This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Twenty-six

(Monday, October 10th)

The walk to and from Westport High School goes without any hitches, and Raph and I learn a lot about awareness, about how to observe the world around us in the eight blocks there and back.

Bob and Marty take us north on Warwick and the one block east on 39th to McGee. Arriving at a high-school principal’s office with two bodyguards and a lawyer is not an everyday occurrence for either of us.

Raphie’s Uncle Claude is a very refined, soft-spoken gentleman in his mid-forties, who is not at all surprised to see his nephew and me. Geneviève had phoned him.

To my surprise, however, he tells me to give his kindest regards to my father. Joey’s rendition of Boris Vian's Le Déserteur at the antiwar rally cum fundraiser had impressed him no end. Marty, posted next to the door, beams with pride, certainly because he had organized the fundraiser, and possibly because it’s his man, the principal is talking about.

Mr. Bruneau gives us very sound advice about how we should proceed with our studies. He is willing to appreciate that we have both emotionally and academically finished high school. His advice with respect to the military draft is basically the same as Bob’s: stay enrolled in high school until the beginning of spring semester, and then enroll full-time in college. He is skeptical, however, with regard to the academic sufficiency of Metropolitan Junior College, located across the street.

He has spoken to the head of the French Department, and she advises us to take placement tests. But JC only offers up to third-year courses, which would be much too basic for native speakers. Raph and I can appreciate that. High-School French had bored us silly, even though the teacher kept giving us special projects. But we didn’t see any point, since French is our language and culture, not Mrs. O’Casey's.

I mean, after all, Raph and I had read, and understood, the first three volumes of Sartre’s unfinished tetralogy, Les Chemins de la liberté, when we were in the seventh grade. Although our opinions do differ as to the extent to which our choices, thirst for independence, specific demands and principles actually torture the individual, we do get the message.

And, as one of Mrs. O’Casey's special projects, we read Camus' L’Étranger and tried to discuss it with her. This was only a couple of years following the horribly bloody and horrific French occupation of Algeria, and she was not in the least receptive to any notion of the absurd.

Geneviève, on the other hand, had pointed out the absurdity of France's having given us the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen of 1789 as the foundation of the French revolution and then proceeding to subject the indigenous peoples of Algeria to colonization, culminating in possibly the bloodiest war of independence ever. Our French teacher, Mrs. O’Casey, just didn't get it.

For as long as either of us can remember, the school system has been holding us back. Since kindergarten, the system has been a straight jacket.

My kindergarten teacher gave us an assignment to paint a traffic light. I put the red at the top and the green at the bottom, and she said that I had it the wrong way around.

When I took her by the hand to the corner of 23rd and Lawn and showed her the traffic signal, she was embarrassed but wrote a note to Joey and Mildred saying that I was much too precocious.

Raphaël had had similar experiences until we teamed up in Miss Waldon’s class. Then, we were able to motivate each other, but we had become bored with, and consequently, indifferent to our surroundings. This is why the close-protection walk today with Bob and Marty is such an eye-opener.

***

When we arrive back home, we find Joey asleep on our couch. He looks adorable with his rough, weather-worn features somewhat relaxed. His grey-blond buzz cut is just about the length of his beard. No question, he’s my dad; and I know exactly how I’ll look in forty-some-odd years.

I rub my hand gently across his bristly hair. “Why didn’t you lie down on the bed?”

He swings his body upright; his feet hit the floor with a thump. He is always immediately alert. “Aw, not with me clothes on, Lad.” Jennette gives him a look that conveys concern about suggested impropriety. Marty laughs, and Raph sits down next to him. Joey gives Raphie a pat on the knee. “And how did it go?”

Raph shakes his head approvingly. “Better than I expected. Uncle Claude knows his stuff about all the angles we have to consider. There’s even a special scholarship so that we can attend UMKC when we place out of the French courses offered at JC. He also thinks that maybe a similar rule could apply to drama, since Dan and I are both Equity members and have performed at their Playhouse.”

“On the security side,” Bob inserts. “all of us will have to be on the lookout for a ’64, black, Lincoln Continental with Missouri tags, YR2-018.“ All of us, except for Marty, look astonished since Bob is not referring to any notes. “It passed us three times, while we were walking north on Warwick and twice walking back on McGee.”

“Sounds like Leon’s car.” I inform Bob, who has produced a small notepad and is writing on the breakfast bar.

“Who is Leon?” He doesn’t remove his eyes from the notepad.

“Leon Breitinger is Busby’s brother-in-law. He’s Bible-thumpin’-Sielya’s sister’s husband.” Joey gets up and goes to the fridge. “What d’yus want?” Three of us opt for nothing, and the rest decide on soft drinks.

“Do you know where Leon lives?” Bob nods his thanks to Joey for the cola.

“Som’ers in Independence is my guess.” Joey takes a swig from his bottle of Royal Crown. “That’s where the rest of ‘em retreaded Mormons live.”

Marty laughs. “Retreaded Mormons?”

“Ah, sure, a mhuirnín.” Joey places his free hand on Marty’s shoulder. “Now, ye’ll not be gettin' many of 'em down in yer neck of the woods, over there in Lebanon--”

“--nor in Syria and Jordan.” Jennette laughs with dark cynicism and lights a cigarette. Marty gives her a ‘fuck-you’ look.

“Anyway,” Marty turns his attention back to Dad. “They’re called the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, which means feckin’ horse thieves in proper English.”

“Don’t know about that,” I try for some semblance of understanding. “but they do believe that the Garden of Eden was in Jackson County, just to the East of Independence.”

“C’mon. Who’d believe in that kinda bullshit?” Marty's total disbelief is sort of surprising, seeing that, as of this morning, he’s still grappling with whether to believe in his god or not.

So, I put a dot over the ‘i’, so to speak. “Hey, Marty, it’s right up along with the other biblical bullshit, like the talking snake and the heavens being just a blue canopy full of water, isn’t it?” He looks as if I’d slapped him. “That’s what the Bible claims on the first two pages.” Joey gives me a look, which tells me to back off.

Bob gets us back on track. “Could he afford to be able to cruise around on a workday?”

“Probably.” Joey pauses to think. “Don’t remember, exactly what he does fer a livin’, but I seem to recall that he’s one of the more important horse thieves.”

Bob snickers and starts leafing in the white pages. “I take it that you don’t like him.”

“Any a ‘em wee fuckers, who ring me doorbell at eight in the mornin’ on a Saturday are puttin’ their earthly existence in jeopardy.”

To judge by the questioning looks we’re getting from Marty, Bob and Jennette, the bell ringers don’t get this far west. Now, having just formulated this thought, our doorbell starts ringing aggressively.

Bob glances out the living-room window to see a cherry top sitting in the drive. He motions to Marty, who takes up position behind the half wall surrounding the stairs. Marty draws his weapon.

And Bob answers the door downstairs. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

A voice filters through the screen door. “Does Yves-Raphaël Mongrain live here?”

Bob’s cool and composed manner is friendly but firm. “And why do you need to know?”

“We’ve just received a call from the Johnson County Sheriff’s Office and there has been a shooting at the residence of Mrs. Mongrain. They have asked us to take young Mr. Mongrain to see his mother at the hospital.”

“That’s bullshit!” Jennette whispers to Raph and rushes to the telephone in our bedroom. She closes the door. I sit down next to Raph on the couch and take his hand.

“And what hospital is she in?” Bob’s voice is no longer as friendly as it initially was.

“KU Medical Center.” The voice of the policeman is young.

“And you are about to take Mr. Mongrain in your very-well marked Kansas City, Missouri patrol car across Stateline, alone?

“My partner is waiting for us at the station.” The pitch of the young man’s voice raises to approach a squeak.

Jennette barrels out of the bedroom and yells from the top of the stairs. “Grab him!”

Bob flings open the screen door, lifting it off its hinges. He throws the aluminum door to the side and takes the policeman into a bear hug. Jennette detaches the gun belt, takes the bracelets and cuffs the cop.

“Aren’t you going to read me my rights, Lady?” The uniformed man is pouting.

“That would be illegal, I’m afraid. You are not under arrest; we are only detaining you until law enforcement arrives. We’ll see what they have to say.”

Not very many minutes elapse until we hear the sirens, tires screeching to a halt, sound of boots in the driveway as real cops arrive. Confusion sets in.

“Why do you have a policeman cuffed, Mam?”

“He arrived alone in that patrol car. He asked to see an individual who is under personal protection. He claimed to have received a call from the Johnson County Sherriff’s Office about a shooting at a house, which I own.

“The house is located in Overland Park, and I would have received the call at my office from the Overland Park Police Department, should any such shooting have taken place, and my office would have contacted me here.

“And he wanted to take the person, he was trying to find, across Stateline in that marked patrol car. How’s that for starters?”

“And who might you be?” The real cop, speaking for his partner, who was still in the background.

“Dr. Jennette Volker.” She states matter-of-factly.

“The, uh, um, lawyer?” The real cop seems as if he could start stammering at any moment.

“Yes.” Jennette doesn’t seem to enjoy having the upper hand as much as I would have. Pity, I enjoy seeing women deflate macho egos.

“Will you be pressing charges?” The now meek officer wants to know.

“What would you suggest, Officer?” Jennette has got that 'pleasant' tone, which lawyers assume, when they are just short of full-blown sarcasm.

“Dunno, Mam. I was hoping that you’d have an idea.” He thinks that he is regaining ground.

“Let’s start with his badge number. Is he a policeman?” Jennette has just mutated to an elementary-school teacher addressing a not-terribly-bright pupil.

The slow pupil jots down the badge number and returns to his patrol car to use the radio. Following several ‘overs’ and a couple of ‘rogers’ and one ‘out’, he returns to tell us that the cuffed man is, in fact, a policeman, however, an off-duty policeman, who is not authorized to use a patrol car.

“Well, there you have it, Officer. If I were you, I’d take him in and order a tow truck.” Jennette’s tone is friendly, then she snaps: "What's your name?" addressing the cuffed cop.

“I don’t have to tell you that.” Smug is the best description.

Jennette reaches into his hip pocket and removes his wallet, revealing his driver's license. "Okay, Bob, take a note. He's Bartholomew Breitinger. Well, how about that? And he lives in Independence.”

“This is an illegal search.” He whimpers.

“Then fucking sue me.” Jennette is in his face. “Are you any relation to Leon Breitinger?” When he refuses to answer and looks away, she turns to the real cop. “I want him on attempted illegal transport of a minor across a state line. You are going to inform the FBI and turn this over to federal jurisdiction. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mam.” The real cop snaps and takes hold of his cuffed colleague. “C’mon Bart.”

At this all too friendly gesture, Jennette orders Bob to collect badge and car numbers. After Bob finishes, Marty goes into their place to use the toilet, and the rest of us go back upstairs.

***

Joey is sitting on the couch with Raphie’s head on his chest. To evaluate the situation by the smile on Raphie’s face, he is enjoying the attention.

“Well?” Joey is looking at Jennette.

“As you would say: ‘The wee fecker’s goin’ down.’.” Everyone snickers tentatively, awaiting Joey’s reaction to her impersonation.

Joey just nods. “Good." He nods again, giving Jennette his Irish look. “Ya know? After life with Busby, I never thought I’d be proud to know a lawyer. Well, Dr. Volker, that has changed." Wow. If there is one thing my father does not do, it’s to indulge in idle compliments.

Jennette tries to suppress a grin. “Who else is hungry?”

Raph and I race each other to the fridge. I thought they’d forgotten about eating lunch. “Sandwiches?” Raph spouts while pulling the loaf of bread out of the breadbox.

“Beer or soda pop?” Is my contribution before I help Raph make the sandwiches.

Marty, coming back up the stairs, yells: “Soda.” then looks around the room and blushes at being so conspicuous.

Sitting around the table, once again, conversation takes a troubling turn for Raphaël, when Bob asks looking at Jennette: “How did you know, that there hadn’t been a shooting?” Raph tenses with uncertainty. I take hold of his hand under the table and squeeze.

“Because Geneviève and Jordan are being escorted by my husband to get things done, like get a Kansas State driver's license, Kansas tags for the car, withdraw Jordan from East High School, which, being that Mr. Nixon is such an absolute prick, may take some doing and enroll Jordan at Shawnee Mission North High School. So, Geneviève and Jordan are nowhere near the 2500 block of Marty.”

“Didn’t know you’re married.” Joey sounds a little confused. Our bodyguards are suppressing grins.

“It’s a smoke screen, Joey.” She dabs the corners of her mouth. “However, a bit more transparent than you and Mildred. But you get the picture.”

“And does he have a name?” Dad hates being left in the dark, although he has been anything but free with information about himself for as long as I can remember.

“Yeah, Sam Fairchild.” She startles when Bob erupts.

“You are married to Sammy the Slouch?” Bob starts shifting on his chair. “We went to Lincoln High School together. Shit. Knew you’re married to a Brother, but I was thinking Southeast High School area, you know Swope Park. But not Sammy the Slouch.”

“Is he any relation to Clover ‘Alligator Weed’ Fairchild?” Joey sounds nostalgic.

“Yeah.” She nods in disbelief. “Clover was his grandfather. Did you know him?”

“As fate would have it.” Joey quickly wipes moisture from his eyes. “He was Maurice’s mentor. Best bass fiddle to ever pass along Vine Street."

“Joey, you sure you’re not an albino?” Bob laughs and Raph shakes his head, as if he thinks exactly the same thing. “If you knew Alligator Weed you must have known a lot of my heroes.”

“Aw, sure, they were my heroes, too, Bob.” Joey gets up and clears the plates. “Did ya ever hear how Alligator Weed got his name?”

“Okay, Jose.” I help him clear the table. “Lay it on us.”

Bob looks at Raph. “Both of them. They’re albinos.”

Jennette shushes Bob. “C’mon guys, I want to hear this.”

“Even though Prohibition didn’t really affect Kansas City, the bootleg shite, the white saloons along 12th Street were a sellin’, could make ya go blind. The only decent booze ya could get back then was in Negro Downtown.”

“Okay, Joey,” Jennette is tapping the nail of her index on the table. “you’re going to have to explain what Negro Downtown is.”

“It was the area just to the East of White Downtown, today’s business district. People of color were not allowed into rabbit town--”

“--rabbit town?” Jennette sounds as if she is listening to Joey speak a foreign language.

“Where white folk live and work.” Bob explains.

Joey winks at Bob and continues. “Anyway, they had to stay out unless they worked there, usually as doormen, maids, elevator operators and other menial labor.

“Aw, but yer Negro Downtown, roughly to the East of Charlotte on 12th Street, was where stores, doctors, lawyers, banks, schools, speakeasies and night clubs for the folks of color were located.”

“Okay, so how did Alligator Weed get his nickname?”

“Ah, he did, back in the day, get some well-payin' work with white musicians, who were strummin’ cowboy and bluegrass music, which was popular. So, his followers started missin’ him at the clubs. And someone said that he was tryin’ to be white by playing all that bluegrass, and with him, since Clover was from Mississippi, it’d just turn out to be gator grass.”

“And since gator grass was too close to gator bait…?” Jennette tries for an oversimplified explanation from the standpoint of racism.

“Not at all.” Joey laughs at her. “There was a brilliant young botanist, who was following in the footsteps of George Washington Carver, and was one of Clover’s unwavering fans, took up the idea of gator grass and told us that the flower of Alternanthera philoxeroides, known as alligator weed, strongly resembles clover and is just as unpredictable and impossible to control as yer man was.”

Jennette purses her lips, revealing her light indignation. “Then, it wasn’t racist at all?”

“Ya know, Lass? Life becomes much more enjoyable when we stop thinkin’ in terms of us and them.” Joey cuts off the discussion by running water into the sink to wash up the dishes from lunch.

Marty comes over and takes the dishtowel away from me and kisses Joey behind the ear. “Can you teach me to be colorblind, like you?”

“I’m not colorblind, a mhuirnín. That would be naïve at best.” Joey nuzzles Marty’s nose. “But I do differentiate. Grouping people together as do yer racial separation laws in this country, is outrageously stupid and very short-sighted.”

“How’s that?” Marty’s transition is starting. He’s asking for insight, not just for opinion.

Joey takes his hands out of the soapy water, dries them on the dishcloth Marty is holding and takes Marty’s face in both his hands. “Because you can never tell anybody for very long: ‘Ah, sure, yer free, but don’t go about bein’ too feckin’ free.” Joey kisses Marty quickly on the mouth, probably just because it’s handy.

“Ya know, Son, when I first came to this country, I couldn’t find a place to stay because I’m Irish. I was workin’ as a doorman at an hotel and sleepin’ rough.”

“Sleeping rough?” Jennette and Bob are propped on their elbows on the other side of the breakfast bar, listening to Joey.

“On the street, under bridges, in parks.” Joey is pretty good as an educator.

“Weren’t there any shelters?” At times, I find Jennette’s middle-class castles in Spain daunting, and I’m sure Joey does. But he is patient, even though subtly sarcastic.

“Ah, sure there are. The Protestants have the Salvation Army, where the shelters smell of stale do-gooders and bible dust. And the Catholics have St. Vincent de Paul, where the shelters smell of stale do-gooders and holy water. They’ll have ya cleanin’ and polishin’ and a prayin’ and a singin’, which makes it impossible to hold down a full-time job. Their motto is: ‘If yer workin’, ya don’t need us.’”

“Which is logical.” Jennette states matter-of-factly.

“An’ because of exactly that white logic, I was sleepin’ on the streets.”

“But you are white!” She insists.

“And yer not getting’ the feckin’ point. I was just another Paddy lookin’ fer a place to sleep and decent work. The New York Police Force was full. The Fire Departments were chockablock. ‘Niggers and Irish need not apply.’ That’s what they were sayin’. So, I started movin’ west.”

“To Kansas City?” Jennette’s trying to second-guess Joey makes him laugh.

“Naught. First was Chicago. Worked in the Union Stockyards. That’s where I met Leroy, who once told me: ‘Jose, if you was a nigger for one Saturday night, you'd never want to be a white boy again.’”

“Was he right?” Bob laughs with his booming bass.

“What d’ya say, Mr. White,” Joey laughs like he’s got something up his sleeve. “we start at Arthur Bryant’s and find out? ”

“Today is not Saturday, Joey.” Bob’s stance appears to be only a matter of logistics. He looks at his watch. And checks his handgun. “But, that certainly is one place the Mormons won’t come looking for us.” He and Joey burst into raucous snickering, sputtering and giggles.

“What’s so funny about that?” Jennette wants to know.

“Aw, yer feckin’ horse thieves believe that people of color are descendants of Cain.” Joey looks at Bob. “D'ya think that yer Ma and Da would want to join us? My treat.”

That doesn’t surprise Bob. “I’ll give them a call and find out.” He goes heavy-footedly down the stairs and then silently out the door. The agility of the man never ceases to amaze me; at times, he has a gait somewhat lighter than Godzilla, and other times, he's as light on his feet as a ballet dancer.

“And ya can call yer husband and see if he’s free. Might as well make it the entire family.” Joey winks and nods sideways at Jennette, as he does when he wants to underscore what he'd just said.

“And what about Geneviève and Jordan?” It’s not like him to forget them.

“Aw, Lad, they were the first I thought of, and I’m waitin’ for her to phone me to tell me that they've finished. But if Jennette can get hold of them first, all the better.

Jennette’s voice is business-like with her secretary then turns giggly as she’s connected with Sam. “And now I find out from a third party that I’m married to Sammy the Slouch.” Laughter is clearly audible through the receiver. “Hmm, one of the bodyguards working on the Mongrain case.” More laughing through the phone. “Robert White.”

Then the explosion on the other end, which starts with an increasingly loud screech, can be heard through the apartment as Jennette has to hold the receiver away from her ear. “Not Fur-Burger Bobby!”

“Sam, please, there are impressionable minors within earshot.” She laughs in our direction.

“Didn’t know that I raised ya to be impressionable.” Joey slaps my ass.

“Didn’t raise me to be queer, either, but here I am.” I laugh, and Joey turns red. “But I do love you.” His blushing deepens in color.

“Don’t pick on my dad, Dan.” Raphaël admonishes in tune with our jocular mood.

Of a sudden, it dawns on me. I get an uneasy feeling in my gut, telling me that Jennette’s husband probably just exposed Bob as a transsexual. I feel for him at what may happen, when he walks into this round of good-meaning friends, who have no idea as to what ‘Fur-Burger Bobby’ may mean.

I go for the stairs and make it down and round the corner of the house just in time to catch Bob. “Don’t go upstairs, yet."

“What’s up? You look awfully pale; did something happen?” Bob has hold of my shoulders and glances around my head.

“Jennette just talked to Sam. And he referred to you loudly over the phone as ‘Fur-Burger Bobby’. I wanted to warn you,” I lower my voice to a just barely audible whisper. “if that was a reference to your pussy.”

Bob laughs and squeezes my shoulders. “I can’t believe how caring you are, Dan.” He holds me at arm’s length, looking at me with eyes revealing vulnerability. “No, it’s a reference to a girl, I dated in high school.” He laughs again without humor. “But I appreciate the warning.”

Bob leads the way up to our apartment. He stops just short of the top. "The first motherfucker who says anything about a fur burger and/or calls me Bobby, will get it between the eyes.” He pats his holster for emphasis.

Everyone laughs, giggles, snorts and chuckles. Jennette looks around Bob at me. “You are a killjoy, Dan.”

“Now, don’t badmouth my main man, here. I protect him from harm, and he protects me from embarrassment.” Again a round of chuckles.

“Just talked to Mom, Joey. And she is delighted but says that Dad is on late shift, and there’s no way to get hold of him. So, she suggested to get everything to go and come home with me, uh, to their place, and we can eat off real plates.”

“Tell me, Bob, would yer Da enjoy a highball, after work?” Joey starts making a list of things to take.

“He’s been known to.” Bob shakes his head. “You know way too much about our side of the tracks.”

“It’s always been a comfortable place for this ratoncito blanco to hide out.” Joey looks up from his list. “Does he prefer bourbon or scotch?”

“But at some point in the near future, you’re going to have to choose sides.” Bob’s stare becomes intense, as he refers to the increasing social tension everywhere in this country.

“I think you know where I stand, Son. And bein’ that me views are mostly pinko, me neck can’t possibly be red, now can it?" Joey grins. “Scotch or bourbon?”

“Scotch. He hates the South.” Bob pats Joey on the back, as he passes behind him to look over his shoulder. Now, we’re all standing around the breakfast bar, watching Joey make his list.

“Would yer ma like some medicinal gin to go in peppermint tea and honey?” Joey seems to know what he’s talking about, and Bob thinks so, too.

“Do you happen to know her?” To judge by his intonation, Bob is beyond surprise.

“I’ve known generations of ladies, who have appreciated a spot of gin, now and again, even though they don’t drink.”

“How did you put it, mon amant?” Raphie stops to think. “Uh, Dad’s been around the block once or twice?”

“’Around the block’ is an understatement.” Marty adds; Bob, Jennette and Raphie agree.

“Aw, what're yus like?" is Joey's rhetorical reply, which leaves Marty, Bob, Jennette and Raphie totally in the dark. They look at me for an explanation.

“What? Ask him. He speaks English perfectly well." I explain to four dumbfounded faces.

Joey ignores us. “All right, we’ve got Scotch, gin, peppermint tea, honey, ribs, yer burnt ends and coleslaw. Anythin’ else?”

“How about some flowers?” Jennette wonders, but Joey is shaking his head. “Roses are nice.” She sees Joey and turns toward him. “Why not?”

“Wouldn’t be appropriate. We’re bringing the food and booze. Flowers would be overkill.” Joey’s etiquette is logical, but far from standard.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Jennette concedes.

“What are burnt ends?” Marty seems almost meek, apparently afraid of asking a dumb question.

“They are the point ends of beef or pork brisket.” Bob explains matter-of-factly, while everyone listens, making Marty seem more at ease. “They are usually overcooked and cut into crispy chunks and covered in special sauce. At home, we eat them with slaw and baked beans.”

“Damn. Nearly forgot the baked beans.” Joey clicks his ballpoint and jots; the phone rings.

Raph moves to answer. “Westport-1…” He starts reciting our telephone number, when Bob shushes him.

“Never say the number. It’s unlisted and you never know who’s calling.”

« Oui, Maman, c’est moi. » Raphaël glares at Bob and turns his back. « Bon, je te le passe. » He brings the phone to the middle of the breakfast counter and hands it to Joey. « C'est pour toi, Jose. »

« Ah, bonjour, Geneviève. » Joey picks up the phone and returns it to its usual location at the end of the bar. « Pas beaucoup. En moment, peignons la girafe. » At this, Raph, Marty and I look at each other and dissolve in spontaneous snickering. Joey shushes us.

Of course, the facial expressions of the other two tell us that they are more than curious about what he just said. My attempted whisper is not very successful. “When you want to say that you’re just goofing off, you say: ‘I’m combing the giraffe.’” Not only is my attempt at whispering unsuccessful, to judge by their puzzled faces, my attempt at translating is equally abysmal. And by the time Raph has given them his version of combing the giraffe, Joey is off the phone.

“What the Fuck is the matter with the three of yus?” Joey can’t keep from smirking and gives a stab at misguided parenting. “I was talkin’ to yer mother.” As if that is supposed to be the coup de grâce to our hilarity.

“Yeah, I know.” Raphaël inserts. "I answered the phone." Tense mirth becomes audible from the others.

“So, what’s so feckin’ funny?”

« Que tu peignes la girafe. » Raph’s attempted sobriety fails; he breaks up.

“Okay, so I was combin’ the bloody giraffe. I was talkin' to yer ma, for Christ's sake. What'dya want me to say, that we’re arsein' about in the kitchen stranglin’ the feckin’ python?”

Again, everyone looks at me. “Fooling around in the kitchen, jerking off.”

“Oh.” was Jennette’s comment; everyone else just looks confused. If there is one profession I'll never pursue, it’s that of a translator.

Embarrassed silence is threatening to engulf us, but Joey comes to the rescue. “Jennette, we’ve got a good two hours before we have to get ready to leave, do you want to drive home or come shopping with me?”

“That would mean rush-hour traffic to Overland Park and back. No. I'll go shopping with you. I have a change in the car, albeit my lawyer's uniform." Her humorless laugh gives us a good indication that her esteem of establishment is probably not as high as we might have expected.

“Right, then.” Joey takes command, pockets his list and motions for Jennette to go with him. “See yus in an hour or so.” They descend the stairs and close the door. From outside we can hear Joey picking up the aluminum screen door and placing it against the fence.

“C’mon Marty.” Bob grabs his buddy by the nape of the neck. “We have to do some chores, like fix the screen door.”

“Okay, Brown Bear.” Marty gets his elbows off the breakfast bar. “Somewhere along the line, you’re gonna havta learn to control your strength.” Their footsteps going down the stairs are much less stormy than earlier. Marty’s voice fades behind the closing door. “What about getting a load of clothes in the washer, while we're at it?”

We hear the door finally click shut. Raph’s deep breath of relief makes me aware of the fact that we have had virtually no time alone since we moved in. Our shirts come off over our heads without fully unbuttoning them, and the rest of our school clothes fall into a pile on our bedroom floor along with the shirts.

Raph watches me walk into the closet, where I locate the enema bag and glycerin, and then follows me into the bathroom. I fill the bag with warm water and a shot of glycerin. He takes the nozzle and turns me gently around. As he tenderly inserts it into me, I release the flow-stop, holding the rubber bag as high as I can.

The warm water is soothing as it enters. Raph’s warm kisses on my neck are telling me how much he loves me. He clips the flow-stop with a click and slides the nozzle out. Sitting on the commode, I feel the glycerin working its magic. The pressure inside is building. I lean forward to snuggle my nose into Raph’s groin to the left of his scrotum. His fluffy pubic hair tickles, and his scent makes my penis throb all the more.

Then, I can no longer hold the pressure inside my gut. Everything gushes into the commode in one seemingly endless flow, and my hole is gaping, as if it will never want to close again. I wait for the last squirts and move over to the bidet.

The cold porcelain rim contrasts erotically to the warm water when Raph turns on the taps. He uses our mild washing emulsion to cleanse me front and back, then dries me gently.

When I stand, he takes up position on the bidet. It is my turn to wash him. A subject of my favorite daydreams, which I have been having for years.

The stream of water is slow and warm. The mellow, slightly fragrant suds of the emulsion form larger bubbles in his silky pubic hair; he purrs as my soapy finger enters and cleanses his anal canal. My hands busying themselves with his genitals, I keep my nose close to his underarms.

Inhaling his scent propels me into a state, which is close to ecstatic. I feel even more blood trying to overfill my cock, transforming it into almost painful granite-like rigidity, and at the same time the flow of blood in my head is reduced to such an extent that I feel giddy. When I stand too quickly, my knees buckle and my twin draws me close and carries me to bed.

Coherent thought is difficult; sensuousness has taken control. My brother’s tongue is caressing mine, and I drink his saliva. Our mouths become one. I listen to his breathing, willfully letting it hypnotize me. Our breaths become one: we breathe in through my nose and out through his.

While he places a pillow under my buttocks, I lift my legs up above his hips and feel his luxuriously silky cock find its ultimate roost. He pushes gently, and it slowly slides home, filling me with his engorged meat and raw sexual longing. Our mouths are one, our breathing is one, and now, our groins are joined in adulation of the only thing worth worshiping.

His rhythm is in time with our breathing; my contracting sphincter muscles massage his cock in sync with his rhythm. Our breathing unhurriedly increases both in volume and in pace; his rhythm and my muscle contractions swell together in intensity.

His cock pounds my prostate, causing my nerves to rage, building an almost intolerably sensual nervous tension. I hear myself growl like a wolf, complimenting Raph's low growl. Two predatory males engaging in exploded lek. Vocalization is only a partial release of the accumulating urge inside both of us; at some point, physical release will have to come.

When Raph straightens his back with his head thrown back, grabbing me by the ankles, spreading my legs wider apart, increasing his hips’ gyrations, he signals that the episode of making love has evolved into the inevitable need for animal gratification. I grunt approval to each hard thrust. My hole and my cock have gone into involuntary spasms. My sphincter clamps around his cock, sending him and myself over the edge, first in brilliant flashes and then in soothing waves of orgasm.