This story contains graphic descriptions of sexual acts between a man and a minor boy. The story is not true; the sexual acts described herein derive solely from imagination. It is not intended to promote illegal acts with/to/by minors, nor does it condone child abuse of any sort. If you object to the subject matter, stop reading. If your reading of this material violates laws in your place of residence or where you are currently located, stop reading. Thank you.

This story is protected by the copyright conventions of the United States.

(For the most part I see my stories as fantasy. If they do nothing else, they ask, "What if..." Those who wish to comment, may email me at will1599s@yahoo.com)


Remembering Uncle Jake
Part 1 of 2
Will S



"What's so damn important," Martin was saying. "It's no big deal whether I go or not. I said I'd go, so what's your problem?" That had been his attitude for the past 24 hours - ever since I'd gotten the email from Jeannie, the one person from my home town I'd stayed in touch with. It was all very innocent on her part, I suspect: she was simply reporting hometown news, which she did every now and then. I don't think she even realized the significance, and in that respect she was just like Martin.

"I talked to Dad this morning," she wrote. "He said Andy's uncle died yesterday. That's too bad. You knew him, didn't you?"

Yeah. Tears welled up in my eyes in that instant. Yeah, I knew him.

"Just do this for me, please," I murmured. I glanced over at Martin, and he had that look he gets sometimes, that look that says I don't need this. I was about to plead yet one more time, but then something snapped.

"You know what? Just forget it. You don't have to go. It'll be fine." In truth, I wasn't sure about that, but I didn't want to have to explain - anything. And maybe it wasn't Martin's trip anyway. It was mine. Why should I expect Martin to drag along with me halfway across the country to go to a funeral of an old guy he didn't know, and I had never mentioned, and whom I hadn't seen in 30 years?

"Okay," Martin mumbled. "If that's the way you want it." And he stormed out, before I could storm out.

It was strange driving from the airport down to Jefferson. It felt as though I were stepping through some sort of time warp. I wasn't sure I liked it. For some, childhood memories are filled with wonder and excitement. For me, with all too few exceptions, there was little wonder and more apprehension than anything else.  I guess I'd have to say my younger childhood days were probably about like any other boy's. But then, along about the age of eleven or twelve, I suppose, I'd get flashes when I realized I was different. Jefferson wasn't a place where someone who was different was ever made to feel very comfortable. All I had to do was listen, and I knew being different wasn't a good thing. I suspect there were more than a few who, like me, had learned that crucial message at a tender age in good ol' Jefferson. Yeah, I knew I was different; I just didn't know what it meant.

Growing up in Jefferson, my best friend in the world was Andy Wallace. He was just a few months older than me, and lived right next door. We used to poke a string through the bottoms of two tin cans, and knot the ends. Then we'd stretch the string from one bedroom to the other and talk over the tight string. (Our suburban houses were only about 20 feet apart.)  Nowadays kids would just use cell phones or I-M or something.

Anyway, for the first thirteen years of our lives, Andy and I were inseparable. Then things changed. There was never any single break or some momentous upheaval in our relationship. Things just changed, and we slipped apart. Our parents said our interests changed. Maybe so, but when we were thirteen, Andy and his hormones were focused on fantasies about every breast-budding girl in the neighborhood, and I...well...my daydreams centered on the mound that pressed outward behind a guy's pants - Andy's especially.

What's so weird now as I look back was that I never put a name to the way I was. I guess it never really occurred to me that I was a "homo". I heard guys talking about that. It didn't sound like a good thing to be. Funny, but I don't remember people talking about "gay" anything in Jefferson when I was growing up, though I'm sure the rest of the world had adopted it long before. It probably wouldn't have felt any better. Not when I was thirteen in Jefferson.

Andy was a good looking blond kid with soft blue eyes. He was built like a stud, even at that tender age. His voice changed before mine, and it just seemed to flow from him like honey. My voice, when it did change, was tight and seemed to be perpetually caught in my throat. My hair was red - probably more a strawberry blond-orange as I said as a youngster. I was taller than Andy, and skinnier - not that he was in anyway skinny. I think the only thing that stuck out more on my body than his was my Adam's apple - or maybe my ears. (Not the thing I wished would stick out more, not that I'd ever seen him hard.)  My legs were so long and skinny that at times I felt more like a praying mantis than a boy.

We were both discovering our bodies. I knew Andy jerked off, not because I ever saw him (not that I didn't try), but I could tell by the way he'd look when the guys at school joked nervously about it. Hell, we all did - look that way (and, oh yeah, do it, too). Andy and I never messed around much. When we were littler and playing in the woods, we'd pee together and play our streams back and forth through the other's and giggle. And we'd steal glimpses of each other's little tool, but for some reason we never engaged in "playing doctor" or what might best be called "experimentation". For Andy, it must have been the farthest thing from his mind, or so it seemed. And for me...well...I was just plain too scared.

I'd discovered the pleasure my body could afford me when I was twelve and just on the cusp of puberty. After years of hearing older boys talking about "beatin' your meat" I got up enough courage to try it. It took me almost a week of experimenting (and a pretty raw cock, finally), but in the heat of a Jefferson summer night, laying sprawled on my bed, legs locked taut and spread like the Da Vinci figure in the circle, I felt something different happening down there. I didn't think I could jerk my hand back and forth any faster, but suddenly it was a blur, and I felt something building, and then with my underpants stretched to their limit around my thighs, my hips started bucking and I came hard. It was incredible - a dry orgasm - but massive, and truthfully a little frightening. But I knew I had to do this again. After that one time, I was addicted.

I had one thing on my mind after that (other than doing it as often as I could), and that was to share this incredible thing with my best friend. But I knew that could never be. The one time I screwed up my courage enough and tried to interest Andy in a little shared fun, he called me a few choice names (which, I guess, turned out to be true in retrospect) and stormed off, apparently mortified. Funny thing, though, that night, as I squatted in the dark at my window waiting - hoping - to get a glimpse of him as he changed into his pajamas, wisps of a gentle breeze carried soft groans, and his breathy words: "oh God. Jesus. Fuckin' cool." I grew hard just listening to his intoxicating voice, and quickly masturbated myself to orgasm as I dreamed about his body, and just to let him know I'd heard, I groaned myself when it hit, and let out a loud sigh: "Aaaahhhh." But we never talked about that, and we certainly never let our relationship move to a place where my dream of jerkin' off with him, or even jerking him off, had a chance of coming true. Ultimately, it became a source of great frustration for me when I was around him. The day I came - ejaculated - for the first time, it was so incredible; I wanted to share it with Andy right away. "I can do it now," I wanted to say, "I can shoot!" But I knew he wouldn't understand. Truthfully, I suspect that was when we first began our journey down separate roads. Then in my sophomore year of high school, though it was a great financial burden on my parents (the fact of which they often reminded me), I was able to go away to a prep school a hundred miles or so away. The truth was, my parents didn't know what to do with me, and neither did the local public high school, and so they shipped me out. If it was supposed to be a punishment, it wasn't because there in private school, finally, I was able to find a freedom that was denied me in Jefferson. But early on in my awakening sexual awareness, long before I left Jefferson, I knew if I was going to experience anything sexually, it would be with someone other than Andy. And as it turned out, it was.

Andy's uncle, Uncle Jake, was the reason I was coming home to Jefferson. I was coming to pay my respects. There was a lot I wanted to say, to remember, though the most important thing, I couldn't share. No could ever know, but it was for that, that I was most in his debt. He was such a gentle, understanding, sweet man, and at twelve, I loved him so much. Hell, I still do.

Uncle Jake lived just around the corner from Andy's parents. He was Andy's father's brother. As a single guy, he was often included in family events. He was a lot of fun, and truthfully we loved hanging out with him. As little kids, we'd go camping with him, or canoeing, or hit the local double "A" baseball park.

And when we got a little older, he'd take us on little field trips.  Uncle Jake ran a small art business. Odd for little Jefferson, it seemed, but Uncle Jake would go out into the hinterlands - even more so "rusticated" than our little town - and buy folk art pieces from folks all over. These he'd send off somewhere, and somehow, that earned him a living and gave the "artisans", as he called them, a little extra cash, too. Often when he'd go out on these collecting trips, we'd get to go, too. I suppose one way Andy's uncle influenced me was in my work. I, too, am involved in the art world, working at an upscale gallery in one of Phoenix's western suburbs. Not that I was having as much fun as Uncle Jake seemed to have had, but that's another story.

He made us feel like equals somehow...more grown up. He listened, and was happy to let us play our music in his car. And he made us laugh. He'd even tell us an off-color story now and then, or make a suggestive comment. We'd blush and grin and feel somehow like we were in some sort of secret society. In short, he was a great guy, and when he showed up, I liked it.

There weren't many people at the funeral - only a handful. There were a few old timers that I recognized. I knew Andy's dad had died a few years earlier, but his mom was still alive and she was there. I knew Andy would be there, but as yet, I hadn't seen him. Just before the service began, I felt a movement in the aisle and I glanced up. I froze, barely able to breathe. It was Andy - Andy as I remembered him from thirty years ago. I tried to swallow. Was I hallucinating? Now the boy - perhaps eleven, maybe twelve - glanced down. There was a momentary flash in his eyes, the meaning of which was lost on me. All I know was there was a reaction when our glances met. And then he offered the slightest smile. Again, the smile was Andy's, and I grew more uncertain.

It was then that a hand appeared on the boy's shoulder, and the boy turned and looked backward. I turned my head, too, and found a man about my age...a man who looked a lot like an older version of the boy beside me. Instantly I understood. I'd been gazing on Andy's son - a son I didn't even know he had. Now Andy nodded a quiet acknowledgement of my presence and stepped up beside his son. The boy wrapped his arm around his father, and seemed to cling to him as a younger child might. I must have looked like a crazy man, because as the boy passed by, he again gazed into my eyes and looked almost as if he were about to laugh out loud at my reaction to his beauty. I saw Andy tighten his grip on the boy's shoulder, and then with the quickest of glances Andy offered a smile.

At the cemetery, the family - all seven of them - stood at the head of the casket, and the eight or so others gathered along the sides. Of all of them, Andy seemed to be taking this the hardest. His son, sweet boy that he obviously was, took his father's hand in his, and truthfully, that only seemed to make things worse for my poor ol' buddy.

When finally the ceremony had ended, I slipped off to my rental and headed for Cherry's - which was, when I was a boy, the closest thing to a mall anywhere in the tri-state area. In truth it was nothing more than a general store, but I remembered they served a mean bacon cheeseburger, and I wondered if after all these years, Cherry's was even there, and if the burgers still measured up.

It was and it did. Cholesterol city! But I'd stepped into the past, and while Martin might not have understood the protein choice instead of salad and cold salmon, somehow it seemed right. I'd planned to spend a few days in the area. Though I couldn't have cared less as a kid, I now knew the area was a hot spot for antiques. I needed some time, for a lot of reasons, so I'd told the office not to expect me for a few days. They'd do just fine without me.

As I headed back to the motel to change, something was tugging at me; it had been all day. The pastor had said nice things about Uncle Jake, but they weren't the things I would have said...and beyond that, there were things only I could say to Uncle Jake, and so I found myself heading back to the cemetery feeling full of cheese and potato chips and grease and gratitude and remorse.

I don't know how long I'd been standing there at the freshly covered grave. I was lost to the present, and only half came back to it when the wind gusted up and blew over some of the flowers, so I crouched down and straightened them up, pressing the bases of the vases into the soft soil.

"Cal?" the voice said.

I froze, then twisted, looking back over my shoulder, tears flooding my eyes. "Andy," I breathed, and then stood to face him - them, Andy and his son.

Andy hadn't changed all that much; he was older for sure. His blond hair was laced with silver. He was heavier, though still seemed strong and firm. His blue eyes sparkled as brightly as his son's. His toothy smile seemed the same as it had always been. He stuck out his hand, and in a daze, I felt it closing around mine.

"The eulogy this morning didn't quite cover it," he muttered.

"No...not all of it...I just...ah...wanted to say goodbye..." I flashed a look at the boy, then back to Andy's eyes. "And to say thanks. He was always good to me - to us. I always sort 'a felt he was as much my uncle as yours." I wiped a tear from my eye. "Funny, in a way, I guess." I mumbled, suddenly frustrated once more at not being able to share something that was so important to me with Andy.

"Not at all," Andy replied. "He loved you, after all."

I started at that, and felt my body tighten. I suppose I knew what Andy meant, though I couldn't help but hear the words differently, for Uncle Jake had loved me, and just not in the way Andy meant...but Andy couldn't know about any of that.

That little bit of doubt took a bit too long to clear from my head. "Yeah," I murmured finally, "I guess he did."

"Oh, this is my son, Ja...Jacob," Andy said, gently squeezing the boy's shoulder. He pulled him to him, and for a moment, I felt almost a pang of jealousy. The boy extended his hand, and tentatively, I took it in my grasp. It was smooth as velvet, and firm and warm. The boy's teeth flashed white in a smile that I could drown in. "Jake..." The boy's voice was a sweet soprano-like preteen-boy voice.  "...like my great-uncle." Again, that to-die-for smile. There was a flash when I wondered about what the boy's mother may have contributed to his gene pool. He could have been a clone of his father.

"Cal...ah...Calvin Masters," I said, still feeling the electricity flow from his hand to mine.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Masters," the boy said. "My dad's told me about you."

I glanced over at Andy. He lifted his hands in protest. "Only the good stuff, I promise."  He flashed a smile every bit as inviting as his son's. I wondered just what Andy might have told his beautiful boy.

It was all so weird as we stood there and talked about the old days. So strange. Because I felt myself falling in love with Andy all over again...with the two Andy's that stood before me.

"How long are you going to be here?" Andy, the older Andy, asked.

"A couple of days," I answered. I've got a few days comin' to me. I thought I'd just poke around a little.

"No kiddin'," the boy exclaimed. "We're doin' that, too! Cool!" He smiled at me with an intensity that made me almost blush. I shifted uneasily under his gaze.

"Yeah," Andy said, gazing into my eyes, "Cool. Actually...it's really sort of bizarre...but Jacob and I were planning to come down to visit Uncle Jake anyway. Then we got the call." The boy clouded up, reached out and held his father's hand. I felt a twinge of wistful remorse when I saw that little act of innocent affection. Pure sweetness. I was feeling left out, but I was confused about why I was feeling that way. I had no right to feel cheated in any way.

"You staying with your mom?" I asked.

"Mom? Oh...no..." Andy said somewhat awkwardly. "Mom's living in North Carolina now. My sister came up with her. They left for the airport right after lunch. "No..." Andy continued, "Actually, Uncle Jake left his house to me. We're staying there."

"At Uncle Jakes?" I said with perhaps a little bit too much intensity.

Andy smiled, but little Jake (well, not-so-little, actually) snickered, "We're not afraid of ghosts, Mr. Masters."

I grinned. I wasn't either, I suppose, but in a way, Uncle Jake's house had at least one ghost I figured.

"Hey," Andy sputtered, "I don't want to - ah - encroach...but you're welcome to stay with us...ahm...if you want. There's plenty of room."

"Ohh...that's..." I began, but never finished.

"Oh, yeah, Mr. Masters, do it," the boy burst out. "Come on! Then you can tell some stories on my dad!"

It was a foolish thing to even consider. Except for a trip back that happened to coincide with Andy's tenth high school reunion, I hadn't seen him in thirty years. There was too much "history". Why would I ever agree?

"Ple-e-e-ease, Mr. Masters."

That's why.


In some ways it was like we'd never been apart, talking about the things that suddenly seemed to have happened only yesterday. But in other ways, there was a gulf, and I think both of us sensed it. It wasn't the same; it never could be. Too much had happened to move us apart. And while I loved being with Andy and his beautiful son, I felt those distant past pains at not being able to share myself fully begin to emerge once again.

Nevertheless, it was exciting to be around Andy and Jake, to share with them, to see the former in the latter (and vice versa). It was exciting to be included in their fun together. Never was there a boy more open and innocently friendly than Jake. His father informed me the boy was about to celebrate his twelfth birthday in just a few days. Truthfully, I wasn't sure what a twelve-year-old should look like, but if Andy had told me Jake was ten, I wouldn't have been surprised.

"Yeah," Jake had said when his father told me about his birthday, "we were coming down to see Uncle Jake. We were going to celebrate my birthday here." He gave his dad an odd sort of look - sad, but there was something more, something I couldn't quite put my finger on. He gazed at Andy wanting some sort of confirmation.

His dad simply smiled and nodded. "That's right, J-man," he said wistfully.

The boy was extraordinary in everyway, and I chided myself when I'd inadvertently sneak a peak downward, hoping to catch a glimpse of what he had between his legs. Once when I glanced up at his face after I'd done that, he recognized where I'd been looking.  He blushed softly, and a small, shy smile grew on his sweet, inviting face.

We spent the afternoon going through some of Uncle Jake's papers, making a to-do list. There was a lot to be done. Somehow it seemed right that Andy and I would be doing this together, after all, we'd both spent so much time in this house. The only thing missing was Uncle Jake's happy presence.

"Hey!" Andy's son called out and we looked up, waiting to see what was next. In a moment he appeared in the doorway with a huge photo album. "It's you guys!" he exclaimed and dumped the album in front of us. It was indeed: two twelve year olds in skimpy bathing suits, arms around each other down at the river that was through the woods behind Jake's place.

I glanced from the picture to Jake. He was the spitting image of his father, and I think he saw it as well. "It was a long time ago," Andy muttered.

"Yeah," I agreed, but I felt a twinge as I struggled to remember the feeling of our hands innocently grasping each other's body.

"Boy, you guys really seemed to like each other," Jake offered with a twinkle in his eye.

His father grinned. "Yeah, we did. That was for sure. We really did...until about the eighth grade, I guess...Then we sort of...slipped apart."

Could I be mistaken, or was I hearing remorse in his voice. Of course my memory was a little different. "Slipped apart" didn't quite capture it; my recollection was more like Andy running full gallop away from me. I nodded, trying to shield the surprise I felt at Andy's recollection of that time of transition. Then he surprised me even more.

"I've come to really regret that," Andy said, more to Jake than to me, but then he turned to me: "I've really missed you, Cal." He nodded and deliberately reached out and touched my hand.

"Well..." I mumbled trying to think of a way to lighten things up. "It was a two-way street, Andy. Maybe we can make up for lost time," I added. Ooww, somehow that had come out all wrong, and suddenly it didn't sound like I was lightening anything up.

"I'd like that," he replied without missing a beat.

What was happening here? Something was strange, but I was at a loss. Something just wasn't fitting. Then the tension - if that's what it was - evaporated as Jake chuckled self-consciously. He had turned the page of the album. "Jeez...look at you two!"  

We glanced back down at the photo album, and suddenly, I felt the color flowing into my face. I'd completely forgotten about the moment the photo captured, or perhaps repressed it. Andy and I must have been about eleven or maybe even twelve. We were standing in a river up to our knees. It looked like the water was cold. Droplets of water covered our bodies. We were naked. I had my arms folded tightly across my chest. Andy seemed more at ease, but both of us were shriveled to almost nothing. Both of us were pretty hairless - at least on our bodies. Andy maybe had a dusting of hair just starting to decorate his pubis. If I had any, it was so light, it'd hardly be seen in this old B&W snapshot. I felt my face heating up, and I glanced quickly at both of them.

"Remember that canoe trip?" Andy asked.

I snorted a half-laugh. "I do now." Then I spoke to Jake: "How was it? Your father forgot his bathing suit, but then we wanted to go swimming, but he wouldn't go naked. Then..."

Andy finished the thought: "...Uncle Jake suggested we both go naked...said I wouldn't feel so self-conscious that way."

"Oh yeah, right." I chuckled. "I guess it worked." We both laughed at the memory. My brain flashed to Jake's young body. I imagined the naked boy standing up to his knees in a stream was the boy next to me holding the old photo album. His body was perfection. Then. And now.

"Jeez," the boy muttered with his eyes riveted on our shrunken boyhoods, mine uncut, Andy's circumcised. "Somehow I don't feel like such a little kid anymore." Jake placed extra emphasis on "little", then added, "I guess there's hope for me after all!" We looked over at him, and he grinned, and then understanding we realized what he was implying, he blushed boyishly. He grinned, and his dad tousled his hair.

"Hey, that water was cold," Andy said. "What'd you expect!" Then he added, "Maybe we ought to remove that one."

"Or get copies made," his son countered with a chuckle. "When did you get so b..." Suddenly Jake seemed to realize he might be stepping over the bounds and stopped. "...ahhm...start to mature."

"I'd say it was a year or so after that, wouldn't you say, Cal? And if I remember right, Cal started before I did."

"Well," I interjected, "I'm not so sure about that. You were growing way before me. And your voice changed first, too."

Andy shrugged. "But I was just letting it happen to me. You were the one sort of grabbing the bull by the horns - exploring, trying stuff."  Andy looked over at me and continued. "The truth was I was pretty...repressed."

Jake shot a look at his dad. "You?"

Andy reddened. "Back then, anyway" he said.

Now the boy seemed to be seized with another idea:  "What was it like...the first time...you know...when you guys...you know..." He turned crimson. "um...shot off...you know...like...ejaculated?"

Whoa! Did he really just ask that? Of his dad! I kept trying to make sense of all this...but I was missing a piece of the puzzle, and nothing was fitting! The eagerness in the boy's voice suggested that that was something he really wanted to know about. It also suggested he hadn't yet experienced that moment himself. Andy looked at me. I shrugged. "It was pretty awesome," I said. "I remember the night, that's for sure. As good as my orgasms were, ah, before..." I could feel the color flowing into my cheeks. "...it was incredible that night. It was like I knew something different was going to happen...and it did. Sort of like all the other times were just practice."

"And that night was the real thing?" the boy asked, abandoning all sense of boundaries between us.

"I guess," I said with a smile.

"Did you guys do it together?"

I glanced at Andy now, and he answered that one.  "Actually, Jake, we didn't. I guess that's because of me. If I remember right, Cal wanted to, but I was...just too afraid." Andy looked from his son to me, then deliberately back at Jake. "I wish I'd been willing to take a little more risk back then.  But I didn't." He glanced quickly in my direction again.

"Well..." Jake began, but that was the moment I guess Andy decided enough was enough. "Okay, sport," Andy broke in. "I think we've had enough assaults on our privacy for one day. And besides...I don't know about you, but I'm getting a little hungry. Anyone ready for dinner?" That refocused all of us. Just as quickly as the conversation had become incredibly sexy, it ended.

The closest decent restaurant was about a thirty minute drive. By the time we got there, we were all pretty hungry.

While we waited for the food, Andy sipped on a Chablis. I had a tonic water. "I'll try that, too," Jake echoed with a smile in my direction. God, didn't that boy look like his father thirty years ago, and I grew angry with myself when I again began to undress him in my mind, picturing his boyhood - not shriveled this time by cold river water - as I had done so many times as I imagined his father's naked body.

"You haven't asked about my wife," Andy said when the conversation slowed.

I shrugged. "I guess I figured if you wanted me to know something, you'd say.

Andy smiled a smile that drew me in like a whirlpool. "Maddie and I were married just about fifteen years. I probably should have divorced her about thirteen years before that. Of course then I might not be the very proud and loving father of one Jacob Wallace the Second...and..." He reached across the table and grasped the boy's hand firmly. "...I couldn't have lived without this guy." He smiled at Jake and the boy smiled back. "Actually, Jake was probably the reason I stayed with her as long as I did...and he was worth every minute of it." He snorted. "I was under the mistaken impression that a boy needed a mother. But as it turned out, that's not quite right. A boy needs a *loving mother*...not just some bitch who shared her DNA." Strong words, and I flashed a glance at Jake to see how he was taking it. He smiled and gave his father a nod of support.  

"She didn't want me...for who I was," Jake said quietly, but matter-of-factly.

"And she sure as hell didn't want me...but we sure wanted each other. So...here we are, two years later, happier than we've ever been." Andy turned to his son again. "Isn't that right, J-man?"

The boy again flashed that breath-taking smile, lighting up the whole room.

By 10:30, we'd been back from the restaurant an hour, and Jake was ready for bed. For some odd reason, we all stood as he started off for his room. "Goodnight, son," his father murmured. The boy stepped to him and they kissed goodnight - a light kiss on the lips. Surprising. Then even more unexpectedly, the boy, as he passed by me suddenly reached out and embraced me, hugging me tightly. "Goodnight, Cal," he breathed. I felt his hot breath on my neck, and then, I found myself planting a soft, brief kiss on top of his golden locks.

"Goodnight, Jake," I said, and off he went up the stairs.

Andy and I stood there for a while without speaking, stupidly gazing up the stairway he'd just ascended, as if an angel has just departed.

"He's..." we both started simultaneously. We laughed. "He's a great kid," I said.

"Yes, he is," Andy agreed.

By 11:30 we were up the stairs as well. Andy was staying in Uncle Jake's room, and I was in the room next door - a room I'd spent many a night in - when I wasn't in Uncle Jake's. As I sat in my underwear on my bed trying to sort things out, there was a knock on the door. Andy called in..."Ah, I meant to tell you about something earlier. Can you come in Uncle Jake's room for a minute?"

I pulled my pants back on and in seconds was in a room that seemed so familiar. It was the first time I'd been in that room in nearly thirty years, but I don't think anything had changed.

"Uncle Jake kept a diary. Did you know that?"

"No," I said warily.

"Well, neither did I, for a long time," Andy answered. "I went through some of them yesterday. This one...in particular..." He handed me an old book. "...has a lot about you in it. I thought...maybe you'd like it."

I glanced at the year. 1973. I was actually trembling now. I glanced up at Andy, and I saw an odd look of compassion. I felt wobbly now, and I eased down on the bed. I opened the book. "January 1, 1973. Rainy. Cold. 37 degrees." And on he went. It was just a book of blank pages. Some days he'd enter just a line or two, maybe nothing. Other days ran for pages. I thumbed through the book, surprised to see the number of times Andy's name or mine would pop up. Then I came to June 25:

 The boys were here today. I feel so badly for Cal. He's so in love,

 but it is in vain. Will he let me help him? I've decided that I have

 to, but will he be open enough?

I gazed up again at Andy. He moved off, and sat down in a big, overstuffed chair, gazing at me. So...had this day all been leading up to this - a setup? Was this going to be some twisted moment of revelation when all the secrets about Cal Harrington were revealed to an unsympathetic world? I thought about stopping right there, about getting up and walking to my room, packing my bags and driving back to the airport. But the diary demanded my attention. I knew those days well.

03.   Uncle Jake's Journal

July 5, 1973. 6:45 A.M.

Andy and his family are off on vacation. Perhaps Cal will come by today. I hope so.  

11:00 P.M.

I hope Cal is okay. Oh God, how I love that boy. If he only knew; perhaps he will. He's in love with Andy, but I wonder if Cal has any idea how much I love him - love everything about him. I know what he thinks of himself, and how sad it makes me to know that. He thinks he's a gangly, unattractive, geeky kid. But that's not the worst. The worst is he knows he's different, and that scares him to death - and his best friend is no help at all. If nothing else, I want him to know - to believe - how incredible he is. I dream about him, about his body, about holding him, and loving him. Will he let me? I kissed him today. We were out in the garage overhauling my lawnmower engine. He was crouched right next to me.  I could smell his boy-essence - softly musky, earthy. If I'd followed my heart, I'd have taken him right there. Instead, out of respect for this sweet boy, I simply leaned into him and gave him a little peck on the cheek.  He looked up at me with a look of fear and excitement. He never said a thing, he just stood there wide-eyed. I went back to working on the engine. If I asked for a tool, he'd retrieve it, but I could tell, understandably, that he was preoccupied with what had just happened between us.

"Ah...I...guess I better be goin'," he'd said after a bit.

"Cal," I called after him, and he stopped and turned, lock-kneed and awkward. I told him that if what just happened was confusing, or if he'd like to talk about it, he could come back any time. Now we wait.

July 6, 1973.

There was a knock on the door at 9:00 A.M. today. It was Cal...

[I remembered this day so well. My body shook as I began to read further in Uncle Jake's diary - shook the way it did so many times on that day so long ago. It was almost like I was that little kid again.]  

...He was nervous. He stepped in, knowing this visit was going to be different to all his other visits. We went into the den and sat down on the settee we'd sat on hundreds of times (a "love seat" it's called), but this time it felt different. Cal was as uncomfortable as a boy could be. I sat close to him and stretched my arm out behind him.

"What's on your mind, Cal?" I asked.

He blushed. "Ahhmm...what you did yesterday."

I smiled. "That little peck?"

He nodded.

"How did you feel about it?"

He shifted uneasily, his long gangly legs stretched out in front of him, his equally-gangly arms folded over his chest. I felt myself beginning to harden. I glanced down at his shorts and thought perhaps he was, too. I opened my legs slightly so if he wanted a peak, he'd see I was getting excited. "I..." He swallowed. "I dunno."

I let my hand reach down and caress his T-shirt covered shoulder. He nervously shot a glance in my direction, and I smiled innocently, reassuringly back at him. "Well...do you want to talk about it?"

Again his eyes sought out mine, searching for some sign that it was going to be okay. I felt so...in love with him...and at the same time so sorry for him. He was a boy desperately needing the love of a man, and I wasn't even sure he was aware of it. If only Andy wasn't so aloof. My nephew can be a bit self-centered at times, and he has more of a need to fit in than Cal seems to have. I know why a boy would feel that pressure, but it's disappointing.  I wish he'd stand up for who he is - and for his friend. Andy's keeping himself safe.  He always has. Which again, I understand, but the result is, he's made life an agony for his best friend...

[Uncle Jake knew! He never said anything about Andy, not in those terms anyway, but he had known exactly what I was feeling. I shot a glance up at Andy seated, unmoving in that chair across from me. He simply nodded, and I could tell he wanted me to continue.] ...

"I guess I'd like to talk," Cal said.

"Good." I paused. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable. You know that don't you, Cal?" He nodded. "I'd never do anything to hurt you." He looked up at me, wondering, I suppose, why I'd say that.

"I know that," he spoke softly, his boy whisper cracking in the middle of "that".

"Good, and if you decide you don't want to talk about something, just say so. I respect you too much to take you somewhere you don't want to go. So...where to begin?" I gazed down along that teen-boy body. As much as I could see of it, anyway. I hoped that soon, I'd been seeing more of it. "Did it seem a little strange for a man to be kissing you?"

He shrugged.

"I mean, instead of a girl? That's what guys your age talk about, right - girls?"

He shrugged again and shifted uneasily. "I guess so."

"Well...maybe not all guys. I never did, unless it was to pretend - you know - to try to fit in."

Again, the boy shot a look at me. Now guilt was laced with the uncertainty.

I changed my tack. "Cal," I began again, letting my fingers trace lightly up to the smooth skin of his neck. I toyed with tapered short, thick, red hair. My fingers settled there at the boundary of his hair, dancing lightly in and out of his "boy's regular" haircut and the soft skin of his nape.  "I've known you from the time you were born. I've watched you grow. Hell, I've even wiped your bottom." The boy blushed when I said that, and it made me smile. "I've known you've had a secret for a long time." Cal stared at his sneakers and swallowed hard. We sat there in silence, waiting. If he didn't want this to continue he could have said so. If he wanted me to stop fondling his velvety neck, he could have shifted away, or gotten up. If this felt like something forbidden that he wanted stopped, he could have stood and stepped away. "You know you're different, Cal. Different to other boys."

He opened his mouth as if to protest, and yet, no words escaped between those slightly crooked teeth and wet, full lips. Normally those lips were smiling, but not now. "And you are," I continued, "And it's kind of scary, isn't it?" He stiffened, not moving a muscle. "Scary," I continued, "because it feels like you're all alone, keeping this secret. Because no one will ever understand. No one else can ever know - even your best friend. Especially your best friend. Scary because of the thoughts that pop into your head...and the feelings that you feel in your body when those thoughts are there. And you don't know what to do about them."

A tear trickled down Cal's face. He knew I was right, dead-on the mark. I pulled him to me, the way I had done when he was a three-year-old and he'd had gotten hurt. He stiffened at first, but as my hand caressed his hair and then traced down his arm, he relented, melting against me. I reached around with my other arm, and ran it up and down his thin, slightly muscled chest. He choked back a sob.

"There, there, Cal. It may not feel like it, but it'll be okay. Really. It will be okay. I know, my sweet boy. I know." He allowed me to comfort him for a few minutes while he settled down. I longed to know what was running through his head.

"It's a sin," he said finally. "I'm bad."

Now tears filled my eyes. "Nooo," I whispered. "No, you're not." My hand drifted down over his firm tummy, down his hip, and onto his leg. He trembled. I left my hand there, wallowing in the heat of his body. "Cal, look at me," I commanded. He turned to me with those incredible pale green eyes...

[It was so odd reading about me as if I were some character in a novel. My cock was hard inside my pants. I glanced over at Andy. He sat like a cat, almost smug to my way of thinking, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Still...Uncle Jake had more to say.]

... "You are not bad. You're just a boy who is different and doesn't understand what all that means." I smiled. "Am I right, Cal?"

He looked as though he wanted to look away then, but he seemed paralyzed. Finally, he nodded ever-so-slightly and murmured, "Yes."

"It's just the way I felt when I was your age." I moved my hand on his leg so I could feel the downy smoothness. Just a year ago, his legs were virtually hairless. Now they were covered with the softest of downy peach fuzz. He sat there unmoving, afraid to give in to those powerful feelings that pulled at him.  Until now, he'd kept them buried.  They frightened him.

I stroked his thigh, letting my fingers drift down into the warmth between his two legs. He breathed in shaky breaths. I glanced down, deliberately at his crotch. A tight, compact mound jutted upward - a pronounced, racquetball-sized  lump. That's what it looked like: a racquetball buried under the front of his shorts! Inside his shorts, I knew his underpants captured his straining cock. It was trapped and perhaps somewhat painfully doubled over by his tight underwear. When he followed my gaze to his package, he shifted uneasily and grabbed at the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it down over the outcropping of boy tool. With guilt and fear in his eyes, he stole a look back up at me. I gently kneaded his thigh. His face flushed.

"Cal, sweetie," I said softly. "I can help you sort these things out, if you want: the way you're feeling...the way you get when you see boys...boys stripping down naked in the locker room...desperately afraid you're going to 'pop a boner' in the shower after gym." The boy's body was wracked by tremors as his lay next to me. "It's okay, Cal," I said.

"No," he whispered. "No, it isn't."

"Maybe out there, it isn't," I agreed. "But in here, in my house, Cal, it will always be okay; it always has been, and always will be. You and your secret are safe here - just the way my own secret is safe." Cal shot me a look, and I gazed back into his eyes, trying to see if the fear was leaving him. It didn't seem that it was. My hand worked his thigh. I doubt that he even understood why, or even what, was happening, but something was indeed happening to his young body. "I can help you, Cal. You're old enough now to know - to have the rest of the secret revealed to you." I stared coolly into his eyes and spoke deliberately. "The part where you close your eyes and imagine things as you masturbate." Cal blushed, red from his neck all the way to his temples. He looked away. Even his ears tinged red. Right again, it seemed. "There's so much more to know...so much you want to know...so much you're desperate to know. Except there's no one to ask." I squeezed his soft thigh. "Except now there is, Cal," I whispered. "If you want to know, I'm ready to teach you. It's up to you. You can go home for a while, and think about it. It doesn't have to be today...now. I'll be here whenever you want."  

Cal looked into my eyes. A hundred emotions flooded across his sweet, innocent face.  Would he get up and leave? He certainly had permission, if that's what he needed. "Why?" he asked simply. He must have seen the confusion flood across my face now. "Why," he repeated, "are you doing this?"

"Because I love you, Cal. I have from the time you were a little boy. You were the one who was always tender in your affections with your friend, and I love that in you. You are so caring, so thoughtful, so giving. That's what love is, Cal. You're such a loving boy...handsome and straight and true. You're all 100 percent boy, and I love you." Another flash of emotion flooded across him. "Please," I whispered, "don't let that frighten you."

My hand drifted from his leg back up his side to his chest. I felt his little nipples harden under his t-shirt. "And part of your secret is you want to be loved by another boy...or a man. You don't understand it, but when other boys are jabbering about their dreams of naked girls, your dreams are different, aren't they?" His eyes were riveted to mine. The corners of his mouth turned down. He looked away now, and dropped his head, and nodded just in the slightest way. "Look at me, Cal." He turned back, and his eyes glistened, and I thought at any moment, he might start to tear up again. And I didn't want that. "Cal, honey," I said, deliberately using that endearment which only a lover might use, "you'll learn what you're feeling is good - so, so good." Trembling he shook his head in denial. "Yes, Cal. You will.  You'll learn that it is so very good...in ways you can't even imagine. If you want me to, I'll show you."

His sweet, soft green eyes locked onto mine. For a long time, he didn't say anything. His shallow breathing and waves of tiny tremors were the only signs that my touches were having an effect on him. Finally, he relented, the feelings overcoming his fears. "Alright," he said softly, sounding more like an uncertain four-year-old than a boy thirteen or nearly so.

"Okay," I repeated. I pulled him to me, and we cuddled. That's all we did, for probably half an hour, I simply, gently, stroked his body. In that time, ever-so-slowly he began to awaken. This was not a "forced march" typical of most boys who want to get on with it, no, this was something very different. Cal was quiet, reflective, maybe even unwilling - at least on one level. But whether he understood what was happening or not, Cal's body was responding. He was compliant, but not an active participant, not yet anyway. He was submissive, but never actively encouraged my explorations. Only the straining organ that throbbed in his pants did that. It was as if he wanted this to happen, but was unwilling to accept any responsibility for it; if he thought it was wrong - "sinful" - then at least he wouldn't be the cause of it.

My hand rubbed gently over his belly, pulling his t-shirt up off his shorts, exposing his cloth-covered outcropping of boyhood. Again, he moved to pull his shirt down to cover it. Now I captured his gaze in mine and deliberately moved my hand down and snaked it under the hem of his T. My hand held for a moment over his shorts-covered hip bone, then drifted in toward the mound that he wished to keep hidden from my view. He grew more alert, even possibly alarmed. He bit his lower lip, and his breaths came in short, shallow heaves. He stiffened ever so slightly, as if preparing himself for the unknown.

My fingers drifted over the mound, not hard enough to feel the form of his tool, only its hardness, but even that electrified him. Now I moved my hands to lift his t-shirt from his body. "Lift your arms," I had to instruct. It was as if Cal were in some sort of drugged state. He obediently raised his arms, and I removed his shirt. He was a slim, wiry boy. A less charitable observer (less enamored) might have said skinny. Indeed, I could see his ribs when he stretched his arms over his head, but he was also muscular, lithe. His body was just beginning to transform into the tapered teen boy shape immortalized in Greek statuary. His arms (and legs, too) had the finest downy soft hair. His chest was two shallow hillocks of muscle decorated by two, tight, dime-sized reddish-brown areolas, punctuated with nail-point nipples. They were erect, like sub-miniature hard-ons. My fingers danced over his left nipple and tremors flooded over him. Without the protection of his t-shirt, his hands found their way down to cover the obvious presence of a masked yet undeniably raging erection. I reached down and pulled, with some resistance, to lift his hand from covering himself. "No, Cal," I urged. "Be proud of what makes you a boy. It's wonderfully exciting to see you like this."

He blushed predictably at that - that and my hands that had resumed caressing his skin. In his trance-like state, I think I could have done anything to him. I grew bolder now and reached up and tweaked his nipple. He sucked in a sharp breath and his entrapped cock moved like a cobra straining in a cloth bag.

"Should I continue, Cal?"

"Yes," he said, then added, "Please."

"That little peck yesterday," I said, "that was just playful." I looked into his eyes that were filled with both fear and a desperate need. I ran my tongue quickly over my lips and without taking my eyes from his, leaned in, and kissed his lips. Another wave of tremors, these strongest yet, spread through his body. He said nothing, did nothing. He was too afraid. I moved my hand down to the hem of his shorts. I felt his downy-soft leg, drawing my hand upward, crumpling the leg of his shorts as I did so, moving closer to the source of his heat. At the same time I lowered my head to his chest. I kissed lightly, briefly, his nipple. He seemed to be holding his breath, shaking. Vulnerable under my touch. Uncertain. Fearful. Hungry for what he felt, but couldn't name."

I kissed and tongued my way down, passing over subtly rolling hills of taut muscle, eventually coming to his belly button. It was a "button," the perfect name for his tight little plateau of ridged skin. I swirled my tongue over it, and he shivered. I dropped lower. I breathed in deeply through my nose, hoping to sense his boy fragrance, but either he'd too soon stepped out of his shower or his clothes managed to hide it, and I was momentarily disappointed. I planted a kiss on that smooth spot of skin just above the button on his shorts. I sighed. My hand was trapped under the fabric of his pant leg, and though I longed to move higher toward his treasure, I could not without jamming my hand violently and awkwardly upward; his shorts simply won't allow it, but still my fingers continued to dance over his thigh, and down lower on the inner part of his velvety-smooth, firm leg.

After twenty minutes of contact, he was fully aroused, fully alert, even if not fully committed. He remained passive, only occasionally emitting the quietest little squeaking sound, mouse-like and vulnerable. His pure, unblemished torso rose and fell unsteadily with rapid, shallow breaths.

I thought for a moment about picking him up, the way I'd so often carried him as a tot, and transporting him to my room, but somehow, that seemed too much of an interruption in his journey to homoerotic expression. So instead, I lowered myself to the floor in front of him. His eyes widened again, and startled, he actually leaned back, as if trying to escape from my reach. I smiled. Now I removed his shoes and white athletic socks. Then I straddled his legs, practically sitting on his outstretched legs. Our eyes locked, and holding him in my gaze, I reached down and grasped the button on his shorts.

"No," he murmured. "Please," he breathed, again, pushing my hand away with his. Our eyes remained focused on each other.

"I'm going to do this, Cal," I began, "because I know you want me to."

"I shouldn't..." he whispered.

"Cal, my sweet...you want to know about the secret thing, the thing that's forbidden, the thing in your dreams, that makes you shake with guilt and fear and excitement when you awake, hard and wet. I know about those dreams...those thoughts."

"Not you," he breathed with a clear hint of desperation. "You can't." But I did. It was if I had a direct connection to his brain. I hadn't been wrong once this day, and I told him that now...

[He did tell me. It startled me how familiar this all was. It had happened more than 30 years ago, and yet, I almost knew before I read it what he was describing. My awe and respect for Uncle Jake was growing even now.]

... "You want to know how I know these secret things about you," I whispered. His gaze grew in intensity. Right again. I smiled. "I know because for years... centuries... millennia... special boys have felt the same things, dreamed the same dreams, wondered the same things." I placed my hands just above his hips, savoring his warm body; my thumbs drifted up and down the edges of his firm belly. "I know, Cal, because I have those same dreams, feel those same things."

"No..." he mumbled..."not you...you can't...nobody can...except..." This last word, he swallowed. 'Fags' is what he was going to say, or some word like it.

"Me." I completed his thought. He shook his head in denial. "Yes, my sweet boy, I do," I smiled. "I really do...we'll talk about some of them later." We'd barely blinked in the past long moments. "But now I want to share something special with you - something that will let you know that it's okay." My hands eased back to his shorts. I lifted his hands away. He was a strong boy, and at first, he resisted, holding his hands immobile over than granite outcropping of boyhood. I could have ripped his hands away, forcing myself on him. I'd do that, if I had to - tough love - but I wanted him to acquiesce, to commit, to recognize he wanted this as much as I. I simply held his hand, applying equal pressure, like evenly matched Sumo wrestlers. When he was ready to relent, I would be ready to move ahead. I'd hold him all day, if that was what was needed.

He saw my resolve in my eyes. "Why," he breathed.

"Because," I answered him, sounding more like his contemporary than someone 30 or so years his elder.

"That's not a reason," he blurted out, now the adult to my child.

"Because I want you to be happy...I want you to know who you are. Because I want to feel you in a way that's been denied to me all these years of loving you. Because, Cal, it's time." He swallowed hard, and trembled under my gaze.

"I...can't," he stammered.


"Because...I...I...just can't."

I listened to my voice - to the insistence of my need to be with this boy, and suddenly, I knew I'd done what I said I wouldn't do. I backed off and straightened up.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Cal, I'm sorry. I...I...thought you were ready...I need to listen better. I need to listen to what you're telling me. If you're not comfortable...with this...then I'm wrong to try to push you into something you don't want." I reached out and gave him his T-shirt, and stood up. "I'm sorry. Ahh...I've got an errand to do in Springfield. Would you like to come with me?"

He said he needed to get home.

04.   Uncle Jake's Journal (Continued)

July 6, 1973

I was angry with myself. I should have listened better. I was asking him to take the biggest step of a boy's life - a no-turning-back step. I pressed him when he wasn't ready. He was smarter than I was. I knew why he couldn't do what I was asking. As clear as it was to me that he was queer, it was just as clear to him, and he couldn't take that last step because doing so would confirm what he feared.

Just after noon there was a knock on my door. It was Cal. Immediately, my heart began to pound. He looked up at me with eyes full of fear, and uncertainty, and need, and want. He looked down and spoke. "Why did you say those things about me?"

"Oh, my sweet boy...Cal...I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable...so sorry...I only wanted to make you happy."

He flashed a look up me. "I...." He swallowed. "I...want to be happy, too."

"I know you do...but...you will never be happy, Cal, unless you can accept who you are. You cannot deny it and be happy." As if suffering from fevered chills, he trembled and slowly looked away. A tear spilled over his cheek. "I want to do it," he said in barely a whisper. "But I'm...afraid."

"It's okay, Cal. Anything you want to do is okay. I promise."

He stood there for a long time, tremors wracking his body, and then he reached up and quickly had his shirt off. He reached out and took my hand. He lowered it to his crotch. I leaned up, drawing my lips close to his cheek. Lovingly, I kissed away his hot, salty tears. I drew my lips downward, savoring his sweet, fair skin. Over his upper lip, my lips felt just the hint of downy puppy fur. And then for just the second time, my mouth settled over his. I nibbled on his top lip, then shifted slightly and kissed his soft lips again. I held them there for a moment, then felt his own mouth quiver against mine, and when I sucked in ever-so-slightly, he responded. It was perhaps the most fleeting, most exquisite kiss I'd ever shared: delicate, like a fragile flower, fragrant, soft, moist, but unable to withstand even the gentlest breeze, and as soon as the contact was felt, he pulled away. I lifted back myself and gazed up at him. His eyes remained closed. Tendons in his neck were taut, and lower, in his chest, I could see echoes of his heart pounding beneath his breast.

"Ahhhh," I sighed. "So...lovely...so very, very, beautiful." I released a long, slow breath. Slowly now, I felt his hand beneath mine waver and weaken. He didn't move it away. That would have been too much of an admission of what he was perhaps, but he did allow me to move his hand away from his boyhood treasure. When I released his hand, it stayed there, and I moved back to his shorts and the button. In a moment, his shorts were unbuttoned, and then the zip. It was actually a bit difficult, lowering it, for there was an unyielding obstacle beneath it. I continued to slowly pull down, the fly of his shorts following the contour of his boyhood. As I did so, his shorts opened, though hardly enough to reveal what was underneath.

When I'd completed that task, I placed my hands on the sides of his shorts. I eased them down over his hips. They fell to his feet, and I dropped and quickly removed them and his sneakers and socks. Heat radiated from my body, as it did from his. His cheeks glowed with a redness that made his hair seem pale. His freckles seemed to dissolve, only to reappear as his blush faded.

What was revealed were a pair of brilliant white briefs, tight and pure. A large mass centered my attention. Now the dimensions of his obviously good-sized penis could easily be seen. It was just as clear that he was circumcised. His penis extended upward, stretching toward his navel. With determined strength it lifted the tight-fitting garment away from his pubis. Below, this swelling flowed into another, this one more gentle and less distinct nestled between his legs, locating his testicles and the savory pouch that held them. I leaned back to take in his beauty. His long, lanky body was to me breathtaking... exquisite...handsome...beautiful: the perfection of boyhood.

"What's wrong?" the boy asked.

I smiled. "Nothing's wrong," I replied, "nothing at all. How could there be something wrong when I'm gazing at such..." I stopped. I needed to know if what I was about to say would be acceptable. "Cal, my sweet boy, may I ask you something?" He nodded. "I would like to use a word to describe you. It is not a word which is often applied to boys, though for the life of me, I don't know why. The word is 'beautiful.'" He blushed a deep, vivid red. "For, my sweet, sweet, boy, that's exactly what you are, a most beautiful boy."

Now those outstretched, long, true legs - limbs muscular and toned - gained my undivided attention. Placing one hand on each thigh, I eased my hands up and down coming as close as I ever had to his still hidden package. My heart pounded as though I'd just run a sprint. I was in heaven, savoring the firmness, the silky smoothness, the sheer pubescent masculinity which assaulted my hands. O ye gods of Olympus! Sweet Greek perfection! Finally, after thirteen years, I'd been given - no, I'd demanded - permission to be one with this man-child. I leaned down and placed a series of long wandering kisses on his inner thighs. He actually began to moan - breathy, throaty rasping - as I tasted these sweetest of morsels, though there were a few, I knew, which would be sweeter.

I glanced up as my fingers laced in under the waistband of his Fruit-of-the-Looms, size 28's. He might as well have been a statue. He was immobile. "Please," he whimpered, though whether to encourage or deter, I could hardly guess. I eased them down, lifting as best I could, although being as tight as they were, I had trouble. The result was that the tip of his boy cock caught in the waistband, and like a tent pole lifted up as I backed his briefs off him. He gasped at the sensation, as I drew his pants further down his body, and finally, his tool sprang free, slapping on his pubis, leaving, if I wasn't mistaken a tiny blotch of moisture on his lower belly. Then it pulsed up to stand almost parallel to his belly. He had only a hint of hair around his member, and the reddish blond color only served to make it appear sparser than it truly was. He had no hair on his scrotum, but it was showing signs of thickening with the onset of puberty. His balls were surprisingly large, probably the size of one of those jawbreaker gumballs. Jawbreaker, indeed. But his prize - his symbol of his masculinity - was what commanded my attention. Even at his tender age, it was, when erect, a solid (!) four and a half inches. It had a graceful curve, arcing upward slightly in the middle. Otherwise it was straight as an arrow, with no left-right deviation. It was smooth, and firm, and proud, throbbing with the demand for attention. I reached down past his underpants, and gently grasped his balls. He sucked in a sharp breath. I suspected I was the only one other than perhaps his parents  (during a youngster's bath time) and possibly a doctor who had touched him there. It made me shake with awe at the knowledge that I was among the true elite.

Again, like an artist in the throes of creation, I lifted away to take in the whole landscape of boy flesh. Tremors quaked beneath the surface of his sleek body. He was sublime. Firm and taut. Cocked (so to speak) and loaded (I could only hope), and ready to fire (oh how I dreamed of it). I licked my lips. I couldn't imagine a more perfect scene. How I longed for a particle of the skill of Michelangelo that I might capture this beauty for all who were to follow me!

His cock throbbed with the beating of his heart. I was in heaven. I glanced into his eyes, and could see the doubt that fills a boy who risks exposure so complete and total.

I smiled. "You are...are..." I swallowed hard as I began truly to appreciate the gift that had been afforded me. My eyes blurred with hot wetness, and a tear spilled down my cheek. The boy grew even more worried. "It's...I'm fine, Cal. It's simply that I am overcome with your beauty." He reacted immediately, again reddening right up to his temples. He bit his bottom lip, and his body tightened.

"Really," I repeated. You are...the most...beautiful boy." I closed my eyes to be sure his image was burned into my mind's eye.

He is "so...so...beautiful." I reached out and began a long, slow hand-dance across his body. By some measures, he would be classed as pale with his red hair. Any trace of body hair is even lighter, ranging toward blond. I would prefer the descriptive of "fair" for indeed, that's what he is: the fairest and purest of boys. While there is a quality of softness to him, his body is all-male. There is nothing effeminate about the form that lies under my gaze. The softness is found in his manner, his gentleness, his innocence, that seems to ooze out into the very pores of his skin, making it so smooth - not like polished marble, but like the finest velvet. His skin is exquisite.

In my more dispassionate moments, I suppose I'd have to admit that there are other boys who more typically embody our society's definition of physical beauty (or handsomeness, I suppose, for the male prototype), but for me, it will always be Cal. It is his presence: both the physical and the...spiritual, perhaps. Yes, that's what it is. He is such a combination for me of raw, sensual lust and utter boy-like innocence. His skin is the purest, smoothest, softest, warmest. Aside from the usual small scars of boyhood adventures, only the pale, bluish veins lying just under his skin interrupts the landscape of his purity. I was almost paralyzed with my need to be one with him. I longed to rip my clothes off and simply cuddle with him, skin-on-skin - as much as we could possibly manage...

[As I read, I found myself growing harder; reading about myself was oddly arousing, evoking vivid memories. I shifted to try to ease the pressure on my cock.]

...He was ready, trembling, needing, but unsure of exactly what. I lowered my head to bring my face within inches of his genitals. I breathed in his aroma: warm, lightly musky, almost sweet. I leaned in and glanced up. The thirteen-year-old's eyes widened. I looked back at the pulsing object of my attention. With the gentlest of actions, I kissed the underside of his cock head. His reaction was immediate and extreme: an almost violent intake of air and an instant, involuntary stiffening of his body, the effect of which was to press his boyhood even more firmly into my mouth. He actually gasped, and then, perhaps shocked at the sensations that emanated from our contact, he pulled his ass back, drawing his front from my mouth. He slapped his hands onto my shoulders, as if to lock both of our bodies into position. Not to be denied, I placed my hands on his butt, caressed them, savoring their warmth, their hairless smoothness, and their firmness.

I held him tight, and again kissed his glans. If his chest and belly and bottom were smooth, this was like the finest spun gold. I pressed down, and took him inside. The tip of his cock throbbed violently within the seal of my lips around it. I lowered more until his rim was locked behind my lips. I felt his body wracked with tremors, the motion transmitted through his penis to my lips. I sucked down, and drew him in another inch, then another. I moved his hips back, now, swirled my tongue over his velvety glans and drew him back into my hot mouth deeper this time. Soon, after repeating this a few times, I felt my nose crushing against his pubis, I felt just the slightest hint of downy soft hair against my nose, and then sucking firmly, began to fellate him for real. The air was punctuated with his erratic breaths. His tool throbbed with such force that if I'd hung a five pound weight off it, he could have lifted it! Soft little moans were continually sounding from his throat.

Then, when he thought I was going to pull out, I felt his hands clasp my head. My heart pounded, for it was truly the first thing he did actively in a sexual way with me. He wanted me to continue! He couldn't bear for me to stop! My boy was finally able to glimpse the pleasure he was soon to experience. It wouldn't be long. His grip on my head, almost spastic in its intensity, spurred me on. My speed increased. My tongue was in constant motion, savoring the glistening sides of his boy tool, when his head was jammed into my throat, toying with his small virginal piss slit when only his glans remained in my mouth.

"Ooo," he squealed suddenly, and I felt his hands clamp harder on my head. His cock swelled even harder, and I pulled back again, sucked down until my cheeks collapsed and I felt one last violent stiffening, then a quaking throughout his body, another final deep thrust, a spasm, and then a splash of hot juice hit my tongue. I sucked again, and swirled my tongue over his glans, my hands holding him firmly in place. Again, his seed burst from his tool, striking the back of my mouth. "Mmmmm" I hummed, the vibrations setting off another discharge. Four in all. Four delightful, tiny spurts of boy cum sprayed into my greedy maw. I savored it as I would the rarest of wines. Sweet, thin, with little of the bitterness of my own semen. He pressed deep into me one last time, and held my head to his groin. I swirled my tongue over his head one last time; he bucked, producing one last ooze of his seed, and I knew he was done. I looked up as he lowered himself back onto the sofa. His eyes were staring off, unfocused, and in slow motion soon blinked shut. All the tension of his young body had flowed in those few explosive jerks out through his penis. I had the impression that more than just the tension of the sexual encounter had left him. Somewhere in this sublime union of boy cock and mouth, all the uncertainty of who he was had drained from him as well. I hoped it had. Our lengthy chat, when he finally came to, convinced me that he had.

O ye gods of Olympus, may he find me worthy to be his guide in the days and weeks and - dare I hope - the years to come...


Reading Uncle Jake's words transported me back to my thirteenth year. As he described the events, I relived them, feeling again the feelings of an innocent thirteen-year-old body - innocent though raging with hormones and conflict about who I was. The words on the pages were an exquisite torture, just like the building explosion that my young body experienced some thirty years ago. And there was more there in those pages. I flipped through them, finding frequent references to my name, and vivid descriptions that convinced me Andy's Uncle Jake had recorded each of our intimate encounters in great detail. At one place the page was stained, and I paused long enough to realize this was a description of the day I surrendered my virgin ass to that sweet man. The page showed signs of frequent handling, and I realized Uncle Jake had no doubt frequently brought himself to release, rereading this "entry" again and again.

I felt strangely spent, as if I had cum even as I had in the descriptions on these pages. I glanced up and Andy gazed at me intently. He knows, I thought. Idiot, of course he knows. Part of me feared what he would say, what he might do. I was just a kid, I told myself, already trying to build a justification. He was your uncle, I'd say, and yet, even as I thought that, I realized I could never say that. It was unfair to Uncle Jake, unfair and disrespectful.

It was, in sum, a remarkable journal. Interspersed with what some might describe as lurid sexual descriptions, were accounts of weather and bird sightings and visits with family. Also, there were frequent references to Andy. Uncle Jake, it seemed, found the boy, Andy, frustrating as a pre-pubescent boy and, later, a young teenager. Frequently, he recounted efforts to convince his nephew that he should be more open with me, that he should trust himself, that he should explore his feelings. More than once, he wrote that he feared what would become of Andy. As a child, I never had any sense of that. At one point, he wrote that he had counseled me to try to seduce his nephew. I remember that conversation. I also remember my fear at the very thoughts of doing that. I knew how that would turn out. I knew I'd be rejected. I was petrified that the boy who was once my best friend, the boy I loved as no other, would whisper terrible things about me to our classmates if I attempted to follow Uncle Jake's advice. I looked over at Andy, who still sat unmoving, gazing into my eyes. He himself seemed to mirror the uncertainty that I now felt, for he, too, must have read those passages where he was the focus.

"So," I said finally, unable to take the silence any longer. "Now you know."

"Cal," Andy said with voice trembling. "I've known for a long time. A long time." He smiled. It was not a rueful or bitter smile in any way, rather it was a gentle smile, and I felt myself soften momentarily, and some of the resentment that had been building within me faded.

Now Andy got up and moved next to me, his hip touching mine. He held in his hands yet another book, much like the one in my own hands. He offered it to me. What, I thought, there's more? Who's the pervert here, I wondered. Was there some reason he wanted to watch me read about an adult having his way with a child - with me?

"Open it," he said quietly, "to the bookmark. The last paragraph."

I opened to the place and began to read.

"...I drew him down onto the bed, folding his legs back, opening his tight virginal hole to my view. He trembled under my gaze..."

I looked up, somewhat confused. I'd just found the passage in the other book that described my deflowering. I glanced at the cover of the book. It was two years later. I was away at school by then...so why was he writing about it again?

"Turn the page," Andy whispered. I did. Uncle Jake's words flowed on:

...He knew what was about to happen, but he so desperately wanted it, and I was not about to deny him. "Tell me," I said. "Tell me what you want."

"I want to feel you inside...I want to feel it...your cock...inside me."

"Okay, sweetheart," I replied. "Then you will.  You'll feel it...if that's truly what you want, then I'll do it. Is it?"

"Yes!" the boy gasped, "Yes!" my nephew said.

I stopped, suddenly shaking like a leaf. I just stared at the page until I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to face Andy. Tears streamed down his face. I became conscious of a great heat that seemed to flow from his body. Through blurred vision, he looked into my eyes. "Can you ever forgive me?" he asked, and then, slowly, shaking like a school boy sneaking his first kiss, he leaned into me, and I felt his wet, warm lips on mine.

I did forgive him. With that very first kiss all the distance I'd felt from him and to him, seemed to evaporate. I realized now that the few times I'd seen him and felt his uncertainty, and mine, what I thought was the cause, turned out to actually be something else. It was his feelings of guilt that I was sensing, not his disgust. That revelation for me was a great release.


"I thought you'd hate me, if I told you," he said the next morning as he lay in my arms.

I kissed him on his chin. "I could never hate you," I said softly, and then added with a smile, "I thought you hated me."

"I'm so sorry," he breathed. "I was afraid."

"It's okay...Andy," I whispered in his ear. Everything's o..."

"Hey Dad. Where's Ca..."  

Andy and I turned to the bedroom doorway.

Jake had begun speaking as he opened the door and now stood, looking wide-eyed, though, oddly (when I had a moment to think about it later on) not shocked. He would have been shocked, I should have thought, stunned to see a stranger (to him anyway), or more important, a male, embracing his father. Instead, mild surprise. Not even. Perhaps more a gentle satisfaction, for as I watched, pulling the sheet higher over me like a guilty schoolgirl, a soft, easy smile hinted on his velvety-smooth face. And not shy either, apparently, as he stood framed in the doorway clad only in his plaid boxers. His arms folded over each other, right knee slightly bent, causing his right hip to drop almost coyly. I could not take my eyes from him. His body was perfection: slim, but firm and muscular, the kind of body a skinny kid thirty years ago had fantasized about. He must work out, I thought, how else could he have a subtle but clearly defined six-pack?

Recovering now, he blushed just the slightest, then began backing out of the room, hands self-consciously dropping (too late, however) to hide an inviting outcropping covered but not restricted by his boxers.

"It's okay, J-man," his dad offered, and the boy slowed. Andy patted the bed beside him, and young Jake, with a long glance in my direction, ambled easily to the edge of the bed and sat down. He twisted around and rested his bent, left leg on the bed and smiled at his dad, then offered a briefer, shyer smile in my direction.

Andy reached up and lovingly rubbed his son's back. "It's been quite a night," he began.

Again the boy smiled shyly. Then Andy turned to me.

"Jake's known for some time - about me...about who I am. He understands. We weren't without our difficult moments, but I think we've worked through 'em okay. Haven't we?"  Andy tussled the boy's hair once, and Jake grinned reassuringly.

"Yeah," Jake murmured. Then his expression changed, and he became almost coy, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "How was it getting to know each other again?" The way he said it made my cheeks pink up, and I didn't think I blushed easily, but I found myself smiling in response.  He gave the impression that he knew exactly how we had been getting to know each other. Perhaps that was what happens when your father is a late-coming-out gay man.

"It was great," his father told the boy, and patted his rippled belly. That simple act created in me an odd sense of jealousy.  The boy smiled back and snuggled in against his father. Andy glanced over at me and with his hand covered by the sheet, ran his hand over my thigh. I grinned and blushed again when I realized the sheet hadn't kept Jake from seeing what his father had done.

All day long I kept returning to that moment - to the feelings that flooded over me. Now the boy and I were preparing lunch (PB&J sandwiches, gourmands that we are), and as we literally rubbed elbows, those unbidden feelings returned with a vengeance.  I suppose I'd have to admit I'd always found young attractive teen boys appealing, but never in any way other than simple observation - much as a viewer at a exhibit of sculpture. This morning I felt something different. This was a gnawing, a pulling, an insistence that I pay attention to this delightful boy, and my body's response suggested it was something more as well. It was, as I thought about it, not without invitation - or perhaps baiting was a better word - from the boy himself, and yet, it couldn't have been a conscious thought. His innocence would preclude that. And yet. And yet, he seemed to sense exactly what his father and I had been doing, and his father seemed to acknowledge that his son wasn't quite as innocent as it would seem.

Now I had a flash to my youth, and I considered for a moment how Uncle Jake would react to this sweet man child. Surely the same thought must have occurred to Andy as well. But it was Andy who had brought the boy into this house. And hadn't they said they'd scheduled this visit before Uncle Jake's passing? Yes, I was sure they had.

"Jake," I said when the opportunity presented itself. "Did you have a chance to get to know your namesake?"

"Yeah," he said in typical teen shorthand.

I raised my eyebrows as if seeking more.

Jake continued, "We visited a couple of times over the past year or so. It was great."

"He was a great guy," I echoed in a faraway tone.

"Yeah," the boy answered with almost the identical feeling as I had.

"Maybe it's odd to say because I haven't been around in years, but I miss him.

Jake smiled with eyes glistening with wetness. "Yeah, Cal. Me, too."

It was suddenly an awkward moment. I'd never intended to make the boy feel bad, and before I had much chance to think about it, I opened my arms and he practically leapt into my arms and we embraced. He held me tightly which spurred me to respond with equal strength in my own embrace.

The boy choked back a sob, and I drew my hand to the back of his head and stroked his soft hair. I felt a hot tear soak through my t-shirt. At one point I glanced up when I felt a presence in the doorway, and saw Andy. I instantly offered an expression of confusion, as if to say, what do I do now. Andy simply smiled and nodded and backed out, apparently comfortable in letting me offer solace to his son.

I gently pulled my hips backward, trying to move my unwelcome hardening away from his body. I hoped to move casually and slowly enough so as to not raise his awareness that first his mere presence, and now his embrace has gotten me excited. I didn't, after all, want him to think me a pervert. And yet as I shifted ever so slightly, so did he, and with a growing confusion, if not alarm, I thought I felt his own anatomy hardening against my thigh at the same time. I leaned down and brushed a kiss on his golden locks, then gently lifted him away from me. "You know," I said, choosing to ignore what we both felt happening, "it's okay to cry. Sometimes guys think that's...not cool...but if you're hurting, it's a good thing to do...ya' know?"

The boy nodded. "Yeah, I know. That's what my dad says, too." He snuffed once.

I grinned, and found my hand reaching up and wiping away his tears.

He lips stretched now, and two dimples whirlpooled into his cheeks, anchoring each side of his smile. His sparkling blue eyes danced with mine.

"Hey," I said, "we better get these sandwiches made or your dad will be making us wash the dishes, too!"

Jake's smile grew, and we both settled down to finishing our task.

For the next 48 hours, my life couldn't have been better. In fact, at one point, a day and a half into my four-day stay, I'd suddenly realized what my life had been before I'd come back to Jefferson, before I'd spent this time with Andy and his son. I'd thought things were okay, but suddenly freed of all the baggage of the previous three years, I saw with troubling clarity how I had slowly been drowning. I was in a relationship that wasn't going anywhere, except down, and pulling me with it. When you live with something (or someone) day in and day out, I guess you don't always realize how much you're giving away in order to keep things going when the truth is, things should have stopped a long time ago. And that's what I told Andy and Jake when the subject of going home came up.

"Truth? I wish I never had to go home...This time with you...I don't know...it's...it's made me see things...more clearly. I know things are going to have to change, and it's not going to be pleasant." I dropped my head, shaking it a few times, and then I looked back up to Andy and his son. "But I should have done it a long time ago." A tear welled up out of my eye.

Andy turned to me suddenly and embraced me. Before I knew what was happening, his lips fitted against mine, and after we broke, he whispered, "Cal, it's going to be okay. You'll do what you need to do. You're strong. I don't know if you've ever really understood just how strong you are. I...I'm ashamed to say it, but I really didn't understand it until it was too late - too late for me, I mean...but now...maybe...I'm so glad things have worked out this way." He sort of chuckled and then added, "Uncle Jake got his wish, I guess. He did get us together."

That made me grin, though not without noting a bit of sad irony. "Yeah," I muttered, "Maybe he had one last trick up his sleeve."

Then Andy added with a hint of mystery, "And...you've gotten me thinking." He turned to his son. "I think we've got some things to think about, too, I'd say, Jake." The boy looked mildly confused but nodded agreeably.

The second night in Uncle Jake's house I was on the way to the bedroom from bathroom. Andy had gone to check on Jake who was in his room, playing a video game.  He had already taken care of his tooth brushing and peeing (I pictured him standing there holding his boy tool, shaking to rid himself of the last few drops. He glances down - in my imagination - and gives his soft one inch penis a few strokes and instantly begins to harden.)  I shook off the image, embarrassed by my impure, even perverse thoughts just about the time I was passing by Jake's room. I heard voices:

"...I know he would," I heard the boy say.

"Shhh," is all the reply I could hear, except for some soft mumbling.

"I like him, Dad, and I know he likes me. I know he does."

They were obviously talking about me, and suddenly a wave of guilt passed through me. I shouldn't be listening.

"Ask him," the boy demanded. "It'd be perfect. You know it would!"

"Oh, J-man," Andy said softly. "Are you sure?"

"Look," the boy said, "what do you think."

"Jake!" his father answered with an almost shocked giggle. "I'll think about it."

I wish I could have seen what just transpired between the two, but then, Andy gave me a hint:  "And that, young man, you'll have to take care of yourself after I've left."

"Yeah, yeah."

Now I had heard too much. Were they talking about what seemed so obvious to me? I had this image of Jake baring himself to his father, and his father commanding him to jack himself off after he's left. And - now I was blushing - I was the cause of all this?

It was assumed that Andy and I would spend the night together again. There was a tension between us that had built as the day had worn on - a good tension, full of anticipation, full of love, full of lust. By 10:00, the waiting was almost a palpable agony. By 10:30 the TV news had ended, and there was no more pretense, no more delay. We moved up the stairs. Now, Andy was in the bathroom, and I was in the master bedroom, waiting for my lover to come into my arms. My erection pressed out against my bikini briefs at the mere thought of what awaited us. The door opened. But it wasn't Andy. Jake's eyes were riveted on my package. He swallowed and then looked deliberately into my eyes. He was in just his ill-fitting boxers, and he, too, was hard as iron.

"Hey," I said, resisting the urge to cover up in what would be probably the most false act of modesty ever. Instead, I glanced down at his covered treasures, then back up to his eyes.

"Hey," he answered back. Clearly he had something on his mind, but perhaps like a typical teen (pre-teen, I remind myself), he couldn't quite figure out how to begin.

"What's up?" I asked, fully intending the double meaning. He blushed a fiery red and broke into a lewd grin. "Besides that," I muttered, nodding boldly toward his barely hidden boyhood.

"Lame," he muttered.  "The joke I mean." We both giggled like kids.  He reddened even more, then found his voice. "Ahm...my dad's maybe gonna' ask you something. He says he's got to think about it, so maybe he won't." The boy stood there with a look of pure, raw lust. Truthfully, I was confused. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought he wanted me, but then perhaps, that was the source of my confusion because I knew, at least part of me knew, he did want me. "But," the boy said, refocusing my straying thoughts, "if he does, please just say yes." He paused. "Please." And then he was gone.

I awoke in Andy's arms, feeling it to be as natural as if I'd been waking that way for a lifetime. He was awake already, and he ran his fingers over my temple and like a child dancing in gentle seashore waves, dipped his fingertips into my reddish blond locks. He sighed. "You're beautiful," he mumbled, and I reached down and gently caressed his thigh. "Again?" he asked. "Are you insatiable?" I felt his other hand wander down to my manhood. "Never mind," he giggled like a schoolboy. "I already know the answer." Slowly he began to masturbate me. In just these short days together, I knew that's what he was going to do. This was not preliminary to some hot mouth work or anal stimulation. No, this was simply going to be a gentle, relaxed, extended session of intimacy. Now I sighed, for my mind flashed back to my youth. After ten minutes of silence - except for the soft sounds of my flesh being worked, I summoned my strength.

"You know," I began, already finding it difficult not to center all my being on the ivory essence of my manhood which he so lovingly worked. "This seems so...wonderful, so...I don't know...like we've transcended to another plane...It's just so right. But when I was Jake's age, maybe a bit older, I was so desperate to feel you doing this to me. I wanted it so bad. And I knew it could never happen."

His hand softly convulsed around my leaking tool, and I sighed. "But now it has, Cal," Andy answered. "Maybe in some little way, I can begin to make up for some of that lost time together." He leaned in and kissed me, then lowering, nibbled on my right nipple. That's all it took. My body tensed, my hips thrust gently outward, and I erupted. A little whimper/grunt caught in my throat. It was one of the strangest orgasms I'd ever experienced. Slow motion. Almost as if I were looking down on someone else. Surges of thick, pungent cream pulsed onto his belly, and I heard him sigh with utter satisfaction, pleased that he was able to bring such sublime...what?...completeness, I suppose, to my being.

My body, having fulfilled its task, relaxed, and I eased my head onto his chest. I felt his heart beating with the same intensity as mine.

We lay there, unmoving, listening only to the leaves rustling in the warm breeze outside. Finally, Andy spoke again.

"Cal," he said softly, though perhaps with more intention than earlier. "I want to ask you something...a favor, I suppose. I don't know how you'll feel about it, but I need to ask."

This was it, I figured, suddenly recalling his son's cryptic conversation the previous night. I felt my face flush, and my pulse quicken. "Sure," I said, and I heard an odd quaver to my voice.

"Uhhmm, Uncle Jake, as you know, ran a small business - even right up to his death. I have a choice to make: Either end it, or take a hard look at it and figure out if it's still viable...or not...or maybe even if it can grow. I know this is a lot to ask, but I'd like you to consider taking it over." I shifted now, and turned to look up at him. He must have seen my confusion. "At least for a while. I mean, tell me to get lost or I'm crazy, but I figured - if you want, of course - there's this house, and you could settle in, and figure out how he did it...and see whether it can continue or not. I don't know much about his business, but I'd guess after a year you could have a pretty good idea whether it's still a viable concept."

"I can already tell you that: if his suppliers are still willing, it is," I replied. "If there are more of them out there, then it could actually grow, I suppose. But there's a market out there. Uncle Jake knew that all right."

Andy nodded. "Although, in his later years, he slowed down a lot. I think he only did enough to keep a little money coming in." He looked into my eyes. "Is that something, you'd consider?"

"In a heartbeat," I answered.

Andy smiled. "There's another piece of this. I'm thinking about giving up my business up North, and moving back down. It couldn't be right away. It'd probably take me a year or so, but I'm ready to get out of the rat race."

"Well...then, you'd need the house," I said. "Right?"

Andy grinned, and rubbed his hand along my ass. "What? You don't think there's enough room for the three of us?"

My eyes widened. I blushed. I smiled. I beamed. I cried. "Andy," I whispered, and leaned in and we kissed again. My head was spinning. I felt like I was in a fairy tale. (Nope, don't even go there!)  I was in heaven.