This story details explicit gay sex between men, teens and boys. If you find this kind of thing distasteful, or if you are underage where ever you live, then stop reading this now, and delete this file. The story is completely fictional, the author does not condone or encourage any of the acts contained herein.


Chapter 23

Proposition 8 has passed. Marriages between same-sex couples in California, legal since June 16th, are now illegal. I have donated probably three times more money to this cause than I've ever donated to a political cause in my life. And, I've been out picketing and talking to voters at malls, train stations, and busy intersections for two weeks before the election. The boys have helped, but school takes precedence, so it's mostly been me, my fight. We failed, and I am pissed. There's a level of intensity I can reach that I suppose is fairly frightening. Jason and Kenny call it "focus." And, they know that when I get too focused, they need to stay out of the way. My focus increases the further out of my comfort zone I am, and talking to the masses, California's great unwashed, is about as far out of my zone as I can get. Isabel Myers and Kathryn Briggs, two lay Jungians, devised a personality test mid-twentieth-century to assess individual personality types. I am an INFP. I am deeply introverted (rather than extroverted), intuitive rather than sensory, feeling rather than thinking, and perceiving rather than judging. I don't go up to someone on the street, introduce myself, and start to talk politics. Or, if I do, it's because I've steeled myself to such a degree that I'm impervious to anything they might say to me. I am, in other words, `focused," more fucking focused than either boy had ever seen me, and it makes them intensely nervous because they honestly had no idea what might happen. Each night, I come home from the day's rally and go sit in the living room -- wired and depressed -- and Jason ever so gently tries to talk me back into my universe, calming me. He's better at this than Kenny, who's a little too happy-go-lucky to make it work. Jason is precisely attuned to my mood, and very gentle in talking me down. Kenny can't quite connect with me on this level, maybe because he's more extroverted and can't really understand my...anguish. As a result, we have a whole lot more western meals because Kenny is cooking while Jason is comforting me. At some level, this is pretty funny, I guess, but the fact that they're working it out between then, intuitively understanding what each of them needs to do, is touching. (I should probably add, as an interesting bit of trivia, that Jason is INFJ on the Myers-Briggs scale, exactly like me, but more apt to judge than perceive. You'd think we'd be just the opposite, given our relationship. He's more judgmental and I'm more forgiving. What a hoot.)

The victory of Proposition 8 demands a response. The "good christians" of California, having absorbed the toxic old testament messages of their "good christian" pastors, need a wake-up call, something to remind them that Christ condemned the old testament, admonishing us to love our enemies. Yeah, I know there are widespread rallies, but they're so...peaceful...so respectful. We need something a little edgier, I think, something to assault the senses of these "good christians", and I have an idea. Have I mentioned in the last five or so minutes that I hate organized religion? They are the chief perpetrators of this atrocity, the chief impediment to progress in this country, in this world. It's there we need to take our message. I call up Gary, David, Illong, and fifteen other friends, and propose a plan, and get nearly unanimous buy-in. We certainly all will go to jail, but it will be worth it. Lastly, I call Bob Titus, my attorney, and tell him what I have planned, and I have never heard such laughter. "Well, Tim, I must advise you against this," he giggles. "I wouldn't be a good lawyer if I didn't. But, when I get your call, I will come bail you out, you and your friends. How many?"

"So far, it's about 30. I'll have a bail fund that you can draw from. We're each going to donate $2000. Do you think that'll be enough?"

"Yeah. Plenty. The church is certainly not going to want to publicize this, although you should. The city's unlikely to press charges. I know a guy at the Merc." (the San Jose Mercury News) "Call him and tell him what you're planning. Get some coverage." We chat for perhaps ten more minutes. "Just make sure that you call me as soon as you see the police. Even if you don't know where they're going to take you. I'll find you as soon as I know they've got you. I'll be waiting for your call. Sunday morning. I love this...umm...but you shouldn't do it." And then he starts laughing again. "God's speed," he says, and is laughing as he hangs up.

As I think I've said before, my father hated religionists even more than I do, but for very different reasons. His mother (my grandmother) was intrusively christian, and it made him very angry. I vividly remember one bright Sunday morning when he decided that it was time to kill the gopher that was killing his lawn, and stuffed a lighted road-flare into one of the gopher's holes while waiting at another hole with a shovel, held ominously above his head. He was going to smoke the fucker out of there and beat him to death when he appeared. This was the least likely way to kill a gopher that I could imagine, even at ten years old, which was what I was at the time, I think. But, goddamn if that gopher didn't stick his head out of the hole where my father was waiting, just as the church across the street was filling with parishioners. I don't know how many good christians watched him beat that gopher to death, but several of my friends, my neighbors, mentioned it the next day at school. "Your Dad looked very...intense," Eric, my best friend from two doors down, said. At the time, I was a little embarrassed, watching the blood drip from his shovel, but as I recount this now, I can't stop laughing. He was so proud to have done this on a Sunday morning, to the amazement of the Presbyterians. He told this story for years, to everyone, anyone who would listen. He especially liked to tell it to Presbyterians.

We're not going to kill gophers, but I do think that what I have planned for this coming Sunday will garner some attention. It'll sure as hell get the attention of good christians at the biggest mega-church in San Jose, where we're targeting our activity, a church with more "Yes on 8" signs that any other. Now all I have to do is sell it to the boys, two of whom, Ian and Alejandro, have no experience in what I am about to propose. But, propose it I do, over a delicious bowl of mixed Korean beans and rice cooked Mexican style by Alejandro, laced with garlic and cumin, just delicious. His mother taught him well, thankfully before she disowned him. He hears what I have planned, and is nearly beside himself with laughter, until he looks at Jason, who is absolutely solemn, and realizes that I'm serious. He stops laughing, abruptly, and thinks, pausing several seconds. "Okay," he says. "I'll do it."

Ian is even more bought-in. "Yup. In a heart-beat. Count me in."

Kenny and Jason are not so enthusiastic. They look at each other, and Jason rolls his eyes. Finally, they look back at me. "Okay." They're reluctant, but they know the stakes, even though this will have probably no impact on the outcome. This is purely civil disobedience, and the fact that I'm planning to do it, that Gary and Nathan are planning to do it, that all our friends are planning to do it, sways them a bit.

"All our friends" originally equaled fifteen couples, 30 people, but word has spread fast, and it now looks like we're going to have more like 50 couples, 100 people, some married, some not, even some heterosexuals. Some of the couples have been paired by friends and don't even know each other -- but they will. Sunday is the day after tomorrow, and in the course of the next two days, more couples confirm, and then the plan takes a quantum leap as two other guys start organizing against two other local mega-churches. We set up a Yahoo group, and start to follow the activity. Ultimately, on Saturday night, we have a total of 500 people signed up. The jails are going to be full Sunday afternoon.

No sex on Saturday, I decree. I want all of us a bit overwrought, a bit on the...horny side, and you can see the desperation in Ian and Alejandro. By evening, they're nervous and pacing, pleading with me. I back the Westfalia out of the garage on Saturday night as I plan to pick up several of our friends the next morning. The fewer cars we have the better, because we're going to end up in jail for this. No sense in twenty of us each having to get a ride to pick up their car.

On Sunday morning, we start out at 7:45am, picking up 7 couples, a total of 14 people, all crammed into the Westfalia, in addition to the five of us and a friend of Kenny's. Gary and Nathan are there, and we haven't seen them in a while, so there's a lot of chatter, and a lot of giggling. I have to be careful because state law limits the number of people I can transport in this van to nine. I have twenty. Most of them are sitting on the floor, so it's not real obvious that we have way too many people in this van, but if I get pulled over, we'll get arrested before we have a chance to get arrested. The atmosphere is jovial. There's a lot of laughter, and a lot of Mandarin (because Alejandro speaks Mandarin, but not Cantonese). After all the stops, and all the pick ups, we arrive at the church at 9:30am. Our timing couldn't be more perfect. The parking lot is virtually empty, but you can see it begin to fill. Service is at 10am. Right behind us are four other vans, also filled to capacity with our crowd. We all park on the opposite side of the street, but not together. No sense in making vandalism too easy.

Once we've parked, I open up the van, and its nineteen passengers unravel themselves and begin to climb out. It's now 9:40am. All of us strip, as do the passengers in the other four vans, and walk naked across the street. Two of the couples, Jason and me, and Gary and Nathan open a twenty foot banner that reads: "We are the faggots whose marriages you just voted to outlaw." Then pairing up, we all 48 of us begin to kiss...passionately. What I'm hoping for are 48 hard-ons, and I'm not disappointed. Not everyone has an erection, but there are enough of us to make this pretty pornographic. When we arrived there were ten cars in the parking lot, and that's the final number when we leave, an hour and a half later. Car after car of overdressed christians have approached, seen us, and passed the church, their children gawking. I assume the cops have been called, but they never arrive, although the pastor emerges after an hour, shrieking that we're all going to jail, and then to hell. At 11:45am, long after the last service is scheduled to end, we roll up our banner and return to our vans, dressing quickly, and driving away. What a gas.

No one is arrested. No one at any of the three churches we target. The police can't be bothered. They apparently feel that real crime is more important than this. And this is also the case for the next two weeks, when we return. No cops, and no parishioners, no tithes, empty pews and no squad cars. Just fucking priceless.


A month after he moves in, Alejandro is caught jerking off. It's Jason who catches him. He's cleaning up, and finds him in the basement, hiding out. I am very angry. "What the fuck, Alejandro? We talked about this. There is no masturbation in this house, no cumming without permission." Worse, he starts to argue with me about it.

"It's my body, Tim. My right." He continues on a tear, finally coming to a halt after five minutes.

I wait until he's done. "Are you going to take the punishment, or are you leaving?"

He's quiet for a long, long moment, and then starts to cry. "I don't understand why this isn't okay. I don't understand why I can't do this. Everyone does this. I don't understand why I can't. This is medieval. This isn't fair." I wait him out.

"My house. My rules. It's a control issue. I explained this to you. It's not like you haven't been able to get off. Are you going to take the punishment, or are you leaving?"

He's sobbing, now. "I'll take the punishment."


He pauses, still sobbing. "Please...please...punish me."

All the commotion has drawn the attention of Kenny and Ian. Alejandro is mortified. We migrate to the bedroom, and he positions himself on the bed. He knows the rules. If he moves, the punishment is doubled, and this one is not going to be pleasant. Cumming without permission is not an excusable offense. We start with 15 with the razor strop, and I'm laying them on hard. At number 15, he is sobbing. "Don't you move, Alejandro, but reach back and pull your ass cheeks apart, as far as they'll go. Hold them apart."

I retrieve the whippy junior cane, and flog his pucker. Nine strokes. Each stroke earns a scream. "Keep it open, Alejandro," I command, returning the cane to its hook in the closet and coming back with some lotion which I apply to his very sore ass. "Don't ever do this again. If you do, I'll double the punishment. It doesn't fucking matter why this rule exists. It doesn't matter whether it's fair. If you do this again, you get thirty with the razor strop, and 18 to the asshole. Do you want that?"

He is sobbing. "No," he wails.

"Don't fucking do this again," I say, stroking his hair.


But he does. The second time, two weeks later, I catch him myself, and it's almost as though he wants to be caught, almost as though he's testing me. He`s in the back yard, for christ's sake, out by the pool, lying on a chaise longue, his shorts around his ankles, stroking himself languidly, eyes closed. Bliss. I walk out to him, and he doesn't even hear me. When he opens his eyes, just about to cum, there I am, looking none too happy. He stops, looking guilty. I give him a long look, and then move toward the house. "I wouldn't stop, Alejandro, because you're going to get so punished for it. Might as well enjoy it because it's the last thing you'll enjoy today. Meet me in the basement when you're finished."

Ten minutes later, a chastened Alejandro appears downstairs dressed in shorts, a t-shirt, and flip-flops. "Lose the clothes," I command. He knows where this is going, but doesn't know how to head it off. I plan to cause him a great deal of pain, and he knows it, fears it, but the alternative is worse -- expulsion. Having stripped, he lies down on the punishment table automatically. "No," I say. "We're not doing that today. It hasn't worked very well up to now. We're going to try something else." Moving to the cabinets at the side of the room, I produce a set of leather cuffs that I attach to his wrists, and another set that I attach to his ankles. The wrist cuffs I hook to ceiling cables that I then winch up, pulling his hands above his head, pulling him nearly off his feet, on tippy toes. The ankle cuffs I hook to screws in the floor, pulling his legs wide apart. He is now beyond tippy-toes, dangling from his arms. Moving to the other corner of the room, I roll an IV stand from the coat closet, and fill a three quart enema bag with soap and warm water. Clamping the hose, I hang the bag from the IV stand. Alejandro is watching me wide-eyed, clearly apprehensive. "Ever had an enema, Alejandro?" He shakes his head. "Well, you're going to have one today. I don't imagine you'll like it much."

I attach a double-balloon Bardex nozzle to the enema hose, and hang it over the stand. Next, I take a bag of sterile saline from a drawer, and hang it from the opposite hook of the IV stand before opening a sterile-packed catheter kit. I wash my hands carefully, and put on the sterile gloves that come with the kit, moving everything to Alejandro. "You're not going to like this, either," I promise, "but maybe it will remind of the rules of the house. There aren't really very many, but the one you just violated -- for the second time in a month -- is one of the most important. You will not jerk off in this house. You will not cum without permission. None of the other boys do it. If you're going to live here, you won't either."

I swab his dick with betadine, lube the catheter with sterile KY, and begin to insert it into his dick. You can see the terror in his eyes. He is almost frantic to avoid this, but can't move. "Please, Tim, please...I won't do it again. Please don't..." As the catheter moves along his urethra, he begins to hiss and moan, tearing up as he continues to beg me to stop. Once it enters the bladder, it begins to leak urine, and I clamp it off, injecting sterile water to inflate the retention balloon. Then I attach the catheter to a hose from the saline bag. Next, I lube the double-Bardex enema nozzle, and slide it into his asshole, pumping up first the inner balloon, and then the outer balloon. We're now ready to go.

I move in, and kiss Alejandro sensuously, and he returns the kiss. We kiss for maybe two minutes, until we're both hard, his dick, with the catheter extending from the urethra, is poking me in the thigh. "You will not cum without permission," I say, breaking the kiss. "You will not. Do you hear me?" He nods, crying softly now. I release the clamps to both the catheter and the enema nozzle, and he begins to fill in a gush, moaning, and then screaming as the cramping begins. "Please, Tim, please stop," he screams desperately. In maybe 30 seconds, both bags are empty, and he is more bloated than I've ever seen anyone, bloated and writhing.

"45 minutes, Alejandro. You're going to hold the liquid for 45 minutes starting now. It will, I imagine, be 45 minutes of exquisite hell. And, why are we doing this?" Alejandro is sobbing now.

"Please, Tim, please, please..."

"WHY ARE WE FUCKING DOING THIS," I shout, my face an inch from his.

Desperately, "Because I came without permission. I won't do it again. I promise. Please..."

"Do you love Ian?"


"How much?"

"I love him desperately. I adore him. Please, Tim, please help me..."

"I am helping you, Alejandro, you just don't realize it. Jerking off is like cheating on all of us, cheating on Ian. He needs to be the one to get you off if you really love him. Jerking off is a waste of your passion, passion that should be directed toward him, toward us. This is not just a control issue. This is an issue of love, of trust, of interdependence. It's an issue of commitment, a commitment to someone you love, and who loves you to the exclusion of others. If you didn't have someone to love, jerking off would be fine. But you do, and for the emotional well being of the relationship, you need to be dependent on Ian, on us for your sexual needs. It's not like you don't get off enough, is it? IS IT?"

"No," he whines, still sobbing.

"Two to three times a day, right? That's what you said you need. Have you been getting it?"

Sobbing. "Yes."

"Then what's this about?"

"I don't know," he sobs.

"Yes, you do. What's it about?"

Long pause as he continues to writhe, to sob. "Please, Tim, please stop..."

"What's it about, Alejandro?"

He starts to wail as another wave of cramps -- and guilt -- hits him. It always surprises me just how effective a little Dawn dishwashing liquid can be to add a little spice to an enema. It seems to produce wave after wave of really gut-wrenching cramps, and has the added advantage that it helps to control the smell when you finally expel. This seemingly benign blue liquid, so gentle that they used it to clean the oil off the feathers of the sea birds during the Exxon Valdez disaster, can really do a number on your intestines.

I shake my head, and get back into his face. "I've changed my mind, Alejandro. 45 minutes is the minimum for this punishment. But, if you don't have a pretty perceptive answer about why you feel you need to jerk off when those 45 minutes are up, you're going to be holding that liquid for longer than that. I'm going upstairs to have a cup of coffee. I'll be back in 30 minutes and we can discuss this behavior some more. I suggest you use that time to do some soul searching and figure it out."

"No...no...Tim...please... Please don't leave me. Please..."

"Figure it out, Alejandro. I'll be back."

The boy is in absolute agony. You can see it etched on his face. You can see it in the way he writhes. You can see it in his very rotund belly. You can hear it in his voice as he sobs. I feel bad for him, but we have to get this solved. It's going to take some tough love.

The door to the basement is in the kitchen, and as I emerge, I find Jason at the kitchen table, doing homework. I cross to him, stroking his hair, caressing his face. He looks at me with concern, no doubt having heard Alejandro's screams and sobbing. "We're having a discussion about why we might feel we need to jerk off despite having a loving boyfriend and three friends willing to get us off as often as we want. Surprisingly, it appears to be a complex question." Jason smiles grimly, and then looks at the basement, and back to me. "Enema...and a little more." He nods. Jason hasn't had an enema in a very long time, not since soon after I'd met him. He didn't enjoy it, I think, and his was just plain water, no additives. "Do me a favor. In 20 minutes, take some laundry down to the basement as if to pop it into the washing machine. Act surprised to see him and ask him what he's done. Coax it out of him if you have to. Try and get him to be a little introspective. I've told him that he'll be holding his liquid until he can tell me what he's trying to prove by jerking off. I think it's a control issue, but I want him to verbalize this. He's going to be really embarrassed by your seeing him like this, but you'll actually be helping him. The sooner he can explain his motivations, the sooner he'll get to relieve himself. I think his issue is with me, so it might be easier talking to you." Jason nods. "You'll have 10 minutes. I'll come down in 30 minutes and relieve you."

We kiss briefly, and I move to the coffee maker for a warm-up, while Jason returns to his math homework. Math and comp sci have been a thorn in his side (and, literally, a pain in his ass) for several grade reports, so I'm happy to see him concentrating on it. I move to the living room, and turn on the TV, setting it to monitor the cameras in the basement. Alejandro is still writhing, still sobbing, still begging for release. In 15 minutes Jason appears on the scene, laundry in hand, and does a great job of acting surprised. Alejandro goes crimson, an amazing feat given his complexion, and begs Jason to release him. "You know I can't," Jason replies. "What have you done to deserve this?"

Alejandro is panting furiously, trying to control the pain and to stop crying, and manages to choke out an explanation, confessing to jerking off in the back yard.

"Why'd you do that," Jason asks. Alejandro starts to sob abjectly.

"I am not really sure. It was stupid. I love Ian so much, and you guys, and Tim. I love you all. I think...it was just...defiance."

"Defiance of what?"

"That's what I do not really know. Tim describes jerking off as infidelity, to Ian, to you all. And he is right...it is. Oh, god, I hurt so much," he says, sobbing. Jason gently stokes his distended belly, trying to comfort him a bit. "I think I was testing the relationship. Testing Tim's authority."

"That's probably not a very good idea. He does love you. I know he does. He's told me several times. He thinks you're smarter than he thinks you think you are, and he's so happy that Ian has someone he loves. But, he's not going to cede control to you. It's just not in his nature. And Ian adores him, idolizes him, will never leave him. So, if you keep this up, you'll be giving up...umm...a lot."

"I know this," he wails. "I have totally fucked up. I am so sorry."

It's time for my entrance, and as I open the basement door, Jason looks up at me and smiles, moving to the foot of the stairs, ready to make himself scarce. "Good luck," he says, smiling wanly at Alejandro.

Once Jason is gone, I position myself in front of Alejandro and wait. He continues to sob, hanging almost limply by his cuffed wrists, sweating profusely. He's clearly exhausted, and continues to be wracked by cramps.

"I am so sorry Tim. I was stupid, and thoughtless. I love Ian, and all of you so much. I do not want to destroy that. I realize that what I did was the same as cheating on you all. I am so, so sorry."

"And, why'd you do it?"

"I think it was defiance. I think I was testing my limits, testing your authority. But, (you have to believe this, please) I have been happier here than I have ever been in my life. I have been happy to submit to you, both because I love you, all of you, and because our life is almost...what's the word...idyllic, carefree.

I move forward and kiss him gently. "You've done very well. I was looking for introspection, for soul-searching, and I think you've done that, assessing your own motives. We'll see by your actions just how sincere you are in this. You have five more minutes."

Another wave of cramps hits him, and he sobs. "I love you Tim, and I love the others...and...I want you to believe that I am sincere. Please...go back upstairs...and leave me like this for the five minutes you had planned, and for another fifteen. I am sincere, and I want to prove it."

I am fucking amazed. He has taken me completely by surprise. "You don't have to do that, Alejandro."

"I know," he says, "but I want to. Please leave me now."

I want to hug him, but don't want to compress his belly, so just reach over and kiss him, a lingering kiss that he returns until the next wave of cramps hit him and he begins to sob again. I head upstairs to find Jason and Ian, both sniffling, watching the scene in the living room on the monitor that I'd forgotten to turn off. I ruffle Ian's hair, and he hugs me. After twenty minutes, I return to the basement and lower Alejandro to the floor, releasing his ankles and wrists, removing the catheter and the enema nozzle, and motioning him to the corner toilet where he expels for a long ten minutes, followed by a second plain-water enema to rinse away any remaining soap. He is so weak, so exhausted. I wipe his ass for him, which he allows with a smile, and take him to sit on my lap for a good forty minutes while I stroke his back and hair and while he cries. Finally regaining control, he kisses me, and I carry him upstairs and set him on one of the kitchen chairs. Kenny, Jason and Ian are all in the kitchen, making dinner, a potpourri of Mexican dishes under the able guidance of Kenny, who has apparently been collecting recipes for weeks -- Chili Rellenos, Beans and Rice, Enchiladas, Taquitos -- all fiercely spicy, the way Jason, Kenny and I like it, and Alejandro, too. It's a little much for Ian, and so I get him a glass of milk to help counteract the chilis. Alejandro raves about the meal, touched, I think by the solidarity of the boys who are trying to comfort him after his ordeal. And, as we finish up, Kenny looks sheepishly at Alejandro. "Umm...I don't have anything for...umm...dessert. What do Mexicans eat for dessert?"

Alejandro laughs. "Sometimes we eat rice pudding, sometimes custard -- flan -- sometimes just fruit."

Kenny is suddenly very interested. "What kind of fruit."

"Well, my favorite is sliced mango."

Kenny beams, and rushes out of the room, returning a few minutes later with a plate of sliced mango. "Your Mexican dessert is the same as our Chinese dessert. We love it, too," he says, setting the plate in the middle of table, in easy reach of the whole mishpocha.

This has been a good day, I think. Much has been learned, and we've bonded in a way that hadn't happened before. And Alejandro and Ian spend most of the evening cuddling on the couch while they watch TV, a re-run of Will and Grace and the latest Grey's Anatomy. Very cute. Long about 11:30pm, we pile into bed and are all out in probably under 20 minutes, all snuggled against each other. A very good day.

Published first at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Nemo-stories/