Date: Thu, 24 Feb 2005 11:26:33 -0500
From: edcwriter@yahoo.com
Subject: THE PRIEST & THE PAUPER - 8

THE PRIEST & THE PAUPER - 8

Copyright 2005 by Carl Mason and Ed Collins

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 authors.  However based on real events and
places, "The Priest and the Pauper" 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.  If you would like to read other Mason-Collins stories, you
might turn to "Out of the Rubble" and "Castle Margarethen," both of which
are archived in Nifty's "Historical" section.  Comments on the story are
appreciated and may be addressed to the authors at edcwriter@yahoo.com

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 that anything other than safe sex is sheer insanity!


CHAPTER 8

(Revisiting Chapter 7)

On the way back, Tim was absolutely HOPELESS!  He couldn't get his long
legs arranged; he couldn't sit still; he couldn't stop giggling.  Oh, sure,
he'd go quiet for a few minutes, but then the giggles would return and he
would bang his head against the back of the seat in sheer exultation!
Shane was considerably more thoughtful.  Oh, yeah, their welcome had been
fantastic and the sex had been...unbelievable.  For perhaps the first time
in his life, he had experienced a certain mutuality in gay sex that brought
tears to his eyes...and a stiffness back to his heavy cock.  But was there
enough "mutuality"?  Dave could be pretty damned domineering - but the
collegian clearly liked him, didn't he?  In time, things would work out.
At that point, Tim started tunelessly humming the "Tiger Rag."  Big Red
could take no more!  Sharply elbowing his chum in the ribs, he stared into
his pained eyes and growled, "Hold that ti-ger!"  Before collapsing into
giggles, both boys took up the chant, "HOLD THAT TI-GER!  HOLD THAT TI-GER!
OH, YEAH!  HOLD THAT TI-GER!"

(Continuing Our Story - EXTRA!  EXTRA!  Young Polio Victim Assaulted!)

On the Wednesday following Shane and Tim's return from Storrs, the
following article appeared in the Eastern Connecticut Times and was picked
up by papers from Boston to Washington, D.C.

"Sherburne, Connecticut - March 4, 1953.

"Captain Duff McManus, Chief of the Sherburne Police Department, today
reported that which he called, 'one of the most vicious unprovoked attacks
he had ever seen.'  A gang of adolescents attacked a young homeless boy
suffering from polio.  Although he fought back bravely despite his
disability, he was badly beaten, especially about the head and disabled
legs.  Indeed, he might have died in the attack had it not been for
teenaged heroes, members of our new Police Athletic League program, who are
making Sherburne a better place in which to live.  Rather than add violence
to violence, they pulled the perpetrators off the boy and held them until
the police could arrive.  The Rev. Mr. John Wilson, Rector of Holy Trinity
Church and Chairman of the PAL Board of Directors, said that Father Burke
and his teenage charges from St. Patrick's Church had performed a 'true
Christian service' and should be recognized by the entire community.  The
child is reported to be in serious but stable condition in War Memorial
Hospital."

"Fuck off, you bastard son of a bitch!  Just let me out of this dump.  I
don't give a god damn if I have to crawl!  I don't want your charity - just
get this fuckin' tube out of my dick, take these chest straps off, and get
the shit out of my way!"  Brother John listened to the eleven year-old with
a certain backhanded admiration.  "Ah, boyo," he thought to himself, I've
heard pro football jocks speak with less authority!"  To Collin, the victim
of the "vicious attack," he said simply, "Listen, lad, they just about
killed you.  Eight 15 and 16 year-olds to one eleven year old are not good
odds, even if you are about the bravest thing I've ever seen.  YOU should
have played for the Chicago Bears, not I."  "Fuck the Bears!" the red-faced
youngster sneered.  "They're a bunch of pansy faggots.  Anyhow, I'm a
Giants fan!"  ("And I thought he was intelligent," Brother John sighed.)
"We want to get you out of here, too, Collin, but first you've got to see a
doctor.  The doctor may be able to give you something that will help you to
walk some rather than just push your legs around on a cart " "How do you
know my name?" the boy asked suspiciously.  "Friend of yours told us - a
friend who thinks you're a great guy," Little John responded.  "NOBODY
thinks I'm 'a great guy,' the kid muttered, showing one of the first cracks
in his (formidable) armor.  The brown-robed Brother continued, "And one
more thing, Collin, two of the guys who helped finish what you started want
to stop by and shake your hand.  They'll be by this afternoon."  "Hrumph!"
the boy snorted, but said nothing.  Turning his face to the wall, he
muttered, "How in hell could I ever walk?" and would say no more.  John
placed his hand lightly on the boy's head and then blessed him with the
sign of the Cross before he left the room.  Though the youngster trembled,
he did not jerk away from the touch.

Later that afternoon, a well-coached Mel and Shane stole into the hospital
carrel.  Standing not too far from his bed, they carried on a conversation
in tones loud enough for the boy to hear.  "Did you see the fat lip that
this guy gave that big 16 year-old, Shane?" Mel asked.  "Yeah, Mel."  Shane
answered, "I think he should get a hero's medal.  That bastard was a real
loser!"  "I...I gave him a fat lip?" the kid murmured, turning his head and
looking up at the teens.  "You sure as hell did," Shane exclaimed.  We got
the story from some guys who saw the whole thing.  This bunch of real
losers began hassling you, kicking at your legs, trying to knock them off
your cart.  All of a sudden, you flipped and launched yourself off the cart
like a rocket!  No one had ever seen anything like it before.  You smashed
right into the one guy's ugly mouth.  Naturally, you could only do so much.
Eight to one...but you fought back!  When we got there, we pulled them off
you and just finished what you started.  Turned the fuckers over to the
police..."  "Wow..." Collin breathed.  "Who are you?" he asked in standard
English.  "I'm Shane, and this is Mel.  We work for the guy named 'Father
Tom' who's trying to get some help for your legs."  "Hey, Collin," Mel
broke in, "we thought you might like to have one of our comic books - just
to have something to do.  Would you like to join us in a Coke?"  "Yeah!"
the youngster answered in the typical youth vernacular.  For a few minutes,
the boys sat gingerly on the edge of Collin's bed as the three of them
sipped on their soft drinks.  "The nurse said we have to leave now, Big
Guy.  Any chance we could come back and see you?" Mel asked.  The boy's
wide grin was answer enough.  After insisting on shaking a "hero's" hand,
they left.  As soon as the door had closed, Collin slammed his head back on
the pillow and let out a whoop of sheer delight.  From the other side of
the one-way ICU glass, Brother John smiled and murmured to himself, "Them's
my boys!"

Although the story was ancient history to the big city papers, the Eastern
Connecticut Times didn't let up.  "Look at the difference that PAL makes!"
it blared.  "If you want your kids to grow up with hope, encourage them to
get involved.  The programs are free!  Any teacher, any religious figure,
any town official can show them how to get on the RIGHT road!"  (Much the
same message was proclaimed in the churches, schools, and clubs.)  It also
kept providing updates on Collin's condition and insisting that simple
humanity alone demanded that this homeless child receive the best care that
modern medicine could provide.  The articles even included two pictures of
him with members of the Gang.

More or less important - take your choice - Collin was treated pro bono by
a physician well known in the area and, in time, was fitted with leg braces
by one of the foremost polio technicians in Boston, the medical center of
New England.  The physical therapy was grueling, but members of the Gang
stood by him every painful step of the way.  As the time for his leaving
hospitals approached, he was actually taking a hesitant step or two with
the aid of the leg braces and canes - and constant encouragement from his
new "buddies."  Under Mel and Shane's tutelage, he had even gained enough
arm and shoulder strength to handle a light wheelchair with some dexterity
- and a sizeable fund was in the bank to provide alterations to his
equipment when growth demanded.

"Brother John," Fr. Tom exploded one night after supper, "we're not set up
to take this kid on!  None of our buildings are set up for wheelchairs or
anything else of that nature.  Let me turn to the Bishop and try to find a
decent home for him."  Brother John was not to be moved...by Father Tom or
anyone else.  With an attitude reminiscent of his earlier Bridgeport
intransigence, he kept repeating that Collin was their moral
responsibility, that they could damned well CARRY him when it was
necessary, that God's love was now inestimably more important than the
finest facilities.  The good priest was finally worn down by the constant
arguments, the pleas of the Gang (whom the good Brother turned lose on him
with malice and forethought!), and his own love for human beings.  When the
boy was finally released from the last hospital, Brother John and Mel went
up to Boston to bring him home - and to assure him that his bed in the dorm
was right next to Mel's.

(Of Cod and Chowder)

Smiling happily, Shane sat thinking as the station wagon sped south towards
the coast.  Man, Dr. Bill seemed happy to see me this morning!  He came
into the Youth Center, and I was able to introduce him to all my friends.
What a super guy!  He must have asked every one of them about themselves
and how they were involved in PAL.  And it wasn't just politeness.  He was
interested!  The guys thought I was so lucky to have met him.  In fact they
liked him so much that they invited him to have breakfast with us.  (I
think he had already had breakfast, but he had some more anyway!)

Since I had never been on a fishing trip, Dr. Bill insisted on checking out
the gear he had asked me to bring - suntan lotion, foul weather gear, a
really warm coat, and extra clothes (What in hell did I need those for?),
soft sole shoes, a hat, and sunglasses.  (Brother John helped me get it all
together.) Dr. Bill said he had food and drinks, a camera, and some motion
sickness pills (in case there was an earthquake and the beach began to
sway???), and a cooler to store all the fish that we hadn't caught yet!  I
couldn't see why we needed all this stuff when all we were probably going
to do was cast some lines into the ocean from the beach, but...you
know...go with the flow.

Tim, who had come from Norwich, told me that there were some big public
beaches along the shore, but Dr. Bill didn't head for them.  Rather, he
headed straight for New London.  As we worked our way through the old gray
city, I became thoroughly confused.  Had Dr. Bill gotten lost in an
industrial section of town?  Then he suddenly turned into a boatyard that
was right on the Thames River.  Ahead of us I could see a single boat...a
fishing boat, I think...at the dock.  OH, M--A--N...  Captain Sam,
evidently an old friend, saw us coming from one of his sheds and came over
as we pulled up to the small dock.

"Mornin', Professor.  Easy drive?"  "Yes, thanks, Sam.  Let me introduce
Shane McGuire, one of my favorite people up in Sherburne.  Shane, this is
Captain Sam.  My family and I have known him since I was a pup.  Since it's
his first real fishing trip," Dr. Bill continued, speaking to the Captain,
"I thought it would be more fun to go out on the water - and, maybe, feed
him to a whale!"  "Fun-ny..." Shane thought, though he shook hands and
grinned at both men.  "It's a little early for cod fishing, you know,
Professor - and there's not a hell of a lot more out there this early.
Most of the guys don't even have their boats in the water.  Also, we're
probably going to have go halfway to Europe to find a decent cod run," the
old salt mused.  "Still it's a good day...not too cold...and the water's
pretty calm for this time of year.  Maybe we'll be lucky...and catch some
anchovies!"  ("Ewwwww," the redhead thought, not knowing that his new
friend had jokingly told the Captain about his deep hatred for those
delicious little morsels!)  "Barnaby Jones is going to join us today," the
Captain continued.  "He has an itch to get out on the water and agreed to
serve as mate."  Turning to Shane, he grinned and said that meant that one
of the biggest black man I had ever seen would get any sizeable fish into
the boat for us and reduce them to fillets and steaks which he would then
pack in ice in Dr. Bill's cooler.  "Glad to see you again and have you
along, Barnaby," Dr. Bill allowed.  "You take your motion pills back at the
rest stop?" he asked Shane.  When the redhead answered that he had, the
Captain smiled, added that I probably wouldn't need them, and said that it
was time to cast off.

The little fishing boat putt-putted its way down the Thames, into Block
Island Sound, and just kept going.  Shane was completely caught up in the
experience.  Like most New Englanders, it didn't matter that he had never
seen the sea.  It spoke to him!  He felt himself one with so many of his
region who had gone "down to the sea in ships!"  All of a sudden the
history and literature lessons that had been bedeviling him started to come
to life.  He was one of the intrepid few who had braved the Atlantic to
find their way to the New World; he was one of the young men who fought
fiercely against the British blockade of his new country; he was in a
longboat being taken on a "Nantucket sleigh ride" by the great white whale!
He staggered slightly as the little boat dipped, his shining eyes suddenly
turning towards Dr. Bill.  What was it that he saw in his eyes - pride, a
little amusement, affection?  He didn't exactly know.  Generally, adult
males either looked right through him as they did any teenager or,
occasionally, they looked at him with palpable lust.  What he saw in his
new friend's eyes - for just a moment - confused him because it
was...relatively unfamiliar.  He just knew that he liked it.  It felt warm
and good.

"Having fun?" the professor asked quietly.  "Yes, sir,' Shane responded,
coming closer and taking a chance on snuggling a bit.  I love it!  The
ocean...it's just another world...magical.  I can never thank you enough
for taking me on this trip."  "Believe me, Shane, I can't thank you enough
for coming" Dr. Bill said seriously.  "You're a very special young man, and
I respect the way you care for people and look out of them."  Almost
absent-mindedly, he toyed with a lock of the redhead's hair that was
blowing in the wind.  "I wish..." he said, then suddenly seemed to catch
himself, step back, and suggest that it was time for Shane to don his heavy
coat over his sweater and put his hat on.  "It's getting cold," he
muttered.  "I'm going to do the same."

For the better part of two hours, Captain Sam headed out to sea.  To Shane
it seemed like about twenty minutes.  He and the professor talked about
everything!  The boy had never met anyone like him - educated, traveled, as
vitally interested in people as in ideas, humorous.  In turn, Dr. Bill's
initial evaluation of the redhead rose even higher.  The young lad was
highly intelligent, if untutored.  He was emotional and sensitive.  Other
than being an adolescent male, there wasn't a coarse bone in him.  At 15,
he already CARED for others and took his responsibilities seriously.  He
had already seen enough of him to know that his leadership instincts were
superb.  And, the young academic had to admit, he found the youngster
immensely attractive - not only his body (for he was one gorgeous
specimen), but, perhaps even more, for his spirit and his promise.

On the basis of a couple of short talks with Brother John - whom he liked
and instinctively trusted - he suddenly asked, "Shane, I know that you are
receiving some remedial help in hopes that you can enter Sherburne High
next fall as a tenth grader.  How are you doing?"  "Well," the redhead
admitted, "I wish English and history were going better.  I think I'm
beginning to get the history, but English - writing, speaking, AND reading
- is driving me nuts."  "You know that my field is English, Shane.  If
Brother John would allow it, what would you think of working with me?"
"Oh, man, Dr. Bill...Wow!..."  At that moment, their conversation was
interrupted by wild gesticulating and excited conversation at the wheel.
Both Barnaby and Captain Sam kept pointing slightly off to the northeast.
Hurrying to the gunwale, neither Dr. Bill nor Shane could see a thing, but
they were almost bowled over by Barnaby as he hurried to a large locker and
began removing long rods, heavy reels, and several trays of equipment.

"I think you will like what's coming!" the professor chortled.  "King Cod
is a worthy opponent.  Maybe he's not flashy like a great sailfish or
sneaky like an ancient brown trout, but in my book there's no better eating
in these parts.  The bottom-dwelling King Cod likes to swim with his
buddies in massive 'schools,' that is, 'groups of fish' (he lectured), with
its mouth open and devouring everything that will fit down its gullet.
He's got an appetite like yours," Dr. Bill laughed, as he poked Shane in
the ribs.  Jumping several inches off the deck, Shane gave his friend his
best dirty-mixed-with-goofy-grin look and asked, But if he likes the
bottom, how do we get him?"  "Look at what Barnaby's doing," the professor
advised.  Most of the lines were being connected to large heavy pieces of
brightly colored metal with a wicked set of hooks on one end.  (A few were
being connected to hooks with bait.)  "The fisherman lowers a shiny 'jig'
just off the bottom," Dr. Bill explained, "and continues to rapidly lift
the jig and let it fall again.  One hopes that it looks to King Cod like an
injured bait fish.  By the way, expect the rod to be almost yanked out of
your hands by a monster that has just inhaled your jig.  Don't wet your
pants!"  (Shane gave his mentor another of his patented looks.)

"Ok, men, it's time!" Captain Sam called.

"I'm going to go first today, Shane.  Watch carefully how I cast and
retrieve."  Carefully looking behind him and yelling, 'GOING OUT!'" the
professor expertly swung his 7-foot rod with heavy line straight over his
shoulder, casting the jig well beyond the boat.  Barnaby smiled at the
excited redhead and asked if he were ready.  Handing him a 6-food rod, he
whispered him through the steps.  For an initial cast, Shane's effort was
not all that bad.  Oh, sure, he didn't handle the 4/0 reel with a great
deal of skill, but he didn't end up with a snarled line or the hook in
someone's ear either!  "Now what do I do, Barnaby?" he asked.  "Remember to
keep jigging your lure - and don't get all shook up when King Cod gobbles
it up," the smiling man advised.  "They're all around us down below,
feeding up a storm."

For several minutes, there was no action.  Suddenly, Shane let out a loud
grunt and was almost dragged forward over the gunwale.  Grabbing the boy by
the back of his pants, Barnaby calmly instructed him to "reel him in a
little faster."  For about ten minutes, King Cod gave the boy what for, but
he finally stopped struggling and dragging off line.  "Ok, Shane," Barnaby
advised, "keep reeling, but pinch the line slightly between your thumb and
index finger and be sure to work the line back and forth so it goes back on
the spool evenly.  Good!  Keep it up."  After a long haul, a good-sized
grayish-white fish came to the surface and was guided to the side of the
boat by one excited redhead.  Barnaby gaffed him over the side, dispatched
him, and threw him into a compartment.  "Like that?" Dr. Bill chortled.
'WOW!" was answer enough.  "Hey, Shane, 10 lbs. - good eatin' size! the
mate yelled.  "Come on, Dr. Bill, catch one! I'm going for my second!"
Shane hooted.

In fact, the redhead did catch a second, and a third, and a fourth.
Dr. Bill had to settle for two nice-sized cods - although he managed to
hook a 20 lb. halibut before he was through.  It was Shane, however, who
put the exclamation point on the day on his penultimate cast.  Almost
immediately, his jig was inhaled by something...big!  It just didn't feel
like any of the earlier fish - nor did it resist as they had resisted.  The
drag peeled off as what had to be a really large codfish challenged the
young angler. In fact, it was a good 25 minutes before that thing gave up
and allowed itself to be hoisted towards the surface.  As the slow spinning
action of the fish came closer to the surface, all four men gasped.  Over
the gunwale came an enormous codfish that weighed in at 52 lbs!  He was no
trophy cod by any measure, but Shane was sure that he had captured the
close cousin of a whale!  Even Barnaby said that there was no way that this
proud creature would be reduced to filets.  Cod steaks were his fate!

On their way back to New London, Barnaby did his thing, scaling, removing
heads, producing endless filets.  (The "big one," however, was in fact
honored by producing only fine steaks, steaks that Barnaby promised would
be as succulent as anything that had ever passed between the redhead's
lips.)  Dr. Bill's enormous ice chest was full to the bursting with the
results of their day's fun.  The exhausted boy slept most of the way home,
his hand touching the professor's thigh, the professor's hand occasionally
reaching over to caress the beautiful youngster's neck and play with his
dark red hair.

As soon as breakfast was over on the morrow, Shane came close to driving
Mrs. Murphy out of her mind.  "Do we HAVE to have 'slumgullion' (Author's
note: an often unsavory stew or hash usually made from the dregs of
leftovers) tonight?" he asked for about the tenth time.  "Well, it IS on
the menu.  What's the problem, my boy?" she asked.  When Shane showed her
the rich store of cod steaks and filets, plus some haddock that he had
stashed in the big storage fridge, her eyes glowed with a holy light.  "The
Saints preserve us," she crooned, "and it's a chowder we'll be having that
my old mother taught me how to make in Ireland!"  That afternoon the
redhead "supervised" the preparation of the feast - little knowing how
close he came on several occasions to having a pot thrown at him!  That
evening, before saying grace, Brother John announced that the boys would,
he was sorry to say, not be enjoying their scheduled slumgullion.
(Applause and cheers broke out from every seat drawn up to their two
tables.)  Rather, the Brother went on to say, Shane and Dr. Bill had
returned from the far reaches of the North Atlantic with King Cod, and
Mrs. Murphy had produced a chowder fit for New England patriots!  With
that, a tremendous pot of chowder and baskets of oyster crackers were
brought to the table.  They didn't last long!

(Tiger II)

Early on Sunday morning, four UConn boys showed up in Dave's convertible.
In addition to Dave, the party included Tiger (of course!), Barry (who,
like Dave, was Sherburne-born and, more, a star pitcher for the UConn
baseball team), and Kerry (a fun-loving architectural major).  After the
11:00 o'clock Mass, at which Shane served at the altar, the boys piled into
the Church Hall for Sunday dinner with the Gang, Fr. Tom, and Brother John.
It was a warm and friendly hour among boys who honestly liked each other.
(Mrs. Murphy even produced cups of cod chowder to introduce a super meal
and thick slabs of fresh apple pie with ice cream to top it off!)  Fr. Tom
had to admit that he enjoyed Shane's guests almost as much as did the Gang
- but he STILL felt that something was just a little "wrong."  Was the
source of the "bad vibes" limited to Dave - or were there problems with all
of them?  He just couldn't tell...but, after several bad experiences, he
had learned to trust his intuition!

The UConn visitors happily accepted Shane's invitation to accompany him and
several other members of the Gang to an early-season PAL baseball workout.
It was going to be a strong team, Shane assured Barry, as he rummaged
around, finding some workout gear for the hunky jock.  Between Dave and
Brother John who drove the station wagon, there was room, and the group
soon found itself at the high school baseball field.  Lo and behold!  Even
though he was two years departed from Sherburne High where he had starred
in baseball (and a couple of other sports), the coaches and several of the
seniors recognized Barry and crowded around him admiringly.  When he made
it known that Shane was a friend, the redhead's stock immediately rose.
Not surprisingly, the head coach immediately confiscated Barry to work with
his pitchers - all, that is, save one.  That young man, Chuck, was assigned
to work with Shane.  "Show me what you've got, Red!" he yelled.  Shane
surprised even himself by throwing some of the best balls he had thrown
during the two weeks the team had been organizing and practicing - a period
during which he had been scarcely recognized as existing.  (It does help to
have friends in high places!)  Finally, Chuck signaled a halt.  "Hey, Red,
that curve ball you have shows some real promise.  Would you like a little
help with it?  By the way, I'm a sophomore at Sherburne High.  How about
you?"  Mumbling his thanks, Shane confessed that he hoped to be a sophomore
in the fall...at Sherburne.  "Great!" Chuck exclaimed, "We'll have two
years to work together!" Shane suddenly felt a great deal better about the
idea of attending the town high school.

Taking a break during a lull in the activity, the redhead was joined by
Barry who slumped down on the dugout bench.  "Some good pitchers out
there," he mumbled.  "Yeah," his friend agreed.  "I think we're going to
have a good team, but there'll be two others in the PAL League and the
competition won't be easy."  "I've been meaning to say something to you,
Shane," Barry said quietly, doffing his cap and wiping the sweat off his
head with the crook of his husky arm.  "Dave's a good guy - and a friend -
but he's not really into 'relationships'.  You don't want to expect more
from him than he can give.  Some guys up at UConn have been hurt that way.
You're a buddy, you know.  I'd rather that not happen to you."  Shane
grunted his thanks, but wondered what in hell Dave was talking about.
Sure, Dave was a bit domineering, but he was pretty sure that the mature
collegian really liked him and wanted him as a close friend.  Man, the
youngster fantasized, if Dave asked him to move in with him, he'd say "Yes"
on the spot!  The conversation was cut short by the arrival of Dave, Kerry,
and Tiger, plus several Gang members, including Tim.  His arm around
Tiger's waist, Tim whispered that they sure as hell COULDN'T do much around
Sherburne, although Tiger and he had stolen a quick kiss in the lavatory.
"Play it safe, Tim!" the redheaded one growled.  Tim (and Tiger)
nodded...sadly...in understanding.

After a short stop back at the Youth Center to shower, it was time for the
Storrs crew to return to their dorms.  "Take a short ride with us out of
town," Dave requested.  "We'll bring you back here before heading out."
After about a fifteen minute drive, the boys found themselves on a bumpy
dirt road that led back into the trees and, finally, to a small lake.
Parking in a concealed spot, Dave took the redhead into his arms and just
about drove his tongue down into his stomach!  In the crowded back seat,
Tim and Tiger were kissing like mad, that hands all over each other.  (For
that matter, Barry and Kerry weren't doing all that badly either!)  Their
short tryst was over all too soon.  After wiping their faces and
rearranging their equipment, the boys headed back into Sherburne.  Before
they dropped Shane and Tim off, however, Dave turned to the redheaded youth
and asked, "Do you remember that I mentioned a 'project' in which I was
involved at the New Year's Eve party?  If you're still interested, I would
really appreciate some help.  Besides," he grinned, "I need to see you
again...as soon as possible."  A radiant redhead whispered that anything
Dave wanted was his.  In the back seat, Tim and Tiger overheard the
conversation and whispered, "YES-S-S!" as they gripped each other's hands
so tightly that their knuckles turned white!  (Had it not been an open
convertible and had they not been pulling up in front of St. Pat's at
exactly that moment...)


(To Be Continued)