DISCLAIMER: (b/b) 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
“Woo hoo! Rise and shine!”
Alex felt his covers ripped away and his pillow yanked out from under his head, leaving him exposed and tossed about like a rag-doll.
“Come on sleepyhead. Time to get up!”
This was not his father's voice. This was a demon from the darkest reaches of Hell. He looked up in confusion and fury and found a teenage boy with thick auburn curls sticking out from under a sideways Red Sox cap. A freckled face grinned maniacally down at him. Alex saw green eyes roaming over his naked body and, suddenly, he felt an unfamiliar modesty.
“Hey, nice piece of wood there,” the maniac said with a lascivious grin. “Polish it much?”
“Who the fuck are you?” Alex demanded as he yanked the sheets back over his naked body.
“I'm your wake-up call,” the teenager replied happily. Then, he leaned down and, in an ominous voice, added, “And, your worst nightmare. Bwahahahaha!”
The boy turned and walked out the door, shouting back at Alex, “Seriously, your dad says to get dressed and come down to the kitchen for breakfast.”
Fuck, just how weird is this place, Alex thought to himself. Am I the only person around here who isn't a freak?
Slowly, he climbed out from under the covers and stood with his morning boner standing up proud and insistent. He knelt by his suitcases and withdrew a pair of red running shorts and a yellow Benetton shirt, slipped them on, and stumbled out the door.
After voiding his bladder, his woody seemed to loose a little of it's octane and he staggered toward the stairs. Slowly, he descended to the first floor, past some framed posters advertising various symphony and opera performances and an art exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art. Each of the posters had his father's name in fine print at the bottom.
There were voices in the kitchen as he reached the bottom of the steps and looked around. He found himself in what must have been the family room. Long with one wall of glass overlooking the lake, it was furnished with expensive, yet comfortable furniture with a fireplace at the far end. He stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened.
“He's really cute,” the teenager was saying. “Is he queer?”
“I really don't know,” he heard his father reply. “I've never asked him.”
“What do you mean, you don't know? He's fucking hot and you haven't got it on with him?”
“Jesus, Patrick. What do you think I am? Alex is Alex, whatever that is. I want him to be himself and I don't think he needs to label himself. If he wants to talk to me about it, I'm open. He knows I am.”
“Hell, everybody knows you are.”
There was a pause and then Alex heard his father's sarcastic voice. It was funny and friendly, but Alex knew what Patrick apparently didn't, that it was a mask for his father's irritation.
“God, you make me sound like some drooling, perverted maniac.”
“Well, you are the horniest gay guy I know,” Patrick replied. “Which brings me to my next question: how the fuck did you ever end up with a son?”
“Well, it's kind of a funny story. You see my boyfriend and I were in the gay students alliance at Hudson my freshman year and we met this really cool lesbian named Jenny who, for some reason, had a thing for cute gay freshmen. They were the only males she was ever with. Well, January of '77 was horrible, cold, ice, snow. It was like those winter scenes Holbein painted. Well, anyway, Tim and I were up in Jenny's room one Friday getting stoned on some really killer weed and drinking Bailey's and, well, one thing led to another and soon we were all three naked and getting funky. Well, Tim passed out, but I was still going strong.”
Alex was not well, to use one of his father's phrases. This was not quite the romantic situation he had envisioned his conception to be, a drunk eighteen year-old gayboy seduced by a lecherous bisexual lesbian. Well, of course he knew his mother was gay. He had lived with her and her lover for years. But, this was just not the way he thought it had happened.
“Anyway, not long after spring break, I noticed that Jenny was getting a little chubby and I teased her about it. Well, she told me she was pregnant and I was the father. Well, you can imagine that a naive gay freshman like me would freak out pretty badly. But, she said not to worry. It turned out she wanted to get pregnant and didn't want to get married or anything. She asked me if it was OK and I said sure. I had always wanted to be a father, but since neither Tim nor I had a uterus, I assumed it was pretty unlikely. But, Jenny said I could see the child anytime I wanted to and I could play any role in raising him I wanted to. It was great. I got to be a gay father. I got to see Alex anytime I wanted to. His mother would take him to lesbian music festivals and I took him to Broadway musicals. He had a very well-rounded education.”
“That's wild,” Patrick replied. “So, how did she die?”
“Hang gliding in the Catskills. Her lover kept Alex until school was out. I'm sorry Jenny died and she really was a great friend, but at the same time, though, I am so thrilled that I get to raise Alex now. He is just the most intelligent, sweet, understanding kid you could ever imagine.”
“Well, I think he takes after his dad in one way,” Patrick replied. Alex wanted to die; he knew what was coming. “He had one major woody this morning when I threw him out of bed.”
“Patrick,” Matt declared, “that was totally uncalled for. Leave the poor kid some dignity, will you?”
Alex decided it was time to enter the kitchen. Patrick grinned when he walked in. As Alex was hugging his father, the teenager asked, “Did you get that wood nice and shiny?”
Alex flipped him off as Matt pointed toward the door and said, “Go mow the lawn. Now.”
Patrick seemed unrepentant as he stood and smiled. However, before he could move, the back door opened .
“Hey!” Patrick said heartily. “It's Kinkyjar! How's it hanging, there, Kinkyjar?”
Kinjari stood in the doorway from the utility room dressed as he had been the previous day, in his leather loin cloth, and holding his “spear” at his side. He bared his teeth at Patrick and hissed before replying, “I am not Kinkyjar. I am Kinjari, brave and noble...”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I gotta go mow the grass. See ya!”
He turned and walked the other way toward the front of the house. Kinjari, however, shrieked, “No!” and took off after him.
“You must not cut the grass! You must not cut the grass,” he yelled as he chased Patrick out of the kitchen. “It must be free to grow, like Kinjari!”
Alex watched the strange boy run away and then turned a skeptical face to his father. Matt simply smiled and asked, “Well, how do you feel today?”
“Like I'm in the Twilight Zone. Other than that, I feel great.”
“Good. Would you like a bagel and some yogurt?”
Alex rolled his eyes and replied, “You and Mom and all the healthy food. What I'd really like is some greasy bacon and eggs.
Matt shuddered and placed a bagel and a cup of yogurt before his son. As he was opening the refrigerator for some orange juice, Alex looked questioningly at his father and then asked, “So what's the deal with Patrick and Kinjari?”
His father poured the juice into a glass.
“Patrick likes to tease Dylan, but I keep telling him that he's going too far.”
Alex shook his head.
“What I mean is, um, uh, do you, I mean, are you and... Patrick, you know... um...”
“Doing it?” Matt offered.
Alex sighed and nodded.
Matt asked, “Would it bother you if I were?”
Alex thought for a moment and then shrugged, replying, “I guess not. I mean, he's what, fourteen or fifteen? He like knows what's going on.”
“Patrick does the yard work. He does most of the yards in the neighborhood. He's also one of the horniest and most open-minded teenagers I've ever seen. He's a good kid, though. He just likes to have a good time.”
Alex noted the slick way his dad neither confirmed nor denied whether he was boffing Patrick or not. He decided to move on to the next topic. With his mouth full of bagel, he asked, “So, what's Jungle Boy's story.”
“I'm not having sex with Dylan, if that's what you're asking.”
“No, no,” Alex responded quickly. “I mean, his name's Dylan. So what's up with the Mowgli routine?”
Matt leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms.
“Well, it's like this. Dylan was adopted by his current parents a few years ago. His natural mother was a heroin addict and his father overdosed. Well, his mother died, too, but that was when she was arrested and went into withdrawal. But, Dr. Thomas and his wife, (he's the Unitarian minister here), adopted him when he was five and they have been his saviors. He was horribly, horribly abused before they rescued him from the system, by his mother, by her johns and boyfriends, by his foster parents, at the state home. It's just amazing that he's not a catatonic vegetable by now. But, they have worked with him and shown him love and he has just flourished with them.”
Alex was watching his father with horror as he described the boy's ordeal. His eyes even became moist.
“So, he thinks he's this Kinjari guy?”
Matt shook his head.
“No. He knows he's Dylan Thomas. It's just that somehow he finds comfort in the Kinjari persona. He fights the evil spirits around him and he feels proud of himself. He's actually amazingly intelligent, considering the lack of attention he received when he was younger. His mother, apparently, didn't use when she was pregnant with him or he would have had serious problems. As it is, it's mostly emotional and developmental. But, as I said, he's incredibly intelligent and the Encyclopedia Britannica is his best friend. Of course, it's his only friend. He doesn't go to school. The other children have not been very receptive to Kinjari or Dylan's limited social skills.”
Alex lowered his head and looked at the table in thought. Without realizing it, he whispered, “Poor little guy.”
Matt stepped over and squeezed his shoulder as he picked up Alex's empty plate and yogurt cup. Suddenly, Alex looked up and raised an eyebrow.
“Dylan? Dylan Thomas? As in, “'Do not go softly into that dark night; rage, rage against the dimming of the light?'”
His father smiled and replied, “Well, it's better than his old name. His mother named him Pogo.”
“Yeah. After the comic strip?”
Matt rolled his eyes.
“Never mind. Just don't ever call him that. He is very sensitive about it. Oh, and his adopted father's name is Lowell Thomas.”
Alex shrugged and his father smirked.
“Lowell Thomas was only one of the greatest radio reporters of all time.”
“Never heard of him,” Alex replied as he pushed his chair back. “Now, I know Danny Thomas and Marlo Thomas. Oh, and Henry Thomas, the kid from E.T. Do they count?”
“Go away and amuse yourself. I will be up in my study this morning writing. Do not disturb me or I shall inflict terrible pain. Now, leave.”
Alex grinned and walked out of the kitchen. Barefoot, he padded to the front door and stepped out onto the porch. Patrick was mounted atop a riding mower and cutting along the ditch running parallel to the street. Kinjari was hopping about near him, alternating between shaking his pole at Patrick while baring his teeth and dancing about behind the mower. Alex grinned and felt a sudden wave of affection for the boy. He had an urge to run out and hug him, which he suppressed.
He heard the front door open and turned to see his father peeking out.
“Oh,” he added, “and, in case you haven't noticed, Patrick has a secret crush on Kinjari, but he'd die before he ever admitted it.”
Alex smiled and nodded knowingly.
“That makes sense.”
“But, don't ever say anything to Kinjari about it. He has a love/hate relationship with Patrick. He admires him, yet the grass cutting just infuriates him. He calls him Grass Killer.”
Alex chuckled and his father closed the door as he grinned.
Kinjari noticed Alex sitting on the porch. With a final furious, threatening jab of his pole in the air toward “Grass Killer,” he began to march purposefully toward Alex. He stopped before him and looked him over critically.
“Your are the son of the Great Teacher,” he announced, standing at attention and holding his pole upright beside him.
“Uh, yeah. I guess.”
Kinjari nodded with satisfaction and then leaned over the examine Alex's pulled back hair.
“Your hair is very beautiful,” he declared. “It looks like gold.”
Alex smiled, remembering the scene beneath his balcony the previous night.
“Thank you. Your's is cool, too.”
Kinjari nodded as if he were already acquainted with this news and then looked thoughtfully at Alex before announcing, “Kinjari will call you Golden Hair. You are Golden Hair, son of the Great Teacher.”
Alex smiled and said, “I like that.”
Kinjari sat down beside him resting his arms on his knees before him and watching Patrick riding back and forth across the front lawn. A dark look came over his face.
“He is Grass Killer. I dance every time he cuts the grass, but the evil spirits that make him cut it keep coming back. Kinjari's magic is not strong enough to save the precious grass,” he said sadly.
Alex smiled at him and said, “Sometimes, cutting the grass can actually help it. It can make it healthier.”
Kinjari gave Golden Hair a sharp look for a moment and then turned his attention back to Patrick. Golden Hair do so, as well, for the teenager had stopped the mower for a moment and removed his shirt, stuffing it under his butt and revealing his well-built adolescent chest and arms. Alex sighed and watched as Patrick engaged the clutch and began rolling forward again.
After several passes, Patrick glanced at the boys on the porch and grinned knowingly. Alex cursed himself and the teenager. The arrogant prick knew he was hot and knew that at least one of the boys on the porch was getting off on him.
Alex looked over at Kinjari, who was staring mesmerized, at “Grass Killer,” and was surprised to see the front of the boy's loin cloth had very obviously risen. Patrick had given both boys an erection.
Alex decided to take a chance and throw caution to the wind. He took a breath and said, softly, “So, Kinjari. Did you have fun last night?”
Kinjari looked suspiciously at Golden Hair for a moment.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Alex smiled and replied, in as friendly a way as possible, “I saw you when you climbed over the wall last night. You know, when you were yanking it beside the house.”
Kinjari looked confused for a moment, probably not understanding the term “yanking it,” Alex assumed. Then his eyes grew wide and he stood up in indignation, glaring down at Golden Hair.
“You spy on Kinjari as he honors the Great Spirit of the Night!”
“No, man, I wasn't spying. I was just standing on my balcony when you climbed over. I wasn't spying.”
Kinjari was watching him suspiciously. Alex leaned forward and added in a soft, conspiratorial voice, “I'll tell you a secret.”
Kinjari's face softening slightly and he waited curiously. Alex continued.
“I was doing it, too.”
Kinjari's face suddenly became inscrutable. He stood motionless, looking down at Alex with a blank face. Suddenly, he turned around and said, “Kinjari must go now.”
He began to march across the lawn until he was near Patrick and the riding mower. He stopped and shook his spear at him with an extra degree of vehemence and then danced for a few seconds before marching on toward the small white bungalow across the road. He disappeared behind the back and Alex sighed. He knew that watching someone without their knowledge, particularly when they were doing something so intimate, was unethical and rude. But, after all, the it was in someone else’s yard, for Heaven’s sake. What did he expect?
Alex stood and walked back into the house. He didn’t notice the look of disappointment on Patrick’s face.