This is gay love story between two boys and follows them as they grow into adulthood. Some chapters may contain references to sexual activities involving them and others.. If you object to this, you are urged not to read it. If reading this causes you to violate any laws in your community, please do not do so. The author does not condone the violation of any laws. This story is copyrighted 2002 under the pseudonym Omnius. You may not copy or distribute this story in part or in whole without the consent of the author.
This is primarily a romance. There will be some sexual scenes later in the story, (and some of these may be rather intense), but if that is your primary purpose in reading the story, you might be disappointed.
I wish to thank all you have written to compliment my story and to encourage me. I appreciate it very much. I also wish to thank Richard Lyon for listing my story on his site "Gay Writing on the Internet" athttp://gay_list.tripod.com/ . There are many fine writers represented there and I urge you to check it out. If you would like to comment on my story, please email your comments to Omnius76@yahoo.com .Thank you for reading my story!
"So, Timothy. Trevor tells me you're quit the racer."
The boys were standing in the front yard of the Huckabee's two-story house a block south of the Fremont State campus and a block north of Cottonwood Park. It was not the neatest or best-kept up house on the block and the white paint was chipped and peeling in places. Yet, it seemed comfortable and homey. It had a large porch which wrapped around the side from the front and a swing painted green hung in front of the living room window. Trevor's father was sitting on the steps drinking a Budweiser and relaxing as the boys stood before him.
"Well, I have a good car. My Dad helped me build it."
The man smiled. "You're modest. I like that. I don't arrogance."
Timothy was not certain how to react to that statement. He looked down shyly at the grass beneath his PF Flyers while Trevor seemed to shift uncomfortably.
"Well, come on," he said, taking a step forward. "I'll show you my room."
Timothy followed Trevor up the steps, but he stopped for a moment and said, "It was good to meet you, Dr. Huckabee."
Trevor's father appeared to suppress a chuckle and said, "Call me Allen. I hate pretense. If you had to use titles, you'd have to call me `Doctor Doctor Huckabee since I have two doctorates."
He grinned and Timothy, who thought the man's comment was a round-about way of bragging while claiming to be just "down-to-earth," replied, "Yes, sir, Allen."
"Hey," Dr. Huckabee called out as Timothy followed his friend through the rickety screen door, "you'll be staying for dinner, won't you?"
Trevor smiled and nodded at Timothy who replied, "Yes, sir. I'd like that."
Timothy glanced around the disheveled living room as the two boys ascended the stairs. There was lots of old furniture, in various states of disrepair and lots of newspapers and magazines, though from what he could see the magazines weren't the normal one's such as Life, Look, or Post. Plus, there was a funny smell in the house, a rather harsh, burning smell. As they reached the top of the stairs, Timothy asked about it.
"Is there something burning?"
Trevor seemed to blush and become uncomfortable.
"Its nothing. Come on. Here's my room."
There was a window at the end of the hall just a few feet in front of the top of the stairs. It had old lacy curtains and looked out to the north. To its left was the door Trevor was opening.
Timothy looked about the room in awe. There were several prints on the wall, one which he thought was called Degas' Nude Ascending a Stair and another that looked like a lot of blue and red paint that was just scattered across the canvas. There was also one which was quite strange, a picture of melting clocks. However, he recognized a third one as a Monet, a picture of a garden.
It was a corner room with windows to the west and north. The bed was against the east wall with a window just to its left. There was a desk against the west wall under the window. A tall, wide shelf of books stood to the left of the desk and a dresser guarded the south wall. On the wall above the dresser was a black and white movie poster for something called Dr. Stangelove: Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. In the corner between the two windows was a music stand with a book of exercises. A chair and a closed violin case stood before it. Next to the bed was a record cabinet with several albums inside and a record player on top. It was not the bedroom of a typical ten-year-old in Fremont, Kansas.
Trevor was standing in the center of the room and smiling expectantly.
"Well, what do you think?"
Timothy smiled. He liked it. Trevor smiled and felt another bond form between them. Timothy walked over to the bookshelf and began to peruse the titles and authors, finding some he recognized but had not read, such as Stephen Crane, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, and Hemingway. There was classics by Cooper, Twain, and Hawthorne. However, there were also authors he did not recognize and the subjects seemed very advanced for a ten year-old.
"Have you read all these?" he asked Trevor.
"Naw," his friend replied with a grin. "Some of them, but there's a lot of stuff my Dad wants me to read that I just don't get. I guess I will when I get older."
Timothy walked over the music stand.
"You play the violin?"
"No, I just like how it looks there in the corner."
Timothy gave him a look.
"What'd you call me?" Trevor asked with mock anger. He grabbed Timothy around the waist and threw the boy on the bed before climbing on top of him. They were both giggling wildly as Timothy struggled. Trevor held his arms down above his head and started tickling his friend.
"NO!" Timothy screamed in between uncontrollable bursts of laughter.
"Am I still a buttface?"
The tickling continued as did the interrogation until finally Timothy could take no more.
"Am I a buttface?"
"No, you're not a buttface."
Trevor stopped the tickling and collapsed on top of Timothy, their faces just inches apart. Both boys were grinning broadly. However, after a moment, Timothy's faded as he realized his thing was stiff again. Trevor was breathing heavily in his face and it felt good to feel his weight atop him, the breath against his cheek, the pressure on his crotch. Trevor abruptly squirmed atop Timothy and the sudden feeling inside him took his breath away. Trevor seemed to experience the same sensation for a look of surprise came over his face, as well.
Mrs. Huckabee's announcement from the bottom of the stairs awoke them. Trevor crawled off his friend and stood, turning away from Timothy and adjusting the front of his shorts. Timothy took the opportunity to do the same before he, too, stood.
Trevor's mother was just placing a huge bowl of chicken-ala-king in the center of the dining room table. His father was busy moving to the side books and papers which had been scattered across the table as Trevor's mother brought in dishes and silverware. Timothy stood quietly beside his chair until everything was in place. Allen sat first and then Trevor. As Mrs. Huckabee entered the room with a plate of crescent rolls, she saw Timothy standing uncertainly beside his chair.
"Go ahead and sit, Timothy," she smiled. Trevor giggled. Timothy sat, but he remained motionless until Mrs. Huckabee had taken her seat.
The others were already eating as they filled their plates. Timothy blushed as he realized they weren't going to say grace. So, as unobtrusively as possible, he closed his eyes and whispered grace. When he opened his eyes, everyone else at the table seemed a bit embarrassed as they ate and passed items.
"So, Timothy," Allen said through a mouthful of chicken-ala-king, "what does your old man do?"
Timothy's mouth was also full, but he quickly tried to chew and swallow. Allen and his wife both grinned as the boy tried to be as polite as possible.
"He's the personnel manager at the Multitron plant."
"Uh, oh!" Allen said ominously. "The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit!"
Timothy looked about in confusion. Trevor giggled.
"It's a joke. It means your Dad's a businessman."
Timothy felt very uncomfortable and began to feel a bit defensive. Why would this man make fun of his father? However, a quick wink and a grin from Allen seemed to make him less worried. Perhaps, he thought, it was something he just did not understand and Allen was just being good-natured.
"So, have you lived in Fremont all your life?"
Once again, Allen had asked Timothy a question when the boy's mouth was full of food. Once again, the boy struggled to swallow so that he could answer without being rude.
"No, sir. I was born in Kansas City, but we moved here when I was seven."
"Did you like Kansas City?"
"There's a lot of neat stuff there like the Plaza and Swope Park. Oh, and the Nelson-Atkins Gallery."
"You like art?"
Timothy smiled and nodded.
"You like Andy Warhol?"
Timothy thought for a moment and then replied, "I don't think I know him. I like Andrew Wyeth, though."
Allen had started to smirk and then his face changed to a surprised smile.
"So, how does a ten year-old boy in Fremont, Kansas know about Andrew Wyeth?"
Timothy blushed and looked down at his plate, not understanding if he was being complimented or if his town was being insulted; or both.
"Dad!" Trevor intoned. "Its not like Fremont's the end of the world."
Allen rolled his eyes and under his breath muttered, "That's what they keep telling me."
"Allen," Trevor's mother said reproachfully, "it's only for a few years until you get some experience and can get... well, you know what behind you. Then you can move on to a better school."
"Sarah, you don't go from three of the best schools in the country to a fucking teachers college in Bumfuck, Kansas and then back again. Don't you understand? We're stranded here!"
Trevor wanted to crawl under the table and hide in shame. Timothy simply stared at his plate. He had never heard the words "fuck" or "fucking," but he was certain they were probably worse than the "s" word. And, to hear someone express such bitterness about living in Fremont made him distinctly uncomfortable, particularly as it seemed that Allen was here because of something he had done.
The rest of the dinner proceeded rather quietly. Sarah tried to make small talk with Timothy, who answered politely, but with a distinctive lack of enthusiasm. Trevor said nothing until he stood to leave. Timothy picked up his plate and started for the kitchen when Sarah stopped him.
"You don't have to do that, Timothy. I can take care of that for you. You don't have to be such a little gentleman," she said with a warm smile.
"That's OK, ma'am."
Back again in Trevor's bedroom, Timothy was sitting cross-legged in front of the record cabinet looking through the albums in Trevor's collection. There were several classical records from composers he was familiar with, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, Mozart.
Trevor was laying on his bed staring at the ceiling.
"Hey, what?" he replied morosely.
"You've got Peter and the Wolf! That's my favorite!"
"Kid's stuff," he said dismissively.
Timothy looked up at his friend in irritation. He had just about had his fill of snobs.
"You sound just like your Dad. Maybe I should go home."
Trevor sat up immediately, a look of fear and regret on his face.
Timothy had started to get up; seeing Trevor's face, he sat back.
"Look," said Trevor, imploringly. "My Dad can be a real dick sometimes. I'm really sorry. You're my friend and I really like you. I don't mean to be a snob like him."
Timothy looked at the carpet in embarrassment. Finally, he looked up and asked, "What's a dick? Is that like a twit?"
"No, its like this," and he pointed to his crotch. Timothy didn't seem to comprehend.
"Your penis. It's a nickname for your penis."
Timothy's eyes grew wide. He was getting quite an education from Trevor; but what shocked him more was expressed in his next statement.
"You shouldn't talk about your father that way. I'd never say anything like that about my father."
"Yeah," Trevor replied bitterly, "well, you're Dad's cool. Mine can't keep his mouth shut. He always says the wrong thing and gets in trouble."
Timothy shrugged. "He seems like a nice guy, I guess, once you get to know him."
"Yeah, I guess."
Timothy turned to the record cabinet again.
"So, if you don't like Peter and the Wolf, what do you like?"
Trevor smiled sheepishly as he crawled off the bed and sat down crossed legged as well next to Timothy.
"Actually, I do like Peter and the Wolf. But, I also like The Nutcracker and Pier Gynt, and Beethoven's Seventh."
Timothy gazed at the records as he said softly, "You must be really smart." Trevor shrugged.
"Not really. My parents just make me read all kinds of stuff other kids don't read or listen to all kinds of stuff other kids don't listen to. They want me to be a genius, but they don't know that I just want to be normal like everyone else."
Timothy saw the sadness in his friend's face.
"I think its cool you're smart. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only guy in school who gets stuff. Its like everyone else is into war movies and those gory Christopher Lee movies and watching football on TV and stuff. I used to watch the space shots but no one else seems to think that's neat. Whenever I read something really interesting, no one else seems to think it is. I mean, I have lots of friends, but they just don't see things the way I do. You know what mean?"
Trevor was silent, but his eyes told Timothy far more than could words. He was looking at him with a mixture of gratitude and joy. Timothy smiled.
Suddenly, Trevor reached over to the records. On the right side, separate from his classical albums, were several contemporary records. Timothy saw artists such as The Mamas and the Papas, Peter Paul and Mary, and Janis Joplin along with the obligatory Beatles and Rolling Stones. But, Trevor left those alone. Instead, he pulled out a funny looking album.
"This is special. I want you to listen to this."
He placed the record on the turntable and flipped it on. The song seemed to be a strange combination of classical and rock, with violins and a rock beat. It was different from anything Timothy had ever heard before and he was captivated by it. His mouth open, he looked at Trevor. His friend was watching him closely and smiled as he could see in Timothy's face that he understood.
"The song's called `Walk Away Renee,' and the band is called The Left Banke. You like it?"
"I've never heard anything like it. It sounds so, so sad, so..." He thought for a moment and then brought forth another vocabulary word, "so melancholy."
"The singer's voice is so different. It almost gives me goosebumps." He didn't mention that it also mad his thing, his dick, hard. Why would a song do that to him? Was he weird?
"It's a very emotional song. It makes me feel like something I can't quite remember that happened to me when I was young. Its... its..."
Trevor was grinning. When the song ended, he moved the needle to another song.
"This one's called `Pretty Ballerina.'"
Timothy closed his eyes as the melancholy strings washed over him with the insistent beat of the percussionist and the almost mystical voice of the singer and the strange chords of the piano.
"They call this style `baroque rock.'"
"What does that mean?"
"Well, the Baroque was the period after the Renaissance. You know what the Renaissance was, don't you?"
"Well, they use chamber music and rock and roll. I think its cool. I don't know anybody else who likes it. But, I love it. When I listen to it, it makes me sad and happy all at the same time."
Timothy nodded. "I know what you mean."
Softly, Trevor almost whispered, "I knew you'd like it."
Timothy felt a sudden strange feeling, an emotion that almost overwhelmed him. It was as if he had found a friend. Of course, he had friends, but this was different. This was a real friend, a friend who knew him and understood him, a friend who felt the same things he felt, the same emotions he felt, the same joys. It was as if he had found the part of him that was missing.
"Play it again."
That night, as he lay in bed, he replayed those songs in his mind, relived those moments as the melancholy and, what else could he use to describe them, ethereal? Yes, he would have to use that one with his father. He relived those moments as the melancholy and ethereal music had awakened something within and made him realize that Trevor was more than just a friend. Before him, as the strings of the music and that sad, ghostly voice came back to him, he saw those eyes, blue, deep, intense; he saw those long thick waves and curls flowing across the top of his ears and across his forehead. Trevor was very nice to look at, very nice to be with. And, as he slowly drifted into the peace of boyhood sleep, Timothy's last conscious thoughts were of the newly intense stiffness in his penis.