The Moon in Your Eyes

by Coningsby

Disclaimer: The following contains scenes of sexual activity between males. If you are offended by reading this or if it is illegal to do so in your community, please do not do so. The author does not condone the violation of any laws. Please do not try this at home; these are trained professionals.

Please send comments and feedback to Please remember the double "c" at the beginning of the address.

I wish to thank Wim and Adrian for their assistance with authenticity, Marc for his critical advise, and Justin for his moral support!

The Moon In Your Eyes

Chapter Six

I was sitting in the chair at Jeff's desk and he was sprawled across his bed as Mrs. Robinson knocked on the door to Jeff's room. I was looking through a spiral sketchbook of some of Jeff's work while he watched. I stood as she entered.

"Well, what a gentleman you are, Scott," she said giving Jeff a rather pointed look. "Perhaps Jeff could learn something about manners from you."

I could have died. That I could have been the cause of anything that could embarrass the boy I loved was something I couldn't bare. She must have seen the pain in my eyes for she looked a bit confused for a second before turning to the angel on the bed and saying, "I'm proud of you, Jeffrey, for choosing such a nice boy for a friend."

I looked at Jeff, who seemed completely oblivious to everything happening around him as he flipped through the pages of a book of French Impressionist art. Mrs. Robinson paused and then turned back to me.

"You will be joining us for dinner, won't you?"

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you very much."

She smiled beguilingly and turned to the door.

"Dinner is at six-thirty. You boys have some time to relax."

I collapsed into the chair again as we listened to her ascend the stairs. When the door to the utility room closed, I looked at Jeff, who finally looked up from his book. He grinned.

"Cukoo, kachoo, Mrs. Robinson."

I couldn't help but grin, despite my pain at his being compared so unfavorably to me.

"I'm so sorry about..."

"Hey," he interrupted with a wave. "That's the way they are. It wasn't you fault.

I frowned. It seemed Jeff too easily accepted this treatment. But, then, what else could he do? I soon learned.

I had re-opened his sketchbook and was turning the pages in awe at the incredible pencil and charcoal drawings I found within its covers, pictures which seemed to come to life in the golden glow of the flickering candlelight. There were wondrous depictions of boys at play with puppy dogs, horses running free though fields of flowers, birds at flight above peaceful lakes. I was stunned not only at the intricate and accurate detail of his creations but also with the emotion I found flowing from the pages. These pictures were all of joy, freedom, and serenity; just the qualities that seemed to be missing from his life here, the life of a friendless boy in a heartless school, living with cold and unloving adults; a boy who, in spite of all that seemed to be working against him, still could laugh, still could find some reason to create and to dream.

I looked over at Jeff. He was watching me intently, gauging my reaction, studying my face, reading my eyes. With slow deliberation, he set aside the book and rose from his bed. He came to stand next to me and placed his right arm around my shoulder as he leaned against me. I looked up into his eyes.

"I don't know what to say."

Jeff smiled, but said nothing. He looked at me for a moment and then turned toward the shelf above his desk. He reached up and removed another sketchbook, identical on the outside to the one I held. He handed it to me. Pointing to the first book, he said, "That's only one side of me. Here's the other."

Curiously, fearfully, I opened the cover and gasped. There, staring at me with anger and fury, was the most grotesque clown I had ever seen. Before a chaotic background, the clown's face was made up in a classic laughing design. However, the hatred in the eyes was like a slap in the face. A furious snarl poisoned the mouth and was a frightening contrast to the traditional laughing face. It was the most disturbing drawing I had ever seen... until the next.

On the second page was a sketch of a group of football players in full gear lined up before a guillotine. One player had just been beheaded and a place kicker below was about to send the severed head toward the uprights.

Page three showed a boy looking rather like Jeff standing on a cliff with an angry sea raging below him and furious, chaotic clouds whirling above. His arms were raised above his head, fists clenched, and his face was clearly shouting his fury at the world around him. He reminded me of King Lear in the Cliff Notes version I had read the previous spring. I closed the book. I couldn't look at any more. Jeff squeezed my shoulder.

"When Ted and Bev are upset, they drink and fight. When I'm upset, I draw or paint."

Once again, I was speechless. I looked up at him; he was still watching me, examining me, judging my reaction. After a moment, he suddenly turned and walked to the stereo on the shelves beside the desk. Beneath, was something covered by a cloth, about four feet long and a foot tall and wide. He pulled the cloth back to reveal a huge rack of forty-fives. He withdrew one from the left side, looked at me as he held it in the air, and said, solemnly, "1964." He then placed it on the turntable and stood in the center of the room, looking ahead as if at attention.

As the unmistakable first piano chords of "Downtown" emerged from the speakers, Jeff began to sway to the beat and as Petula Clark sang out the first words, "When you're alone and life is making you lonely, you can always go, (puta pu pu pom), Downtown...", so did Jeff in a perfect angelic voice. He sang along perfectly, swaying so beautifully with the rhythm, gesturing exactly as he should; and, at just the right moment, he would point to me and I would sing, (at least as much as I was capable of), the word, "Downtown."

In the second verse, as Jeff and Petula sang of the "gentle Bosa-Nova," I hummed the harmony until he gestured for me to stand. We both swayed and moved to the beat and sang the word "Downtown" at the appropriate moments. In the final verse, Jeff looked me in the eyes as I hummed the harmony and he sang, "And, you may find somebody kind to help and understand you, someone who is just like you and needs a gentle hand to guide them along...." He then grew quiet, as did Petula until the final, happy joyful ending and we joined hands in our dance.

When the record ended, we just stood, silly, childish grins on our faces until we both started giggling in embarrassment. I then pulled Jeff to me as we continued to giggle joyfully and I put my arms around him. We stood like that for several moments until we heard another car door slam above us. Jeff looked up at me and, with a melodramatically ominous voice, intoned, "Mr. Robinson arrives."

Even though there was no way to be seen from the outside, we seemed instinctively to pull apart. I resumed my seat at Jeff's desk as he walked over to the stereo.

"`Downtown' was my favorite song in the first grade," I said. "Well, next to `I Want to Hold Your Hand.' I can't believe you like it, too."

Jeff grinned.

"I like a lot of the old stuff from when we were in grade school."

"Neat!" I replied. "And, you're a great singer! And, you can really dance, too!"

Jeff's grin grew even bigger as he replaced the record in its slot and withdrew another.

"I can't believe how talented you are," I continued to gush. "You're an incredible artist, an amazing singer, and great dancer."

"And, I can make my own clothes, too!"

I stuck my tongue out as he grinned at me.

"Speaking of `I Want to Hold Your Hand'..." he said as he held up another single and placed it on the turntable. I jumped up.

"Oh, cool!"

And, as the first guitar chords started, I jumped up and we both started to hop to the rhythm. Jeff did the same sideways nod of his head that the Beatles did, even slung his hair down over his face as they used to when they first became big in America. He looked just like a blond Paul. I loved the way he scrunched up his face as he pretended to scream the word "hand." It was just too cute for words! We continued to dance crazily around the room until the song ended and then we collapsed on the floor, catching our breath.

For the next hour, Jeff played a several more records of catchy bubble gum from the sixties until he picked up a strange yellow record. My eyes grew wide.

"No!" I screamed.


And, the Archies began "Sugar Sugar." I went crazy.

I had truly loved this when it came out a year and a half before. I had danced around my room countless times to the song. It was the only happy song I could remember from the spring of 1969, the months after my Daddy had died. It was the only bit of joy and happiness I knew during that period and, thus, it became far more special to me than a simple bubble gum song might have at that time. We both joyously sang the silly, simplistic lyrics, ("I just can't believe the loveliness of loving you"), swinging our arms, swaying our bodies, and grinning like idiots at each other as we danced our dance of freedom and ecstasy.

But, it ended all too soon as, just at the moment the stereo fell silent, we heard a stomping on the ceiling above us and Jeff's Dad yelling, "Turn that crap down! Dinner's ready!"

Seemingly unaffected, Jeff raised an eyebrow and whispered, "This should be fun!"

I slipped my boat shoes back on and followed Jeff up the stairs. His mother was just setting a platter of spaghetti on the dining room table and his father was standing in the opposite doorway holding a highball glass with only ice in it. His grey slacks appeared to be very expensive and his French cuffs were open and rolled up a little. His tie was loose and he seemed very tired.

"Dad, this is my friend, Scott. He lives down the street and goes to school with me."

His Dad attempted a half-hearted smile and nodded. I smiled politely and said, "Pleased to meet you, sir." He attempted another smile and nod.

We stood at the table until Mrs. Robinson was seated. Then, we took our seats. After grace, Mrs. Robinson began to serve the spaghetti to each of us as Mr. Robinson poured red wine into two large glasses for his wife and himself and into two smaller glasses for Jeff and me. I was surprised. I had never tasted wine before; Jeff acted as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Its very European for kids to drink wine," he explained. I thanked Mr. Robinson as he finished pouring mine, not without dripping some down the side and onto the expensive looking beige table cloth.

"Jeff's European, you know," Mrs. Robinson said with a slur. Her tone indicated she was bragging about one of her antiques, as if she were informing me the crystal was Waterford.

I look questioningly at Jeff as he raised his glass. We toasted and as I took my first sip, he explained, "My birth parents were Dutch. They were college students here in America when they met."

Fascinated by yet another facet of my love's character, I asked, "Do you speak Dutch?"

"Just a little. I don't remember much because they stayed here after college and became naturalized in the fifties. I did spent part of my childhood in England, though."

A light came on for me.

"That explains it."


I smiled. "Sometimes, you have a funny way of making your voice go up and down when you're talking. Sometimes, your questions go down instead of up or something like that. Earlier, you said, `Can I ahsk you a question.'"

He blushed. "Sometimes it just slips out. I've lost most of my accent now."

"Except when he wants to show-off," Mr. Robinson sneered through a mouthful of garlic bread. Jeff shrugged.

"Dad thinks I'm pretentious."

"Oh, he doesn't think that," Mrs. Robinson said. "He just wants you to be like other boys and make friends."

"Well, I made a great friend! You know what Scott did today?" he asked with unbridled enthusiasm. "He stopped Mike Baldwin from beating me up again! He jumped him right in the church and kicked his ass!"

"Jeffrey!" Mrs. Robinson admonished. "Don't use that language at the table!"

"Sorry," Jeff replied quietly. "But, he did. It was so cool!"

"You had a fight in the church?" Mr. Robinson asked with disgust as he sloshed wine out of the glass and onto his salad. I swallowed.

"We were walking past the church," I tried to explain, "and Baldwin and his gang started chasing us. So we ran into the church and they followed us and..."

"And, Baldwin grabbed me and Scott jumped him to protect me and started pounding away on his head and then Father Parker jumped in and pinned Mike to the wall and Mrs. Gordon called the police and the Headmaster sent Baldwin home for the day. And, Scott saved me from getting beat-up again!"

Mrs. Robinson looked at me with wet smile and slurred, "Thank you, Scott. That was very good of you. Were you hurt?"

Embarrassed and wishing we could change the subject, I looked at my plate and mumbled, "No, ma'am."

"Yeah, thanks, Scott," Mr. Robinson added. "We appreciate it. I just wish Jeff would learn to fight his own battles."

I was furious with his Dad and was about to say something, but Jeff gave me a look and slightly shook his head "no." I deferred to his judgement and remained quiet.

After an uneasy silence, we resumed eating and the conversation returned to whatever passed for normal in the Robinson house. It was after she had cleared the plates and served us each a slice of lemon pie that Mrs. Robinson announced she had nearly had an accident driving home. After she described in melodramatic detail the horrors of rush hour traffic, Jeff raised his water glass in a toast to his Mom, and declared, "Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson. Jesus loves you more than you can know."

His Mom looked at him and, in all serousness, declared, "You're absolutely right, Jeffrey. I could never have made it out of this if Jesus hadn't been looking out for me."

I choked to avoid laughing and even Mr. Robinson was suppressing a smile through his malevolent gaze.

As his parents retired to the den to resume drinking their scotch, I helped Jeff with the dishes and then ran home to get my telescope. When I returned, my friend was sitting in the backyard waiting for me. I stopped at the gate in the chain-link fence. He hadn't seen me and was sitting in a lawn chair, his slim legs spread out, his head thrown back as he gazed up at the dusk just settling in. The blond hair hanging back from his head, the look of wonder on his face as he gazed at the few small clouds in the sky as they faded from their bright orange into a soft salmon and then into a gentle violet were far more beautiful than the sunset. He jumped and smiled as I opened the gate.

"Cool!" he exclaimed as I entered the yard. "Let's hurry and set it up!"

I grinned.

"Slow down there. We have plenty of time. The moon's only just now rising. It won't be high enough for us to really see it well for another couple of hours. Lets leave the telescope here on the patio and go for a walk."

Jeff smiled and replied, "That sounds fun." As I set everything down and he stood, Jeff added, "I like to go walking. It's a great way to get away from everything and think. But, I've never had anyone to go with me. This is cool."

I chuckled.

"Everything's cool."

Jeff looked down as I re-opened the gate. "I guess I say that too much, don't I?"

I put my arm around his shoulder and squeezed as we strolled down the driveway.

"That's what makes you so cool," I said with a grin. Jeff rolled his eyes.

We strolled leisurely up Twenty-first, away from both out houses. It was the perfect late summer evening for me. The cicadas sang their mating songs in the trees, first one in one tree and as he faded out another would take up the song from another. The late evening sun was setting to the west and cast a warm golden glow on the green leaves of the trees. We startled a pair of doves as we passed a large fake Victorian and they made deep whistling sounds as they took flight. The last of the summer lightening bugs darted about. Every once in awhile, the hum of a window air conditioner drowned out the faint sounds of traffic on Twenty-fourth or on the nearby Southeast Expressway. It was the kind of evening that reminded me of the peace and happiness of my childhood. I said so to Jeff.

"Why is that?" he asked softly.

"I don't know. I guess it makes me think of those wonderful summer evenings back home when we'd sit on the back porch and Daddy would tell us funny stories while I cranked the ice cream machine or when we'd go for drives in the country. Daddy hated air conditioning and we would drive with the windows open and smell the farms as we went by. Sometimes it was alfalfa, which smells awful. Sometimes it was pig shit!"

Jeff snickered.

"But, whatever it was, Daddy always said it smelled better than town did. Sometimes, when we were in the back yard, he and Mikey and I would wrestle in the grass and Mikey and I always pinned him until he would suddenly roar and throw us off and tickle one of us. He tickled Mikey so hard once that he peed in his pants!"

Jeff was smiling wistfully.

"You have some wonderful memories."

"I'll bet you do to," I replied hopefully.

"Not since I was eight. We didn't have summers like this in Cambridge and we didn't come back to America until I was seven, so we only had a year here before they died."

We turned a corner at, ironically, Cambridge Avenue and headed north.

"So what was you're name before you were adopted?"

He grinned.


I playfully slugged his shoulder.

"Doofus. I mean your last name."

Jeff looked off into space as he replied, "Linden. My parents called me Wim."

"How come? Jeff wasn't really your name?"

"Oh, it was. They wanted me to be American but also Dutch, so they named me Jeff because they thought that was such an American name. My middle name is William, so they called me Wim."

"That's cute!" I replied. Jeff blushed.

We continued our walk through the neighborhood, chatting about nothing and everything until the darkness had settled over the city. A siren from Franklin Avenue was just able to overcome the hum of the air conditioner in the window of the Robinson's den as we entered the backyard. The giant orange orb of the Moon was just rising above the treetops in the yards to the east. We both stood in the grass in awe of the sight.

"Its beautiful," Jeff whispered.

"Yeah. Awesome."

We stood for sometime, watching as it slowly rose and the color changed to yellow and then silver. Over the course of a half-hour, I set up my tripod and then attached the telescope, carefully removing the lens caps and polishing the lenses.

"Will we be able to see the craters and the mountains?" Jeff asked eagerly.

"Well, kinda," I replied. "See the problem is the full moon is so bright that the light kinda drowns out the details. The best time to see the craters and the mountains is when there's a half moon or a crescent moon. The you look right along the terminator and you can the shadows perfectly. It's so cool."

"Well, we'll still be able to see a lot, won't we?" he asked hopefully.

"Oh, yeah," I reassured him. "It'll be cool"

I grinned as I said cool and Jeff slugged me back.

I spent a couple of minutes aiming and focusing until it was just right. Jeff was so excited, but when he put his eye up to the telescope, squinting as he peered through, he dissolved into a stunned silence.

"Oh, my God," he whispered. "Its beautiful"

I smiled at Jeff's first true exposure to the glories my father had given me as a child, the wonders of the universe.

"It's moving," he said.

"Actually, that's the rotation of the earth," I replied. "The moon is always moving across the sky. Its just that you usually can't see it. At that detail, you can see it."

"Wow," he breathed. "Can you bring it back into view?"

I showed him how to move the telescope. He made the adjustment and gazed in rapture.

"This is so... incredible."

I remembered the first time Daddy had taken me out into the backyard with this very telescope and shown me the craters on the moon. I remembered the sense of wonder and awe the child Scott had experienced with his first look and could only guess how magnified that must be someone old enough to truly appreciate what it was he was seeing.

"Move it up to the top of the moon," I instructed gently. Jeff did so.

"Do you see the two big dark circles?"


"The one on the left is the Sea of Rains and the one on the right is the Sea of Serenity."

Jeff looked and then asked, "Why are they called seas? There isn't any water on the moon."

"There was a time, hundreds of years ago" I replied, "when astronomers thought that they really were seas. Move it down and to the right a little."


"Now, see that big splotchy area?"


I knew I was about to get another cool reaction from my sweet friend.

"That's the Sea of Tranquility."

"You mean..."

"Yep. Look on the upper left side, near the center of the moon. That's where Apollo 11 landed."

Jeff continued to squint, but his mouth slowly fell open in a wordless expression of awe.

"Over to the left, the big gray area below the Sea of Rains?"


"That's the Ocean of Storms. At the top of that is where Apollo 12 landed. Apollo 14 landed just a little to the right of that, and that big crater above them is Copernicus."

"What about the one last month?" The excitement and confidence in his voice was growing.

"Apollo 15. Look up toward the top again. In the mountainous area between the Sea of Rains and the Sea of Serenity, do you see a little gap?"


Just barely below that is Mt. Hadley. That's where Apollo 15 landed."

Jeff kept moving the telescope to gaze at new areas. He was like a kid in a candy shop. It was cute. It was beautiful. It was inspirational.

"Hey," he said curiously. "Down and to the right of the Ocean of Storms?"


"There's this bright crater with lots of lines coming out of it. The lines are like real long. What's that?"

I smiled. This would be fun!

"Did you see 2001?"

"Uh, huh."

"Do you remember the monolith on the moon?"


"That's where is was. It's a crater called Tycho."

"Cool! Won't it be cool when it really is 2001 and we can go up to space stations and fly to the moon and have computers on our desks and TV phones."

Sitting beside Jeff, I was gazing up the moon, thinking those very thoughts.

"I would give anything to walk on the moon," I said.

"Someday you will. By the Twenty-first Century, it'll be just like flying to New York or LA."

He continued to gaze in rapture at the moon while I gazed in rapture at Jeff. I had never felt such love and such joy. The silver light of the moon shining on Jeff's face gave it a strange and wonderful luminescence I had never seen. His hair seemed so delicate, as if it were crystalline. I wanted to run my fingers over his face, through his hair, see if I could feel his beauty.

Finally, Jeff sat down in the grass next to me. We both looked up for some time until he turned and looked at me. We gazed at each other for a moment and then Jeff's face brightened.

"I'll be right back."

He jumped up and ran into the house. While he was gone, I took a turn at the telescope.

I didn't realize Jeff had returned until I heard a strange scratching sound to my right. I turned my gaze from the telescope and found Jeff sitting in the grass watching me and sketching in his spiral.

"What are you drawing," I asked.

Jeff smiled sweetly and replied, "You."

I was thrilled.

"Let me see."

"No!" He pulled the spiral back and turned it upside down. With a grin, he added, "Wait till I'm done!"

I went back to the telescope. While I looked at the Sea of Tranquility and tried to imagine Neil and Buzz walking its dusty plain, I asked Jeff, "Why are you drawing me right now?"

"Because I want to use the moon light to illuminate you as you, to see the real you. And, I want to use the light of the moon to light my paper to make it even more true to the ... I don't know... the spiritual truth of you."

I looked in awe at my boy. How could he have come up with such a... well, profound... thought? I realized he was far more intelligent and perceptive than I had understood before, far more complex than the simple lonely boy I thought I knew.

I sat back and then laid down in the grass. It was still a warm evening, but the grass was deliciously cool. I slapped a lonely mosquito on my arm and turned to look at Jeff as several fireflies darted to and fro around him. I watched as his eyes would concentrate on tiny, intricate scratches on the paper and, then, on long and powerful strokes which seemed to cover the page. Every once in a while, he would look up and study me and then resume his work.

I was so in love with him.

Finally, he looked up, set his pencil down, and smiled.

"I'm finished," he announced.

I sat up. "Let's go in and look at it."

"No, look at it here, in the moonlight. It was drawn in the moonlight, with the moonlight shining on you. Its meant to be seen in the moonlight."

His face seemed to sing his love. I could only smile. I moved over to him and looked.

It was beautiful. The use of shadow and light created an amazing ethereal quality. I was looking at the viewer, my telescope in the background, a strange, almost other-worldly look on my face, shadows all around, yet my eyes in the picture seemed to glow.

Underneath, in almost calligraphic writing, were the words, "Scott, September 4, 1971. The happiest night of my life." He signed it, Wim Linden.

Tears came to my eyes. I saw tears form in his. And, as they did, the most amazing transformation occurred. His eyes took on a silver glow, mesmerizing and breathtaking.

I whispered.

"I can see the Moon in your eyes."

Jeff set the sketch down in the grass and scooted over to me. We put our arms around each other and he looked up at me worshipfully. Closer, his moist eyes glowed even more, the silver luminance brighter and sharper.

"Its amazing," I whispered. "I can actually see the Moon in your eyes."

The tears grew and spilled over onto the alabaster cheeks, themselves glowing in the silver light.

"Scott," he whispered.


He smiled.

"Nothing. I just wanted to say your name."

I sighed.



"Can I tell you something?"


"Will you promise me, swear to me, that you won't be upset or think I'm weird?"

I brushed the tips of my left fingers across his forehead.

"Never, Jeff. I would never think you're weird. You can tell me anything."

Jeff blinked, which brought an evenness to the silver in his eyes.

"I love you."

Tears were now flowing down my own cheeks. In just a matter of days, I had traveled the road from near total despair to the heights of joy, from the hell of desolation to the Nirvana of Love. Of course, my thirteen year-old mind didn't phrase it that way, but the concepts were there and I was speechless. Apparently, my face told Jeff all he needed in answer. He leaned over and lay against my chest and right shoulder. My arms enfolded him and I heard him sigh.

Softly, through a sweet sounding sniffle, I heard him whisper, "You're the first person who's loved me since my parents died."

I could still say nothing, so overwhelmed was I by the moment. It was some time before I could, myself, say, "I love you."

After a bit, Jeff looked up at me and whispered, "Are we going to do it again tonight?"

I smiled. "If you want to."

He paused. "Would you think it was gay if I asked you to hold me while I do it?"

I grinned. "Yes."

He looked a little shocked.

"But," I continued, "I don't care. In fact, instead of you doing it, why don't I do it to you."

A look of profound serenity came over his face, as if he had just ended a long journey and found himself at home. He leaned against me again.

For the first time since we had entered the back yard, I realized I was hard. It was strange, At some level, I had known all night that I was hard, but it just didn't seem to come to the front of my thoughts until that very moment. It hadn't been that important. Now, all the facets of Jeff, his beauty, his talent, his pain, his joy, his strength of character, his perceptiveness, all came together in one overwhelming emotion. I wanted him in every way possible, sexually, emotionally, spiritually, physically. I loved Jeff Robinson, Wim Linden, whoever he was. I loved the boy in my arms.

The screen door at the side of the house slammed. We jumped apart, terror momentarily exploding in our hearts. Mrs. Robinson came around the corner of the house to find us sitting Indian style in the grass beneath the telescope.

"Boys, its almost eleven," she slurred. She appeared to sway in the moonlight, giving her an almost ghostly quality in her turquoise nightgown and robe. "You better come in."

Jeff looked at the grass. I couldn't fathom the emotion on his face or in his voice, so different from what it had been just seconds before. "Yes, ma'am." It seemed to be a combination of shame and disgust, as well as anger and sadness.

I stood and began to replace the lens caps on my telescope. Jeff picked up his sketchbook and pencils. Mrs. Robinson floated away around the corner.

After I had disconnected the telescope from the tripod, I followed Jeff in the side door to the utility room where I set the everything down. He went on into the kitchen; again, I followed.

The Robinsons were sprawled in their chairs in the den, Ted unconscious, yet still gripping a half-empty glass of scotch, Beverley nodding drunkenly at the televison. Joey Bishop was hosting the Tonight Show; I liked to watch it only when Johnny was on.

Jeff stood for a moment watching the scene with disgust. After a moment, he quietly muttered, "`Night, Mom."

She turned drunkenly to us and muttered, "`Night, sweetie."

She paused and then added, nastily, "You two be nice, now."

A horrified look came over Jeff's face as he quickly turned. I was shocked as well and turned to find Jeff nearly running from the room. I found him in the dark, leaning over the back of a chair at the dining room table. He looked as if he were about to be ill.

"Its not like that," he muttered. It broke my heart to hear the pain in his voice. "Its not like that."

"Jeff," I whispered as I came up behind him. I put my arms around his shoulders and he shuddered.

"She always makes it seem so dirty," he muttered.

What a strange thing to say, I thought. What could he mean by that? But, I was too concerned with his pain to ponder it. I pulled him toward the kitchen and he meekly followed. By the time we were descending the stairs to his basement retreat, he seemed to be recovering his composure and when the door was closed and we were alone, he actually smiled.

I stood by the door as he walked to his desk and set down his sketchbook. He then struck a match and lit the candle beside the bed. I turned off the overhead light and slowly approached him as he stood in the soft glow of the candlelight, watching me.

As I came up to him, I stopped just in front. He looked up at me with an almost worshipful expression that caused my heart to swell. I put my arms around him and pulled him to me. He collapsed against me with a moan. Tightly, I held him, supporting him, protecting him.

"Jeff," I whispered. "Jeff."

He said nothing, just stood there letting me hold him until I pulled away. I ran my hands down his slim torso until I came to the bottom of his t-shirt. I slipped it up and he raised his arms to allow me to bring it up and over his head. Then, I slowly unsnapped his shorts, feeling the rigidity of his erection as I lowered the zipper. Once again, he was bare beneath his shorts and as I first opened them, then lowered them, my heart stopped again as I saw the beauty of his stiff boyhood as it stood up proudly from between him slender legs.

He looked me in the eyes with love and turned to the bed, pulling the covers back and climbing in. Moving to the far side, he sat and watched as I pulled my own shirt up and over and then dropped my shorts after kicking off my Topsiders.

I climbed into bed and our naked bodies melted together and I pulled Jeff into me. It was a warm evening outside, but the natural cool of the basement combined with the cool air flowing down from the house above moved me to pull the covers over us. We became a tangle of arms and legs with Jeff laying his head against my shoulder.

"I love you Jeff," I whispered. "I love you."

He looked up at me with quiet joy and wordlessly spoke to me through his eyes. I brought my lips down slowly, as, first, the tips of our noses touched. Slowly they slid together until out lips touched. His were so moist and soft and puffy. We both moaned as our mouths came together. I could barely feel the almost imperceptible down over his upper lip and our mouths made love. We kissed as, first my lips, then his, pressed and pulled, caressed and loved. I could hear little mewling sounds coming from Jeff's throat as I loved him.

Slowly, I rolled over on top of him, forcing his torso down against the bed. My penis throbbed against his tummy as his penis throbbed against me. My hips involuntarily thrust against him and I heard him groan.

Jeff's lips parted and I felt something wet and alive against my lower lip. It pressed hard and pushed through my lips and I groaned even louder as I realized Jeff's sweet tongue had entered my mouth. I pressed mine against his and felt it respond like a living thing, moving around, writhing against mine, twisting and rubbing and thrusting in ways that made me want to groan as loud as I could.

We continued in this way until the feeling within me as our boyhoods rubbed and thrust against each other grew to the point that I feared I might scream. I pushed myself away.

Jeff looked up at me, open-mouthed, gasping for breath, the look of need on his face almost painful. I brought my hand up and ran the tips of my fingers across his smooth alabaster skin. He closed his eyes and shuddered as my fingers caressed his cheeks, his nose, the down on his lip.

I rolled over onto my back and pulled him sideways until he was half on me, his back to me, his front exposed. He rested the back of his head against my shoulder again as our legs tangled. My left arm was wrapped around him and caressed his face and chest. My right hand, slowly moved down his body to his open thighs. I ran my fingers across the smooth inside of his thigh, sending shivers up his already trembling body.

"Oooh," he moaned, the first word our of his mouth since we had climbed into his bed. My fingers pushed up his thigh until they came to rest at the base of his erection. I stopped there, feeling the hardness at the base, the trembling of his body, and the throbbing of his penis. Then I brought them down and across the smooth sensitive area between his balls and his butt.

"OOOOH," he moaned again, this time louder. I rubbed up and down along the swollen area, exploring and learning, trying to excite him and make him feel as good, as special, as loved as I possibly could.

Gradually, my fingers moved up to his churning balls as I gently ran the tips along the sac. Again, he cried out, though this time, he thrust his hips upward. His arms were spread wide and his fists desperately clutched at the sheet beneath us as I finally cupped my hand around his balls. I could feel them churning in their pubertal lust, producing the sperm that I soon would coax from them. Jeff's cries were almost constant now.

As slowly as I could, I moved my hand upward as, first, my index finger and, then, the middle finger, then the ring finger, and, finally, my pinky were wrapped around the rigid, throbbing penis.

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God," he repeated over and over. I was crying out as well. Never had I ever touched a penis other than mine and never had I felt myself so aroused, so excited, so sexual, so in love. I was thrusting my hips against the right cheek of his butt as he ground against me; all the while, my hand fondling, squeezing, loving his penis.

Relentlessly, I continued to stroke and caress his erection until I felt the stiffness grow, the pulsing become more insistent, and his cries become less restrained. Realizing he was about to come to an end, I stopped and a frustrated, "No!" burst from his mouth.

"Please, don't stop!"

I moved my hand back to his thigh and squeezed it to me as I squeezed his torso with my left arm as tightly as I could. It was an incredible realization to me that I was controlling his sexual feelings and it was I who would decide when he went over the top. It was my responsibility to make him feel as good as I possibly could, as good as he had ever felt in his life, as good as he deserved to feel. I loved Jeff.

After a moment to allow him to relax some, I moved my hand back and again I resumed my slow and loving fondling of his penis. Jeff's thrusting resumed as well, as did my own against his butt. Soon, his head was thrashing about as incoherent sounds escaped from his mouth. I, too, was crying out uncontrollably.

Suddenly, a thought occurred. Once again, I stopped, to Jeff's incredible consternation. I pulled away and flipped him to his side. The look of need o his face was beyond description.

I looked into his eyes. No longer was he the Jeff of St. Stephen's School, the Jeff so ill-used by his the Robinsons, the Jeff so abused by the bullies of his life. He was the boy within, the boy of love, the boy of need. He was no longer Jeff.

"Wim," I whispered as my hand took his penis. He cried as he desperately took mine. Our eyes locked as we passionately took each other to the point beyond which nothing else was possible. My eyes closed and I cried and writhed under the hand of my sweet love, only vaguely aware of Wim doing the same. And, when we became conscious, once again, of the world around us and lay gasping in each others' arms, I gazed into his eyes and knew the rest of my life had been determined in that one sublime moment.

Thus ends Chapter 6. This chapter has meant a great deal to me. Please send comments to Please remember the double "c" at the beginning of the address. Thank you so much. A special note, Chapter 7 may be delayed due to some personal commitments during the next week.