and that he just needs some focus and guidance and attention. I want to give him attention. I'd rather be his friend. His object of affection. His lover. For now, being near him is enough. "What do you think?" I say, finished with my sermon on writing. "It sounds hard," he says, though not discouraged. "But I like it." "Awesome," I respond. "Then that's our plan," I say, trying to reassure him. "Come back to me anytime, really, we can talk about it and anything else, too." I tried to be cool about trying to expand his expand his expectations, but it came out forced. "OK. Cool." "Cool," I say, standing. "You hang out here, look through the book, find some more, write some thoughts, maybe start your outline." He nods. "I'll be back at the reference desk," I say. I turn to leave and start into the first row of books, heading back to my reference desk, but then I hear him call, "Nate." I double back and peek my head out of the aisle of books, "Yeah?" "Thanks," he says; his eyes looking at me, into me; his gaze serious, sincere, and intent. Then he smiles.