Date: Wed, 13 Nov 2002 00:58:41 -0800 From: Tim Stillman Subject: Wereweenie "The Wereweenie" by Timothy Stillman Tony Bony Baloney Maloney waddn't a-scaired of no wereweenie. Let that be distinctly understood. Here in mid October in Wisconsin in mid forest under a gibbous moon shining down all harvest home and shadowy. The wind soughed through the trees. The boys were huddled in their Regulation Boy Scout tents. They were shivery, still, in their Regulation Boy Scout sleeping bags, after the Regulation Scout Master, one A.B. George, had terrified them round the Regulation Boy Scout campfire, with that damned wereweenie story. Tony Bony Baloney Maloney was the scairedest one of the Regulation Boy Scouts. He was scared of his Boy Scout knife. Couldn't put his kerchief on correctly by himself. Couldn't make a granny knot even if she sat there like limp spaghetti for three days letting him do his damnedest, even helping him out, if she could. But he was not a-scaired of no wereweenie. Because-- .--all the hotshot Regulation Boy Scouts who could do everything that Tony could not, who lived in hidey ho reality and loved ever g.d. second of it, were petrified of wereweenies. The thing of it was, horror movies were Tony Bony's specialty. His reason to exist. His exit from the grim old world that knows nothing of scares. And Tony Bony's special friend was always his own weenie--- ---which nobody here knew, before the horror story round the Regulation campfire, was a wereweenie. It was his special periscope. And at five and three fifths inches, it was a proud Regulation Boy Scout candle that he could make hard day and night if he wished. And he often so wished. It was not a hairy wereweenie. It was not like a werewolf. But was a sweet pink delicate budded thing. And it could move like a sonofagun and cum in an instant and four to six times in a row. Which was his ticket into the Scouts in the first place. Because as much as the Regulation Boys laughed at Tony Bony. As much as they made fun of him. As much as they teased him, his weenie delighted them. And had done certain things to them that Tony Bony knew they pretended had not happened. So Tony Bony Baloney Maloney pretended right along with them. And if something creeps into, say, Hal's and Joseph's tent late one night, like tonight, crawling across the cold cold ground, and if it seems to have a mind of its own in its not unlike space capsule head, then, as the werewolf could not help it, and all the other werethings could not help it, then neither could Tony's werefriend. They could say the wereweenie bewitched them. Cast a spell on them. Like vampires did. Though that was a whole other movie monster. But this wereweenie. Ah. Sigh. Who could do marvelous things. Could start smoke signals with Hal's happy hand, and that would make the wereweenie uncontrollable, and it could dance in the midnight moon light. It could dazzle and raise up and rear out and scoop in, and find all sorts of wondrous hiding places to nest into and spring to a kind of fancy that no werewolf howling at the moon could find more unfettered. And if in the middle of a wereweenie finding the Regulation Scout pants Regulation Scout zipper, started rap tap a tappin', then of course, what is a so called normal Boy Scout penis going to do, other than knock back on the barn door until someone lets him out, to gambol with the stag of the forest? Though the Regulation Boys here had not previously thought this was a wereweenie. In fact they thought that Tony Bony was a fag, and they thought they were humiliating the fuck out of him. Even if Tony Bony thought they worshipped his penis because it was a darn good looking one, with its little shaft flanges and the tiny beautifully sculpted blue veins in it, throbbing, though not garishly so. To the Boys, Tony was any old dick in a storm, and if other dicks wanted to play with his, then it is the right of all Right Thinking Norman Rockwell boys to let their dicks play along. Because they considered it Tony Baloney's crowning moment of stupidity, that he thought they accepted him for his penis. That he thought they were--for god's sake--hot for him. But tonight when old A.B. had sat in his stupid Scout Master scout uniform, crossed legged, like all the other boys, round the campfire, save for Tony Baloney who could not cross his legs, but sat with them straight out, like they were pencils, when A.B. told the wereweenie horror story, it bothered them, though they didn't know why. "It was a cold and dreary London dark night; aren't they all?" A.B. had said in his reedy adenoidal university sophomore voice, "when the wereweenie came crawling down Bond Street. Far away there were children sleeping, and the wereweenie was huge and engorged, and it rolled on its balls like hula hoops, looking for little boys and girls to slay. "It was a very un-nice wereweenie. As of course wereweenies are wont to be. The wereweenie had been created by a scientist who had been in the Bavarian mountains, chowing down on some very perverted sexual hijinks, and though I am loathe to tell you what they were, it produced something terribly wrong, something terribly monstrous, a kind of sexual yell that resounded inside the scientist's mouth, like Triffid seeds this very perverted Bavarian penis had unloaded in said scientist's very perverted cake hole that he had begun to spray over all of London which was his benighted home. "And this wereweenie was the first of the lavender beasts that was set free to roam, to find mouths to hide in and hinies to tuck into and seed the dreams of boys and girls with visions of something other that sugarplums, and when it came inside them--whap--more seedlings to spread, more spit spat, more cum to flow, more shameless areas of the bodies to nip and tuck and make into engorged beasts, as though the children were to become sex organs, that and that alone. "But the night of the first wereweenie, and the later ones to come, the night windows were darker and boys were readier than they had ever been and everybody in Londontown was afraid of the beasts that made off and made up and made in and made through and Londontown was in the beginning of being one very swinging place, let me tell you what. Lots of young boys swinging two by two." And the boys round the campfire were yellow and red and black and fire colors and they were cold in the back and hot in the front and shivered in fear. I mean it was one stupid dumb story, not well thought out at all, but it scared them quite a bit anyway. No one dared look at Tony who was oblivious to the others round him, for he was hiding in the thread of the campfire story. They thought then, and especially later that night, in their Regulation Boy Scout sleeping bags in their Regulation Boy Scout tents in this Regulation Boy Scout forest, that A.B. knew what they had been doing with Tony Bony Baloney Maloney's dick. This was his way of telling them their ass was grass. And they felt guilt. They felt shame. They felt they must confess. To someone. Ah, what's a penis for? So they whipped theirs out and started hand music on them. For they, that night, as they waited for the wereweenie, (for now they knew what it was, and that it was strapped to Tony was merely incidental) they knew they were hooked on it. They were wereweenie addicts. They were slaves to a boy's dick. They were slaves to what it did in their mouths. And to what some of theirs did in his mouth. And it had to be Tony's penis. No one else's. Why? This bothered them greatly later on. And now the jig was up and the game was for real. But Tony Baloney had lived in a dream world all his life. Nothing seemed real to him. Especially not himself. Everything was incidental. Everything was happenstance. The world threatened him. The world held over him like a huge imponderable wave of oppression and disillusion, ready to crush down on him at any second. But he waddn't a-scaired of no wereweenie. That was the thing about being a monster, or having one attached to you, it's part of life. It's the sun shining and the heavens smiling down. But the sun would not shine and the heavens would not smile down if he was ever told he was a joke. That his dick was just part time release to the Regulation Boy Scouts until they could finally make it all the way with the Regulation Girl Scouts. Though this shadowy night with the wind howling and the sky sounding sad somehow, the moment of humiliating Tony Bony had gone on by. Suddenly a certain dagger of fate had thwacked--hear it now? It goes thudddddd!!!--and quivers too-- into the hard brown ground in this camp site with its smoldering Regulation Boy Scout camp fire, and Tony Bony was the king of the castle. Which set up interesting ground rules. The most interesting of the ground rules was that Tony Bony would call the shots. The other boys sweated some in their thick insulated sleeping bags. They played with themselves, and instead of finding Tony Bony's boner a poor joke mirror of their own far more nimble far more clever far more dexterous rods, they suddenly began thinking of their own little pud bangers as not quite up to the standards of Tony Bony Baloney's magnificent wereweenie. Because sexuality and confusion and horror and swinging Londontown had merged into their somewhat fat heads--the ones on their necks that is--, they suddenly felt the need of guidance. Not from A.B. Their Regulation Boy Scout gonads kept them from asking the question, where did he get that weird fuckin' story from and what the hell was in his hot little mind to dream it up? The boys fell into dexterous dick rubbing, apple polishing and ball rolling, and because there were two boys to a tent, save for Tony's tent which held only him and A.B., because Tony was heretofore noted as weird and nobody heretofore wanted to sleep next to him--though that was now changing--verily-- as I write these words--as they in a chorus line unison pulled down their briefs and spread their legs as far as their confining sleeping bags would let them--and they wanted Tony's wereweenie. In the worst way which was the best way. The Regulation Boy Scout way. Those heavy wool uniforms rubbing against boy flesh. Well it just does things to them you wouldn't believe unless you were a Regulation Boy Scout too. They wanted it and begged silently that Tony Baloney's wereweenie, which could do such amazing tricks--talk about tying Granny into a knot--HA!-- come visit them tonight. And if Tony was on the opposite end of his prick, his member, his club, his nightstick, his wicket, then Tony would be welcomed too, because they had to learn all the tricks. The inside dope. The outside perimeters. Which would get a boy a lot further than tying some granny in a knot ever would. The stupid things one does to get merit badges. When instead they could be handed out for far more fun and far more useful bodily pleasure. Oh but pleasure was wrong wrong wrong. The thing that saved the scouts that night, the thing that merged into a veil of unsettled fear out in the woods with a wereweenie knocking at their hope chests, some of which were made by the boys for merit badges, was the awareness drilled into their dicks that if one boy named Tony who was a little light in the loafers could be so generous with his dick, could make other boys so very happy, could be so g.d. creative with his private parts--thus turning them into Generals at least, then why couldn't they admit they had the monster descending from their groins and inside their balls as well? That they could also pleasure other boys. And vice versa. Oh wind of hard ons. Oh story of pale nerdy Scout Master with his thick glasses and spittle stained lower lip. Oh legend of Tony with his bony body and knobby elbows and knees. But with a smile that could light you half way to Montana and back. And with a body that, when you got down to it, was oh so cuddly, oh so fine and fetching and full of magical lanterns that made their own little glow worms glimmer glimmer-- ---well, we are getting to a full press full court Boy Scout orgy here. Where the Regulation sleeping bags were thrust off and the boys cold and prickly in the bitterly frigid air, with their peckers of wood standing up for any monsters to come along and be amazed at the Gorgon shield that Tony Bony, formerly laff riot, now clown prince had given them. Where the boys naked as jay birds, whatever that means, are cock robins not as naked as jay birds too?, rushed from their tents and formed all sorts of interesting geometrical shapes and stanzas and formulas and pyramids outside the tent of the one and only Tony, and they called for his pecker, and they called for his thrush, and they called for his fiddlers three--and they laughed and guffawed and shouted with glee. And a-scaired Tony Bony Baloney Maloney somewhat spitless, because those boy shapes atop one another, those boys forming circles with each other and rolling around the campfire grounds like living tires created some truly scary shadows on the tent of Tony And the sounds didn't calm him either. Tony Baloney Maloney who lit up and lit out and was making a run for the trees with his own dick small and shriveled and his body quite naked, but he was tackled and he screamed and the boys ravished him. They did to him things even the Christians in the Bible hadn't thought of doing to each other and that takes a heap of doin'. Tony Bony thought everyone had gone off their nut, but as he was licked and sucked and fingered and poked and--yesssss--caressed by the other naked boys who were in a fine fettle of arousal, he finally relaxed a bit, his heart stopped beating like a big base drum, as he thoughts there nuts were doing a fine job, and he lay back and enjoyed being-- --well, worshipped. That was what it came down to. Or up to. And A.B. asleep in his Regulation sleeping bag, deep sleeper, he, dream pondering if his story about the wereweenie, which he thought quite skillfully subtle, might give one or two of the boys some ideas that boys had never ever had before, and maybe some day some time, one of the nippers would yank on his sleeping bag and ask, oh please let me come in. Yo! A.B.! Idiot! Wake up! They're performing your heart's desire, just having a high old Regulation Boy Scout time, a few feet away from you. They are making pyramids and falling off and landing in each other and their rosy ass holes are being felt up and their dicks are all over Tony Baloney and there is mirth and frivolity and somewhere the stars are happy tonight because some Scout Master accidentally hit it on the head and unleashed-- --hedonism right there on the ground. And it was great fun to see Hal and Tony fuck each other. And it was great to see Tony reaching his mouth to Fred's red prong and suckle it to a farethewell, and London may not swing like a digery do but this camp site did this very night. In the cum slinging parties. In the mouths tongue kissing. In the bodies doing everything that bodies do. And one Tony Bony Baloney Maloney teaching the boys the art of dick work. They seated around the master. Observing. Doing. Learning: The capacity to orgasm more than once, to do it three or four times in a row and shoot out grand lakes of sperm. All the boys holding onto Tony Bony's every word. Seeing him for their little godlet. Watching him adjust dicks and palm them just so and extend them farther than they had been before. Making the underseam positively ripple. This fakir making everyone believe in rope swinging possibilities. The moon shone. And Venus dipped into dreams. And boys were shadows inside themselves. They were expressing the very essence of what boys are meant to express. There were no more hang ups and because this was a forest that cleans up after itself, there were no tell tale stains to leave behind and worry about mom finding out when she takes the bed clothing off to do the laundry. Of course, Tony was spent to a noodle by cock crow. And the other boys were too. They lay half asleep in the sharp pungent tree scented air. They lay with their heads on each other's hips, or each other's laps, or dicks in their mouths or up their butts, and their smiles were contented ones. They had entered Tony Baloney Maloney's own world. They had looked at the monster for the first time and discovered it was a pretty wondrous invention. There were the sounds of birds this morning and the stirrings of old dreams in young minds. There were the noble savages who took to a cry that adults never will be able to. If they had been wearing war paint, had had long hair, sun brown bodies, with only a flap of leather covering their penises and balls, they could have gone out and done anything. They could have raided the larders and made off with the food and freed everyone they touched with their sexy hands and their sexy penises and their sexy balls. They could have told the whole wide world that sex was a splendid country, that it is a good place to get lost in, that a boy coming in your mouth is one of the most exciting celebrations that any one could ever be expected to ask for. And we know, they would say, because Master Tony taught us how. How lucky we were to know him. In the center of the sleepy naked boys whose cocks bounced and strummed and came every now and then drip dripping along in their half awake dreams, lay Tony Bony Baloney Maloney. Like the sun to their planets. Like the hub to their spokes in the wheel of the day. And how it was turning more smoothly. With less rust. With no Regulation Boy Scout uniforms to cover the bodies of boys who whispered into the wind and the wind whispered back the leader's name, forever be praised. And stupid old A.B. just slept and slept. As in the woods a little way away, a wereweenie looked out at them from its loving one eye, and pronounced its mission here over, as boy assholes puckered and said good bye wereweenie, how gloriously filled we were this night and we owe it all to you. And the wereweenie nodded regards, and turned around and slithered back into the trees and the density as the sun began to glow cinder red and then streaks of gold and then began to shine in earnest, and surely the sun said the name Tony, for how could it not have? When A.B. eventually arose, and found out there what awaited him, he almost had a heart attack. "Holy Jesus on a revolving swizzle stick!" he exclaimed, forgetting for the nonce that he was his church's organist. His prong went up. His balls tightened so hard they hurt. >From the circle of naked slumbering boys all firm backs in rosy glow and visible chests, crotches and legs of all styles, and penises that stood up and said howdy, one boy arose. Tony Bony Baloney Maloney, from the center of the universe. Dick hard. Dick engorged. Dick ready to show A.B. tricks the Scout Master had never thought possible. The very world opened its sleepy eyes, sighed, and smiled with amusement. For, after all, the scouts are there to learn. And daybreak gave them only the next chapter of their Regulation Boy Scout Sex Jamboree. What a wonder to behold. And may I say, God bless them, God bless them every one.