DISCLAIMER: (b/b, b/m). These stories are fantasies. They did not happen and they neither endorse nor encourage the behaviors described therein. There is a significant difference between feelings and fantasies, on the one hand, and acting on those feelings and fantasies. Thoughts are not illegal in America, (at least, not yet). There will be depictions of sexual activities between males and if you find this offensive or believe reading this may be illegal in your area, please do not do so. Please do not copy or post without the author's permission.
doubting_thomas at operamail.com
“The friendship of fine-hearted, generous boys, nurtured amid the romance-engendering comforts and elegencies of life, sometimes transcends the bounds of mere boyishness, and revels for a while in the empyrean of a love which only comes short, by one degree, of the sweetest sentiment entertained between the sexes.” Herman Melville (1819-1891)
He was going to barf his guts out. He knew it. All over his father's immaculate Volkswagen Cabriolet, all over his father's perfectly fitting 501's, all over his own khaki shorts and his purple Benetton shirt. Ordinarily, Alex Westfall wasn't prone to motion sickness. He could fly with his mother to San Francisco or his father to Paris without any problem. He went sailing on Long Island Sound with his friends and never batted an eye. His mother's girlfriend would even drive like a bat out of Hell through the Catskills and he would just scream, “Faster!” This was different.
Perhaps, it was that greasy chilidog from the Dairy Queen he had wolfed down half an hour before. That wiener had tasted a little funny. Possibly. More likely, it was that bogus ABBA tape his dad insisted on playing.
“Dad, I'm gonna hurl all over the car if you don't kill the ABBA. I can't take “SOS” again.”
Matthew Westfall grinned and replied, “Well, you do look a little green around the gills, there, Dude. How about some Erasure? That's contemporary.”
“How about I just slit my throat right now and get it over with?”
Matt rolled his eyes.
“Drama queen. You're worse than your mother.”
Alex closed his eyes, leaned back against the headrest, and weakly flipped his father off with his left hand.
“You've got your mother's manners, too.”
As they passed a sign reading “Fenwick 7,” Matt popped the ABBA tape out of the cassette player and replaced it with REM.
“Don't worry. We're almost there.”
As he carefully down-shifted, watching the hills of southern Vermont, he glanced admiringly at his son. The long, golden blond hair, pulled back in a pony-tail, glowed in the summer sun. His narrow, tanned face with its high cheekbones and delicate lips, almost looked feminine. However, there was some indefinable quality that insured its boyishness.
Alex felt his father looking at him. He opened his eyes and turned his head slightly. His father smiled shyly and looked back at the road. Alex felt a rush of affection for him, the coolest father he knew. None of his friends had a dad who was as understanding, as helpful, as open-minded, yet as strict as his father. He could be a pain in the butt some times and his love affair with seventies disco was pretty lame, but nonetheless, there wasn't a father in the world he would rather have, even if his long, dark-blond hair made him look like a taller version of Adam Curry, the VJ on MTV.
For several more minutes, they wound their way along the road to Fenwick until they came to a sharp curve to the left, followed by a sharp curve to the right. Matt was careful to take the turns as easily as possible so as not to add to his son's nausea. Nevertheless, he heard the boy moan pitifully.
“I'm sorry, sweetheart,” he said soothingly. “We're at the bridge now. It'll be only a few more minutes.”
“Mumphle mumph,” the boy replied.
Matt grinned and added, “I must say your linguistic skills certainly improve when you're sick.”
Alex burped in response as Matt honked before they entered the covered bridge across the Fenwick River. Slowly, they drove through the wooden, Victorian structure until they emerged on the other side and the quintessential New England village appeared before them. Fenwick, Vermont.
Alex narrowly opened his eyes and watched as they passed McGiver's Mill, a century and a half old structure along the river that still produced various products sold in the Fenwick General Store. Matt pulled into the ancient Cities Service gas station across the road from the mill, parking under the rusted Depression-era clover-leaf sign, and jumped over the door of the convertible. He waived at the aged man who emerged from the door as he stopped in front of an old red Coke machine. They spoke for a few minutes, as Alex moaned, before his father looked back at the car and seemed to remember why he had bought the 7-Up. He waived once again at the attendant and hurried back.
“Here,” he said as he handed the bottle to Alex. “Sip this. It'll help settle your tummy.”
As they pulled back out onto the road, Alex took a sip and then rubbed the can across his face, sighing as he did so. They passed the Fenwick Inn, a large white house with gigantic oak and maple trees guarding the front, and several smaller, though no less impressive houses, until they came to what was obviously the center of the community.
Fenwick Green was a huge park, crossed with walking paths, shaded by eighteenth-century trees, and crowned in the center with a white wooden bandstand. Along one side, which they were slowly driving past, was a block-long stone building, home to Alden's Antiques, Fenstermacher's Books, and St. Egbert's Tavern,. At the end of the block stood the Town Hall, a white, wooden, church-like structure with Ionic columns along the front. Several cars were parked diagonally along the block and several people, some of whom seemed actually to be natives rather than tourists with wide-eyes and clicking cameras, strolled along the sidewalk in front of the storefronts.
Matt turned left along the north side of the Green and they passed two churches, one rather large and white, (naturally) with Doric columns in the front and a tall steeple; another beside it, somewhat smaller with a shorter steeple. Two signs identified one as the Fenwick Congregational Church, the other as the Fenwick Unitarian Church.
Alex closed his eyes for a moment and muttered, “This town never changes, does it?”
Matt smiled and replied, “I hope not. I'll bet this is what it looked like in 1889, too. And, probably not a lot different in 1789.”
“Dad, the town was started in 1807,” Alex said quietly.
“Oh, well, excuuuuse me!” Matt responded with his timeless Steve Martin impression. Alex groaned.
“God, you never come up with any new material, do you?”
As they passed the west side of the Green and drove along the edge of Fenwick College, Matt grinned and said, in a fake Czech accent, “That's because we are two wild and caraaaazy guys!”
In response, Alex suddenly turned pale and his eyes grew wide. His father panicked.
“Don't you even think about throwing up in this car. Lean over the door. Alex! Lean over the door!”
The boy did as he was told, but nothing came out. Matt turned right at the next street, passing the Raven Lake Inn, a smaller version of the Fenwick Inn. Behind it spread the smooth blue surface of Raven Lake. He passed two more houses and then pulled into the driveway of probably the most unusual house in Fenwick.
It was white, (what other color could it be?), and two stories tall. But, there the similarity with other homes in Fenwick ended. It looked like a nineteen thirties impression of how a future house might appear. It was rectangular with rounded corners made of opaque glass bricks. There were metal balconies on the second floor, one centered on each side of the house, and large French doors behind them. It was also, probably, the only house in Fenwick with no trees on its wide front lawn.
As he turned the key on the car, Matt reached over and stroked his boy's face and softly asked, “Are you OK, Little Guy?”
The boy simply moaned pitifully. Matt hopped over the driver's door and hurried around the front of the car. His energy made Alex feel even worse. He closed his eyes and as his father opened the door, took a deep breath. Slowly, he turned his body and hung his feet out the door. Opening his eyes, however, he began to doubt his perception of reality. He had to be hallucinating.
Approaching the car from across the lawn was another boy. He appeared to be about Alex's age, with dark, wild curls around his head held in place by a purple bandanna, rolled up and tied in the back. That, in itself wasn't too unusual. What was, however, was his mode of attire. The boy was naked except for a small leather loin cloth. As he marched purposefully forward toward the car, he carried a bamboo pole that seemed to be as long as he was tall. He held it in the manner of a spear.
“Raise your head,” Matt said as he came around to Alex's door. Seeing the strange look on his son's face, he turned and saw the boy in the loin cloth standing about ten feet from the car.
“Hail, Kinjari!” Matt declared as he opened the door. Slowly Alex climbed out and stood weaving drunkenly before the boy.
“Welcome!” the boy declared.
Alex responded by vomiting on the grass at the boy's feet. Kinjari looked down curiously and watched as volley after volley of undigested chilidog and several pints of stomach fluids came hurling forth from Alex's mouth. Matt held his son's head until he was reasonably certain the boy was out of ammunition.
“Welcome!” Kinjari declared again. However, as Alex's eyes shot daggers at the half-naked boy, Kinjari suddenly began to dance before the two, hoping around in a circle from one foot to the other as he waved his arms and the bamboo pole in the air. He said nothing as he danced, though he did look imploringly up at the sky a few times.
Alex looked up at his father and raised an eyebrow. Matt seemed to be acting as if this were perfectly normal behavior. Alex was reconsidering his move to Vermont when Kinjari stopped dancing and stood at attention, his pole at his side, looking proudly at Alex.
“You will feel better now. Kinjari has chased away the evil spirits who made you ill.”
Matt looked down at his son and said, “Well?”
With a slightly disconcerted look, Alex replied, “Well, I do feel a little better now.”
“Good,” Kinjari declared with a nod of satisfaction. “I am Kinjari, great and noble warrior of the Minehotuk people. I bid you welcome to our domain.”
“Yo,” Alex responded. “I'm Griselda, the Wicked Witch of the West.”
He held his hand up in a Star Trek Vulcan salute and added, “Live long and prosper.”
“Uh, oh,” Matt said softly, backing warily away.
Kinjari's face took on a look of affront. He bared his teeth at Alex and hissed.
“You mock Kinjari when he bids you welcome!”
He raised his bamboo pole and Alex was about to jump behind his father when Kinjari began to dance again, only with a bit more vigor and intensity.
“Dad, what's happening?” Alex asked with a sideways glance.
“I believe he is exorcising you of the evil spirits who made you respond so rudely to him.”
The man paused a moment as they watched Kinjari.
“He's very good at it, you know,” Matt added as Kinjari raised both him arms to the heavens beseechingly. “Just the other day, he had traffic stopped over by the Green while he exorcised a Ford F-150.”
Matt leaned down and whispered, “He really doesn't like trucks.”
Alex shook his head and said, “Dad...”
But, before he could complete his sentence, Kinjari's loin cloth came unfastened and dropped to the ground. This seemed not to deter the boy in the least, who continued his dance with even greater freedom.
“You'll find that Kinjari has a rather ambiguous attitude toward clothing,” Matt said as Alex's eyes followed the tiny bouncing button of the boy's uncut penis.
“If I were you,” Matt said loudly as he walked around the dancing boy toward the back of the Cabriolet, “I'd stop checking out his equipment and I'd apologize for my disrespect.”
Alex blushed with unaccustomed embarrassment and said, “Um, oh Great Kinjari! I have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. I am not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under your table. Forgive us, miserable sinners.”
Matt rolled his eyes as he opened the back and Kinjari remained unmoved.
“I doubt seriously that Kinjari is an Episcopalian. Quit being a smart-ass. Now, do it right, and mean it.”
Alex sighed and declared contritely, “Look, I'm really sorry I made fun of you. It was really nice of you to come great us and to make me feel better and all. Um, uh, Hail, Great Kinjari.”
At this, the boy stopped dancing and stood at attention again, this time with his arms crossed and the pole inside one arm. He nodded with satisfaction, much as Alex had seen Mussolini do in a documentary he had watched once on PBS.
“Kinjari accepts your apologies and must go now.”
And, as the boy picked up his loin cloth and marched away, Matt pulled the last of Alex's suitcases and boxes out of the car and yelled, “Oh, Kinjari, please convey my wishes for health and prosperity to your parents.”
Kinjari turned and raised his bamboo pole in salute, declaring, “Kinjari thanks you and will do as you ask. Hail!” He then turned and continued to march away.
“Dude, that was a trip,” Alex declared as Matt carried a couple of suitcases toward the door.
“Come on. I'll get the door for you and show you up to your room. I'm sure you need to lie down for a while.”
“Yeah.” Alex muttered. “I think I really need to lie down.”
Alex followed his father into the door and looked around at the modern, tasteful furnishings. There were a number of original paintings on the wall of the front room which Alex glanced at on the way to the stairs.
He led Alex into the room on the right sight of the house. The boy flopped down on the bed as Matt set the luggage down.
“I thought you would like the guest room the best. You can decorate it any way you like. Is this OK?”
Alex smiled for the first time in an hour and replied, “It's great, Dad. Thanks.”
Matt smiled back, leaned down, and kissed his son on the forehead.
“I'll bring the rest of your things up for you. Get some rest.”
When he returned with the last of Alex's things, the boy was sound asleep. Matt stood over the bed gazing down at him. Since the boy's birth eleven years before, he had dreamed of the day Alex would come to live with him. In the meantime, he had contented himself with weekends in the city or short visits at his home. But, it wasn't the same as having him here.
He gazed at the long golden hair, the narrow dark blond eyebrows, the thin lips, the slender frame the slim, almost hairless legs, the Birkenstocks his mother insisted he always wear. The boy was absolutely the most beautiful he had ever seen. With a sigh of love and contentment, he left the room.
It was dark in the room when Alex awoke. Slowly, he rolled over and looked about him. The French doors were open and he could feel the cool breeze of a Vermont summer night gently caressing him. It felt nice. Sitting up on the edge of the bed, he looked out the door of his room and saw the rest of the house was dark as well. He must have been really tired to have slept so long, he thought. He staggered up, feeling the pressure in his bladder, and headed toward the hall.
There was a bathroom next door and he availed himself of it. When he was finished, he returned to his room, pulled the covers back on his bed, and kicked off his sandals. His balcony faced the north and he could just see the Big Dipper in the sky as he stepped forward pulling his Benetton over his head and dropping it carelessly on the floor. He slipped his shorts down his hips and instantly felt himself growing erect in the night air as he stood naked before the balcony.
He stepped outside onto the cool iron grill of the balcony floor, feeling an exhilarating sense of freedom at being naked in the night. It had taken only seconds for his penis to snap into a rigid erection as he gazed about him. There were several old houses to his right across the road, spaced out by large, wide lawns. There was one porch light on and a light over the garage of a another house. Other than that, the only illumination was the ambient light of the town beyond and the glow of a couple of lit fountains at the side of his father’s house. A white wall extended out from the house below him toward the edge of his father's property, where it met a line of brush and vines along a fence. To his left, his father's lawn sloped gently down to a grove of trees beyond which he could see the black expanse of Raven Lake. A scattering of lights on the far bank of the lake twinkled and sparkled across the water. Alex gently gripped the rail of the balcony as he gazed about him and his erection poked out between the bars of the grill before him. This was his home. He smiled.
He looked to his right. There was movement in the dark across the front lawn. Something or someone was creeping toward the house, crouching, perhaps stalking something. He covered himself, stepped back inside the French door, and peeked out.
The figure had reached the long wall extending from the house. As the figure stopped at the corner of the house and then began to creep along the outside of the wall toward the fountains, Alex saw that the mysterious creature was none other than Mowgli or Boy or whatever his name was.
Alex took a step forward and watched as Kinjari, (yeah, that was his name), stopped at the fountain. He was carrying his long pole again and as he approached the light, Alex was astonished to see the boy was completely naked! Kinjari leaned on the pole as he peered into the fountain. Then, suddenly, he began his strange dancing in front of the fountain. Alex could see his shadow dancing across the small part of the lawn that was illuminated by the light. Then, he stopped and walked over to the bowl. He climbed up on the edge and laid his pole atop the wall. The he climbed on some of the rectangular shapes that made up the fountain and hoisted himself up beside his pole. For a moment, he sat, looking about contentedly.
Alex ventured back out onto the balcony and was about to whisper to him when Kinjari then started climbing down the fountain on the opposite side. When he reached the ground, Alex could see the boy had a small erection. Alex's, no longer hidden behind his hands, was throbbing as he watched the boy march across the lawn toward the lake. However, before he had gone more than twenty or so yards, he stopped and stood looking about. He gazed up at the stars for a moment and then raised his hands, as if in supplication, for a few seconds before he started his dancing again.
Alex didn't realize that he had taken hold of his erection. The fingers of his right hand held it firmly as he watched the alluring figure of the naked wild boy dancing in the grass. Then, Kinjari stopped. Alex watched as the boy took his own erection in his right hand. He seemed to fondle it for a moment and then dropped to his knees. He spread his legs wide and leaned back on his left arm, exposing himself to the sky, his erection pointing rigidly vertical.
Alex was far beyond astonishment by this point. He watched wide-eyed as the fingers of Kinjari's free hand took hold of the rigid little cock and began to stroke it. He was gazing upward, his long hair, now unrestrained, falling backward from his head.
Alex began stroking himself, as well, as he watched Kinjari's hand quickly moving up and down the immature erection. The boy's hips had begun to churn as he seemed more and more to be enjoying the feelings he was producing. Alex, too, was getting into it. He spread his legs wide also and thrust his hips forward as he stood on the balcony watching the wild boy's masturbation under the stars.
Suddenly, Kinjari began to writhe wildly. He fell backward into the grass as his hand pumped his little penis and his hips churned. And, then, he lay still, the only movement Alex could see being the rhythmic rise and fall of his tummy.
This was too much for Alex, whose own dry orgasm hit without warning, forcing his head to jerk back and forth and his hips to fuck forward and back. He grabbed the railing with his left hand until the throbbing ended and then stood breathless, gasping as he gazed down at the boy in the grass.
It seemed to be several minutes before either boy could rouse himself. Slowly, Kinjari stood, using his pole for support, and then gazed up at the stars again. After a moment, he turned and strolled contentedly toward the fountain, taking his time climbing up and down to the other side. He paused for a moment, gazing at the dancing water in the light of the bowl and then turned before disappearing into the night.
“Dude,” was all Alex could say to no one in particular as he was left alone in the night. He shook his head and walked back into his room. Throwing the covers back, he lay down naked and looked up at the dark ceiling. He had thought that eleven years of living in and around New York City had left him immune to the strangeness of life, but this was definitely something new.
He smiled. His new life was going to be a lot more interesting than he had originally thought.