Date: Wed, 31 Jan 2007 12:36:05 -0500
From: carl_mason@comcast.net
Subject: PROFESSOR KENYON - 6

PROFESSOR KENYON - 6

Copyright 2007 by Carl Mason

All rights reserved.  Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal
enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without
the written permission of the author.  However based on real events and
places, "Streets of New York" is strictly fictional.  Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.  As in real life, however, the sexual themes unfold
gradually.  Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to
the author at carl_mason@comcast.net

If you would like to read additional stories by this author, please turn to
the "Authors/Prolific Authors" link at the beginning of the Nifty Archive.

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both
adults and teenagers.  As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the
personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults.  If you are not of
legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you
trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral
dilemmas in your life, please leave.  Finally, remember that maturity
generally demands safe sex.


CHAPTER 6

(Revisiting Chapter 5)


Perhaps an hour later, Brad heard a tapping on the window beside the back
door.  As he opened the door, Kenyon heard a great shout.  A few seconds
later, Dakota came riding into the living room on Brad's shoulders.  When
the boy saw the Professor, however, he said, "Let me down, Brad!"  Turning
to the Professor, he said, "I heard what you and Brad said, sir - and every
word of it was true.  It's worse than you said."  His lips were quivering
as he continued.  "I don't want to be this way, sir.  I brought Brad's
stuff back because I...I...like you too much to steal from you.  If there's
any way I can stay, I'll do anything you want.  One John told me that there
are doctors who could help me get off the stuff if I had the money to pay
them.  Of course, he only wanted me to earn some money by taking care of
him."  With that the boy broke down completely.  "PLEASE let me stay, sir,
PLEASE!" he cried through his tears.  When he saw that the Professor's arms
were held out towards him, he made a beeline for him and climbed up into
his lap.  The long colt legs and clown feet didn't fit so well, but chances
were, the Professor thought, he could put up with it if his second son
could.

(Continuing Our Story - "Hell Hath No Fury . . .")

"Dad, they're driving me nuts!" Kenyon's eighteen-year-old whined.  "They
won't take 'no' for an answer; they don't believe me when I say I'm busy -
'cause they talk with each other about who said what to whom!  It was bad
enough after the Cornell meet, but now that we've won two straight meets,
they're swarming!  I'm even starting to hear words that no one can afford
to hear about himself.  Help!"  (Dakota who was sitting on the rug in front
of the TV heard the exchange and let out a loud snort.  A dirty look from
Brad shut him up, albeit temporarily.)

"Well, I'm reminded of the words of the great British writer, Rudyard
Kipling," the Professor mused.  "You know...'the female of the species is
more deadly than the male'...or something to that effect."  "You said it!"
Brad agreed with great vehemence.  "In this case, however," he continued
after giving Brad the evil eye for interrupting him, "I suspect you're
going to have to join them."  "JOIN THEM?!" the hunky gymnast exploded as
"Little Brother" rolled around on the floor in silent laughter.  "Yep, join
them," the Professor repeated.  "Until the members of the swarm see you out
there on the dance floor with another woman, they're not likely to give you
much peace."

"Holy shit, Dad!  I asked for help, not for ways to dig myself in deeper!"
moaned an obviously distraught eighteen-year-old.  "I trust you know other
words for conversations with your academic advisor?" the Professor
inquired...just a bit tartly.  "Yeah, Dad, but he helps me!" Brad answered
in increasing dismay.  "And so may I," the Professor continued calmly.
"Sit back and let's see."

"My lover and I ran into much the same problem during my sophomore year at
Brown," the Professor said, as much to himself as to Brad.  "Fortunately,
he had friends who had friends who were Lesbos, one of whom came to my aid.
It seems that friends and family were putting a lot of pressure on her,
too.  We both needed to be seen - and for three years we WERE occasionally
seen at dances and the major events that you just have to attend.  Everyone
got off our backs...fast."  "Knowing her and...dating for three years
didn't get emotionally involving, Dad?"  "Oh, sure," the Professor
snickered.  "We both knew whose arms we wanted to have around us as soon as
we could leave the dance - and we didn't stick around one more minute than
we had to.  Being together had all of the sexual fire of trying to strike a
soggy match!  Well, that's a bit unkind.  Actually, we came to respect each
other as human beings and even became friends.  We still exchange cards and
a short note at Christmas, and I feel all the better for it!"

"Wow, Dad, that IS 'help'," Brad mused.  "While I've got to go slow and not
make things worse, that's worth checking out.  Thanks!"  Evidently, he did,
for a few weeks later, the Professor was introduced to a lovely young lady
who was his date for the St.  Paddy's Day dance at the Beta House.  (He
knew that she had eyes for another, another who would never win a "Mr.
America" contest!)  Actually, they just popped in so he could show her off,
and they left again just as quickly.  As soon as they were out of the
house, Dakota (who had been playing "Black Mama" with the Professor) gasped
"Holy shit!"  and tried to push his eyeballs back into his skull.  "You're
learning bad habits from your brother," Kenyon growled as he flicked a
little lemonade in his direction.  "Yep," mumbled Dakota and loudly yelled
"Gottcha" as he laid his cards down on the table.

(The Ugly Duckling)

When Dakota first came to live at Professor Kenyon's home, one would have
to admit that he was not a particularly attractive kid.  Actually, it's
hard to be "attractive" when no one gives a damn about your teeth, or hair,
or skin, or diet - or whether you live or die, for that matter.  Dakota had
been on his own for a long time.  (Even he couldn't remember how long.)  It
was only with puberty that a few miscreants began to notice him.

On the day that followed that first wild evening, the Professor contacted
Child Protective Services (that eventually placed the boy with the
Professor as a foster parent, but only after a long period of bureaucratic
hogwash) and then took him to a pediatrician and to his dentist.  In each
case, the twelve-year-old found the process terrifying and clung to Kenyon
like a newborn ape.  He had been a leaf in the wind for so long that words
alone could not convince him that discomfort was transitory or that his new
home and relatives were his...permanently.  As soon as he was sure that the
"little visitors" who had set up housekeeping in his stringy hair were
dead, he took him for a haircut and then to the Mall for some new clothes.
Dakota didn't like the barber much more than the others, but had to admit
that the new haircut was "pretty cool," as were the clothes.  When the
first wave of activity was completed, he was still a carrot top with
typically pallid skin who was rather small for his age, but the
transformation was marked.  (Evidently, he thought so too, for he spent
quite a bit of time in front of the large mirror in the Professor's room.
Brad finally had to suggest that the Professor put a similar mirror in his
room, for on several occasions he had come upon Little Bro when he was
heavily involved in a mirror-related activity!)

Thanks to his contacts at the University, he was able to arrange for a
highly regarded professional - who, thanks be, Dakota liked - to handle the
boy's detox both during the initial stage and in the longer therapeutic
relationship.  The fact that this was done at "academic courtesy" rates was
not lost on Kenyon - nor was it lost on the University when changes had to
be made in the Counseling Center.  Dakota was pretty well through the
initial detoxification stage when the physician let him know that the blood
work had come back.  When Kenyon found out that he was essentially clean,
he had to agree with his physician that an angel had to have been watching
over the boy...maybe several of them...or a brigade.  Whatever.

When events stabilized for the boy, Kenyon thought it best to consider
employing a tutor.  He had been out of school for a long time.  If he
returned to school immediately, there was no chance that he would be able
to keep up with his early adolescent peers.  Better, the Professor thought,
to give him a real boost and then evaluate where to go from there.  In any
case, some testing was on his mind once health concerns and basic
stabilization had been satisfied.

Returning for a moment to Dakota's concern for his appearance, that also
got the twelve-year-old talking with his big bro.  One afternoon, for
instance, he lay sprawled out on Brad's bed while the college student
worked on his home assignments.  "Hey, Brad?"  "Yeah, Little Bro.  What's
up?"  "How long did it take you to build up your body to the way it is
now?"  "Oh, it took a while, Dakota, though, obviously, most of it's been
done while I've been a teenager.  Right?"  "Right," Dakota answered.  "Does
that mean I could look like you before long?"  "Yep," Big Bro answered,
"though it takes some regular work.  You know, bro, you are welcome to work
out with me anytime you feel like it.  I'm down in the exercise room
several times a week.  Glad to help you in any way I can!"

Three days later, Dakota wandered down the stairs a few minutes after Brad.
The collegian had just finished stripping down to his jock and was doing
some stretching and warm up exercises.  The boy sat on the bottom stair,
watching his hero intently.  "Man, what a build," he finally sighed with
obvious appreciation.  "Well, Dakota, you know how you can get yours, don't
you?" Brad puffed.  "Yep," the young one responded.  "Hey, Brad?" he said
brightly, taking off in a different direction.  "Why do you wear a jock?"
Wouldn't it be more comfortable with nothing on at all?  Brad turned and
looked at him with a wry grin.  "Well, hey, man!  You wouldn't want it
flopping around when you exercised hard, would you?"  "Guess not, the
twelve-year-old said, removed his clothes other than his underwear shorts
and his socks, and proceeded to puff and stretch with the best of 'em.

That night, Dakota waylaid the Professor after the news and asked if he
could have a few minutes.  He then explained how he wanted to have a body
like Brad's, but he needed to have a small-sized jock.  "Why do you need a
jock?" son.  "Well, hey, dad, you wouldn't want it flopping around when you
exercised hard, would you?"  The good man began to think he needed an
updated course in adolescent development.  That is, what did the latest
research say about the relationship between the adolescent's simple
awareness of physical change and his actual growth?  Nevertheless, the good
man went out the very next day and bought Dakota a small-sized jock.

It would be nice to report that Dakota's past life never reached up and bit
him...but that wouldn't be true.  For instance, the family always
associated the last storm of a lingering winter with a particularly
unpleasant event.  Somehow, someway - possibly by his red hair - one of
Dakota's old johns recognized him.  Worse, completely soused, the man
followed him home one night in the teeth of a vicious line squall.  There
he stood - illuminated by a street lamp in front of the next house, the
rain coming down in buckets, stuff floating by in the wind - madly pounding
on the front door and yelling for Dakota.  It was probably around two am.
The boys were awake but thoroughly confused as to what they should do.  His
face screwed into a mask, the Professor passed them in the hall as if he
were the Great Avenger.  What followed resembled nothing less than a
Victorian stage when a performer has overstayed his visit.  At one moment,
one saw the rainswept scene and the drunk pounding on the door.  In the
blink of an eye, the door opened, the drunk was yanked inside, and the door
closed.  The boys who had followed their father to the front of the house
saw nothing in the darkened entrance and heard little but roars that barely
resembled human speech and fists landing.  Finally, there were squeaks that
resembled the words, "Never, never again, I swear," the door opened and a
dark shape went flying out into the rain.  A great dark wind passed the
boys in the hall.  Wondering exactly what had happened, a wide-eyed Dakota
looked at his big bro and said, "Wow!  Maybe I don't have to develop a
great body.  Maybe it would be enough to become an historian!"

(Raisin' Hell)

As March dawned and the weather changed, Brad did hear from Cousin Andy up
in Ithaca.  The Spring Break was all of six weeks away, but he and several
buds at Cornell were already talking about going down to Panama City,
Florida.  Would the Great Ringmaster be at all interested in joining them?
In the depths of his bones, Brad felt that dad knew something was brewing.
The looks he gave him as they passed in the hall...the strange silence that
came over the dinner table when Dakota mentioned that he was reading about
Florida.  Weird!  This was going to take some planning!


To Be Continued