Date: Fri, 6 Mar 2009 08:19:43 -0500 From: John Ellison Subject: The Landing - Chapter 7 This story contains situations and scenes of graphic sex between consenting males. All legal disclaimers apply. If this topic offends you, do not read any further; and ask yourself why you are at this site. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, although it may be loosely based on real events and people. If you are under the age of 18 (21 in some areas) and too young to be reading such material or if you are in a locale or country where it is not legal to read such material then please leave immediately and come back when it is legal for you to do so. We'll be glad to have you back. Copyright 2009 by John Ellison Additional works publish in Nifty in the Military Category: The Phantom of Aurora The Boys of Aurora Aurora Tapestry The Knights of Aurora Aurora Crusade The "Aurora" books are a series and should be read in sequence. A Sailor's Tale Constructive criticism is always welcome, and comments are appreciated. Flames expounding a personal agenda are not appreciated and will be treated with the contempt they deserved. Please feel free to send comments to: paradegi@sympatico.ca The Landing Chapter Seven I left Tony lying on his bed with his trousers and boxers gathered around his ankles and his legs spread. His rapidly softening pecker was crimson with the afterglow of a superb (I thought) blow job. He was cooing softly, his eyes closed, and a smile creasing his face. He was a very happy Italian Stallion, no doubt about it! With Tony happy, I left the apartment and went downstairs. As I crossed the small lobby, Mama Ravelli asked where her lazy son was. I told her that he was upstairs and took off, hoping that she wouldn't go up to see what he was up to. As I walked down Broadlands Avenue I could smell charcoal burning, and the sweet odors of beef and chicken, sausages, ribs and whatever favorite viands were being grilled at the barbecues that seemed to be in progress at every house. The street was lined with cars of every make and model, and the low hum of laughter and music drifted through the air. The Conynghams had a crowd of people lounging in the front yard and on the porch of their house. From behind the white building rose a wispy column of smoke and the smell of barbecue seemed to envelop the place. Tristan and Damian were sitting on the front steps, with two older boys who were drinking beer, cousins of some sort. My father always said that the Conynghams were breeders, and if the world should ever need repopulation they would be the ones mankind would turn to. They were intermarried with every family of consequence in Carolina, with branches in Virginia and Georgia. Papa also said that they were more of a tribe than a family. As I waved to the boys, I couldn't help but think that the Conynghams were a poor tribe. Their house was not exactly falling down, but it certainly could use a little help. There was paint peeling on two of the columns that supported the porch, and several of the window panes needed replacement. I had a feeling things would remain the same. Money was very tight, and most people were more concerned with putting food on the table than fixing the house. Then there was the pride factor. Rather than "waste" money on superficial cosmetics, things were left the same. The old saying, "Too poor to paint, to proud to whitewash" definitely applied to the Conynghams. While pride was a factor in my family, Papa was not so proud that he wouldn't let his house become shabby. As it happened, whitewashing the house was always something he had done, as the stucco covering the brick walls had a tendency to turn a sickly yellow, so every two years or so a crew of house painters would show up and restore the place. The Pegram house was in much better shape. It was really quite pretty and the gardens that surrounded it, planted with roses for the most part, were filled with guests. I noticed that perhaps a half dozen or so of them wore the summer uniform of a Citadel cadet. Charlie Pegram was always inviting fellow cadets home, and Labor Day would be a perfect excuse to party. I didn't see him as I passed the house, or his brothers, Tommy and John, and I thought that they would be around the back, mingling as the saying went. I wondered if Philip Charles was in attendance, but didn't stop to look. When I arrived home the house was quiet. I wasn't surprised. Father would be at the hospital and, what with the vendors in the square, and barbecues and garden parties all over the place; I knew my mother would be out at one of them. The kitchen was empty as Mam Berta had the day off. I figured she was in Overbridge, berating the contractors repairing her house, or tongue lashing her sons for their involvement in the "uprising" on the day Martin Luther King was murdered. I climbed the wide stairs to upstairs and as I passed the drawing room I saw Damian Lee, still wearing only his boxers, half-sprawled on one of the sofas. The sunlight streaming through the tall Palladian window caused the glass he was holding to sparkle. The glass was half-filled with a dark amber liquid. It was then I noticed that sitting on the table beside the sofa was a bottle of my father's Scotch. As I watched, Damian Lee raised the glass and gulped down the liquor. He reached for the bottle and poured a healthy slug into the glass. My eyes all but bugged out of my head as I saw the label. "Jesus," I whispered, "he's dead!" It was bad enough that Damian Lee had got into Papa's booze. It was worse that he was gulping down a whisky that was as close to priceless as damn it is to swearing! Papa was an aficionado of Scotch whisky and over the years had built up quite a collection of vintage Scotch. This was never touched, and when and if Papa felt like a drink, he would bring out a bottle of what he referred to as "the lesser brands", usually Johnny Walker Black or J & B. We had always been warned never to open the drinks cabinet without permission. We were also warned never, under any circumstances, to touch one bottle in particular: The Macallan, which was sixty years old and supposedly so valuable that had Papa sold it, his financial problems would have been solved for a year or two. I saw the label of the bottle Damian Lee was drinking from and paled. He was slurping down the pride of Papa's collection, and from the level of Scotch in the bottle of Macallan I figured that Papa's net worth had been reduced by about twenty grand! I watched as Damian Lee chugged down the Scotch and let out an involuntary gasp. Damian Lee looked up and grinned stupidly. "Little brother," he slurred and waved the empty glass. "Have a drink!" Never being one to go looking for trouble, I shook my head. Then I said, "Damian Lee, you are in a world of hurt when Papa finds out . . ." "Don't care," Damian Lee snapped, interrupting me. He reached for the bottle again, poured another drink and added, "Don't give a fuck!" Once again shaking my head I walked into the drawing room and sat on the sofa opposite to the one Damian Lee was sprawled on. I noticed that his pecker and balls were hanging out of his boxers, the slit in the pink conical head all but winking at me. Damian Lee was a handsome, proud hangin' man and I could well understand why he was so popular with the girls, and his fellow Eagle Scouts. My own pecker twitched at the sight, but I managed to control myself. "Damian Lee, you're drinking Papa's best booze!" I exclaimed. "He'll kill you graveyard dead!" Damian Lee was not impressed. He deliberately drank down the Scotch, shrugged and mumbled unintelligibly. "At least switch to something else," I suggested. "Okay," Damian Lee answered. He gestured toward the drinks cabinet. "Help yourself." I rose and quickly corked the bottle, returned it to the cabinet and brought out a cheap blended marque. After opening it and placing it within easy reach, I returned to my seat. I knew that Damian Lee was conflicted. He was not one to hit the bottle at life's setbacks, and I had never seen him in this condition. Something had happened and, being a good, if somewhat disinterested little brother, I had to find out. "What's up?" I asked carefully. "You're drunker than a fiddler's bitch and . . ." "Don't talk to me about bitches!" Damian Lee snarled. "Fuggin' cunts all of them. Let a fella fuck 'em and take his money and then blow 'im off!" Being the brilliant conversationalist I am, I responded, "Huh?" Then I remembered the girl Damian Lee had been seeing. "She dumped you?" I asked tentatively. Damian Lee's hand dropped to his crotch and he began to squeeze and rub the head of his pecker. "Fuggin' bitch. Couldn't give a decent blow job, but damn, boy, she was a wild fuck." He gulped his drink and added, "Almost as good as Jason." Jason? The only Jason I knew of was Jason Blake. I recalled the night Sinjin and I had spied on the senior scouts having fun. If memory served, Damian Lee was being fucked by Adam Blake, Jason's brother. So, I thought, Damian Lee scored with both of them. I wondered just how many of the neighborhood boys and fellow Scouts he'd been with. I decided to probe further. "You, um, you fucked Jason Blake?" I asked quietly. Damian Lee glared at me. "Yeah!" he snarled. "You got a problem with that?" A strange, leering gleam came into eyes. "You ain't exactly a virgin, Coops." Well, no, I wasn't a virgin, but I was surprised. "How . . . how . . ." I stammered. I could feel the heat rising in my face. Damian Lee's bedroom was next to mine and . . . Damian Lee laughed nastily. "You think I'm deaf. You and that little brat, Wade Hampton, you were fuckin' each other like minks in heat!" He grinned evilly. "And you and Sinjin been playin' hide the pepperoni like it was the last piece of ass you'd be gettin'." Once again he laughed crudely. "You guys ain't the quietest little fuckers." "You aren't going to tell, are you?" I immediately asked. Damian Lee was as drunk as a coot, and if Mother, or Papa, caught him in his present condition, God only knew what he'd say, or do. There was also the matter of The Macallan. To deflect as much anger from Papa over the Scotch, and even though he was my brother, I worried that he'd say things that should be left unsaid. In answer to my question, Damian Lee gave me a dark look. "Coops, do you really think I'd say anything?" I shrugged. We were not close, not at all. "Well . . ." "I won't say a word," Damian Lee growled. "I'm your brother, for fuck's sake, and let's be honest, Coops, you know I've been with guys." "Um, yeah, you just told me," I replied. Damian Lee shook his head. "Don't bullshit me, Coops. You know what goes on in the Aerie." He sniggered. "Hope you enjoyed the show." I gasped. "You know I saw you?" "And that little fucker Sinjin," Damian Lee retorted. "How . . .?" "Boy's got a big mouth," snapped Damian Lee. "He told Tom Pegram, who told his brother, Charlie, who told Philip Charles." He giggled. "Good job they ain't exactly innocents." I caught the meaning in Damian's Lee's words. "You fucked Charlie Pegram? You fucked Philip Charles?" My words were more accusations than questions. Damian Lee nodded his head. "Yeah. Still do, whenever he can't score with one of his cadet buddies," he admitted. "Boy's got a log on him!" He gave me a direct look. "And no, Charlie and me, we never did anything. He's straight. The only hand on his dick has been his own." He smiled and sighed wistfully. "Boy's got a right proud hangin' dick, too." Never having seen Charlie's dick, I could only guess at what it looked like. I was, however, relieved that the object of my lust had not joined in any games. I was also intrigued by Damian Lee's conquests. "Damian Lee, you're sittin' here, drunker than a cooter, and you're going on about guys! What gives?" He gave me a long, direct look. "Cooper, a guy's gotta be a guy. Folks around here would never understand. I go with girls, yeah, because I more or less have to." A sad look came over his face. "To be honest, I'd rather suck a dick than lick a pussy." I ignored his crudeness. "Well, peckers to seem more palatable," I offered. "At least they don't smell like old fish!" Damian Lee laughed, making a gagging sound. "You got that right." I noticed that he'd stopped drinking. Maybe, I thought, all he needed was someone to talk to. "Guys are so much better," Damian Lee said. "They just want sex. When you're finished they don't whine and look for presents, or a meal, and you don't have to keep 'em happy just so you can get laid." He nodded his head firmly and then scowled. "And they don't lie to a fella and want money!" Money? What in the hell was he on about I asked myself. Damian Lee didn't have any money. Then I remembered his "car fund". The old clunker he'd been driving was well on its way to the wrecker's yard and every dollar he earned doing odd jobs around town, and his allowance, went into the fund. Still, there could not have been much in the fund. He had been saving for a new car for at least two years, and still didn't have enough. Damian Lee saw the questioning look on my face. He suddenly began to cry, his body heaving. "She took me, Coops, the bitch lied to me and took me!" I couldn't help myself. I couldn't stand seeing my big brother crying. I quickly moved and sat beside him. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him close and stroked his hair. "You ain't the first," I murmured. Damian Lee did not seem to hear me. His wracking sobs continued and then he said, "She told me she was knocked up, and I was the father. She said she knew a colored woman in Overbridge who'd help her get rid of the baby." His tears flowed down his cheeks and he wrapped his arms around me. "What could I do," he wailed. "I'm still in high school, and her daddy hated me! She didn't want the kid, and sure as hell I couldn't marry her!" How true, I thought. Our parents would have pitched umpteen kinds of fits if Damian Lee had come home and announced that he had to marry a white trash girl. I sighed. "I guess you had no choice," I said weakly. "She bugged me for weeks, lookin' for money." "How much?" Damian Lee buried his face in my shoulder. "Five hundred at first, and then another two grand!" I stared at him. "For an abortion?" "No, not all of it. She said the five hundred was for the abortion. The rest was to keep her from tellin' Papa!" "Jesus, the bitch blackmailed you!" I growled, my anger rising. Then I thought a moment and asked, "Damian Lee, where did you get the money? I mean, I know you had your car fund but . . ." "I sold the King Charles double guinea," he confessed. Damian Lee had collected coins for years. Many in his collection were of nominal value, worth little more than their face value. But the double guinea . . . It was the pride of his collection, and had been a gift for his sixteenth birthday, the last prized possession of my mother's mother, Louisa Pelham. Her family had lost everything during the War, land, slaves, silver, everything except the King Charles double guinea. This they had always held on to, a relic of the days when they had had more than just a proud lineage and name. "Oh, Damian Lee, I am so sorry!" I exclaimed. "It gets worse," Damian Lee replied. "I sold the coin and gave her the money. It really bugged me, you know, but I figured I'd deserved it. I should have known what she was like, and yeah, I should have used a rubber, but I didn't." He drew away from me, and wiped his eyes. "Then she really fucked me!" he blurted out. "What? What did she do?" "Well, she wouldn't let me near her, sayin' she was recovering from the `procedure'." He snorted. "Made it sound like the best doctor in town had given her the big scoop, not some old colored woman." He leaned against the back of the sofa and stared into the expanse of the room. "Her brother came home on leave." He said bluntly. "Her brother? What has he got to do with it?" "Him and me, we had a thing going a long time ago. He's a nice guy and well, let's say we clicked. Then he went off and joined the Navy. He came home on leave last week and called me. I figured he wanted to renew acquaintances, but he didn't. He got married and had a kid, so he wasn't interested." "Then why did he call you?" "He wanted me to know the truth. It turns out his sister wasn't fuckin' just me. She had something goin' on with two other guys her brother knew about." "So you might not have been the father, then?" I asked. "Not hardly," Damian Lee replied. "Seein' that she wasn't pregnant." "You're kidding!" "According to her brother she needed the money to get out of town. She hated her daddy, and was lookin' for some sucker to screw so she could go north - New York, her brother said." The girl's destination of choice was hardly surprising. "Going north" was something most of the young people talked about all the time. There really wasn't much opportunity in the South. Older people were too set in their ways and change was something they did not care for at all. They preferred the status quo, even if it was slightly tattered and near moribund. For the young, going north was an opportunity not only to make money, but to enjoy the anonymous freedoms of a large city - they wanted a complete change of life style, a style different from that of the Old South. How they got there was sometimes a matter of scheming and secret hoards of cash carefully counted and just as carefully nurtured until the time came to pack a suitcase and walk down Hampton Road to the Greyhound stop. Damian Lee had spent much of his life from puberty screwing anything with a pulse, but I still felt sorry for him. Like most teenage boys he had never considered that sooner or later the chickens always came home to roost. Now that they had, he was feeling very sorry for himself. "So, you were the sucker," I said with a shake of my head. "Yeah." Damian Lee said sadly. Then he said, "Jesus, Coops, I'm loaded!" "You sure are, and if Mummy or Papa find you like this you're dead meat." I stood and extended my hand to him. "Come on, you need to go to bed and sleep it off." Damian Lee rose shakily. "I can walk," he mumbled, and took a step, and stumbled badly. I wrapped an arm around his waist. "Yeah, right," I said. "I'll give you a hand, okay?" With my help, Damian Lee made it to his room. I helped him onto the bed and was about to leave when he spoke softly. "Cooper, stay with me, please?" He looked so alone, so defeated, that I had to agree. I lay down beside him, our bodies close, feeling the warmth of my brother. "You'll be all right," I told him. "I won't leave you." Damian Lee rolled on his side, his head nestled in my shoulder. Then I felt his warm lips moving upward. I turned my head slightly and our lips met. Damian Lee's hand began to explore my body as we kissed. Moving slowly, knowing how to make love to another boy, he paused at my nipples, gently tweaking them, and then moved downward, following my wispy, barely developed treasure trail, and then slipped under the waistband of my shorts. I moaned softly as Damian's lips continued to caress mine and his hand cupped my balls then stroked my rock hard pecker. He drew back and I looked into his eyes, the usually sparkling gleam dulled by the liquor he'd consumed. Unconsciously I wrinkled my nose - he smelled of booze. Withdrawing his hand from my shorts, and raised himself on one elbow, just looking at me, a soft, beautiful, crooked smile on his face. "Why'd you stop?" I asked. "Because for the first time I've realized how beautiful you are," he whispered. I giggled. "I'm not beautiful." "Yeah, you are," Damian Lee affirmed. "Those green eyes of yours, your red hair, everything about you . . ." He suddenly flopped back down onto the bed and covered his eyes with his arm. "Coops, I'm drunk, I'm in bed with my baby brother . . . I'm such a shit!" Impulsively I leaned down and pulled his semi-hard, thick, circumcised pecker through the slit in his boxers. The sweet head was glowing pinkly and I did not resist the urge to kiss it. It tasted wonderful! Damian Lee groaned softly as my lips continued to caress the head of his pecker, causing it to grow longer and harder. I withdrew slightly and placed my hands around the waistband of his shorts, pulling them downward. Damian Lee raised his hips and I pulled harder, dragging the cotton boxers down and off. He raised his arm and I could feel his eyes boring into me. "I want you to make love to me," Damian Lee whispered. "I want you in me." "Okay," I nodded Suddenly he rose from the bed, his hard pecker jutting up from his groin like the bowsprit of a tall ship. God, he was beautiful. "Where are you going?" I asked as he walked to door and turned the lock. "Just makin' sure no one barges in on us," he said as he headed for the bathroom. "I need a shower, and mouthwash!" I listened as the shower started, and pulled off my shorts. My pecker had shrunk back to its normal state, but this time, when I felt the head, it was sticky. I looked down and saw the usually pale pink head now a crimson hue, and covered with a clear, viscous liquid, and it was then that I realized that I had been producing precum while Damian Lee felt me up. This had never happened to me before! "Gosh!" I whispered to myself, "I guess I am a man!" When he returned, Damian Lee smelled better, and as he kissed me I caught the scent of peppermint. When he was settled, I reached over and my hand encompassed his soft pecker. "God, I said, you sure got a nice one. And you got big balls!" At first, Damian Lee let me fondle and feel to my heart's content. Then he reached down and grasped my hand with his. "Cooper, are you okay with this? I mean, you don't have to . . ." I shook his hand off, sat up, and looked at him. "Damian Lee, you're my brother, and while at times you are a shit, I love you. You're also damned good lookin', and you have the nicest dick I've seen so far." I reached out to give his beautiful organ a squeeze. "I also have to tell you something." "What?" "I like guys. You know that me and Wade Hampton . . ." "And Sinjin," he interrupted. "Yes, and Sinjin," I confirmed. "I liked what we did, I wanted what we did, and I'm queer as a cooter." "Don't say that," Damian Lee with a shake of his head. I sat there, cross-legged, like an Indian chief beside my handsome brother and said calmly. "Why? It's the truth," I said firmly. "I have no interest in girls, and don't expect to have any interest any time soon. I'm not going through some stage, or just `helping a guy out'!" A giggle rose in my throat and I sighed happily. "In fact I've already blown three guys today!" I think Damian Lee almost had a heart attack at that. His eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. "You did?" he asked when he'd managed to recover. "Yep." I untangled my body and lay down beside him, pressing my hardening pecker against his thigh. I let my arm snake across his firm, muscular chest and rested my head on his shoulder. "Sinjin, but you knew that." "You got that," he laughed. "Twice, if all the squeaking was any indication." I snickered and buried my head in his shoulder, the scent of Lifebuoy soap and male intoxicating me much more than vintage Scotch ever could. "Then we went into town and stopped at one of the booths. It was from the military school and I met one of them. His name was Pendleton Izard, and he's a proud hangin' man." I reached down and squeezed his pecker. "Looks a lot like you." "Flattery is the best compliment," Damian Lee laughed. "Well, he does!" I said, echoing his laughter. "Then, since Sinjin had hooked up with another cadet, I stopped by the Inn and took care of Tony." Damian Lee raised his head and stared at me. "You . . . you actually made Tony Ravelli?" "Sure did," I bragged. "He likes getting his dick sucked big time." Damian Lee's head fell back onto his pillow. "Damn! Tony Ravelli!" he groaned. I realized that for Damian Lee, Tony Ravelli was unconquered territory. "You wanted him?" I asked. "Yeah, from the first time I saw him taking a shower after football practice. He's some punkin', Coops, some punkin'." "Yeah," I breathed, remembering my time with Tony. "He's proud hangin', but not as big as you." I couldn't stop myself from laughing. "He's got a cute pecker, too, but ya know, I think when he was circumcised the doctor nicked a nerve." "Huh?" "Well, when he's hard it gets long, and it's not too thick, and sticks straight out, but the head angles back at his ring. It works great, and he really appreciates what I do for him. It's just that it looks a little odd." Damian Lee chuckled. "Didn't turn you off, though." "Nope. I liked it and like I said, it's cute." Then I added, "Tastes good too, nice and clean and sweet." Damian Lee gave me a mock look of shock. "Jesus, Coops, here I thought you were the straightest guy in town!" "I put on a good act," I said flippantly. "Which means you understand why I take up with girls." "You're in the closet," I stated. It was a term Wade Hampton had said to me, although why he told me I don't know. He had, when all was said and done, made no bones about his homosexuality and if I knew him some lucky guy in Charleston would go to bed tonight very happy. "Sometimes you have to be," Damian Lee said angrily. "You know what folks around here would say if they found out about us." A dark look came into his eyes. "And Stubby Richmond and his Klan goons would . . ." His voiced trailed off. I knew about Stubby, and the Klan. It was a tossup whom they hated more, Negroes, Jews, or queers. "I'm careful," I began. "I've only done it with guys who want it." Then I remembered Adam Blake. "Or I know have done it before." "Which means you've got another notch in your belt," Damian Lee stated flatly. "Who?" "Adam Blake," I answered. "When I want to school to clean out my locker I was in the can, taking a leak, and he came in." I frowned. "He's a real jerk. He saw me watching him pee and called me `queer boy' and asked if I wanted to suck his dick. I grabbed him and took him into one of the cubicles." "Jesus, Cooper!" Damian Lee exploded. "He's not clipped!" "What's that got to do with the price of beans in cans?" I asked, startled. "Not everybody is, you know, and unclipped guys need lovin' too!" "Yeah, they do, but sometimes they forget to clean themselves and boy, you do not want anything to do with an unclipped, dirty dick!" He fixed with a firm look and continued. "And you never, never let him fuck you without a rubber on!" "But you let Jason fuck you!" I protested. "Yeah, I did, but he had a rubber on, and I've never sucked him." "But . . ." "No buts, Cooper, you be careful and stay away from Jason Blake! He just likes to fuck and won't do anything back! He claims he's straight and likes girls, and only comes around when he can't get pussy! Adam is the same. It's `let me fuck you', or `suck my dick' and when he's done he gives you a dirty look and walks away!" I could see that the status of the boys I had been with upset Damian Lee, so I dropped the subject and returned to what he had asked me to do. "SO, you still want me to fuck you?" "Shit yeah," he growled. "I need it bad! I haven't been with a guy in months!" My hand drifted downward to cup Damian Lee's manhood. The thought of fucking my beautiful brother was intoxicating and exciting, and my pecker reflected my intensity, rising slowly to full staff. Damian Lee reached down and felt the head. As his fingers explored the smooth, spongy flesh, he observed, "You don't make a lot of precum, do you." I admitted that I didn't, and never had. "Is it important?" Damian Lee shook his head. "Nope, but I don't want you to dry fuck me . . . it hurts and it's too hard to stick your pecker in." He pulled away and reached for the drawer of the night table. Opening the drawer, his hand dived in, and pulled out a jar. "Vaseline?" I asked. He gave me a strange look. "Yeah, it's a little messy, but I ran out of hand lotion and I don't feel like getting up and stealing some of Mummy's!" As he settled back he handed me the jar. "When you beat off, you do it dry?" he asked. "Well, yeah, or sometimes I use spit." Damian Lee laughed. "Well, you should use lube. It feels a lot better. Now grease up Little Cooper and let's have some fun!" As much as I wanted to pleasure him, I hesitated. Damian Lee was offering me a very precious gift. I knew that I would not be his first, and the way he was acting I would not be his last. He obviously enjoyed anal sex, which was fine with me. But, and this was important to me, I had to ask what he wanted in return? My experience had been with boys, boys who were more than satisfied with having their dicks sucked. Damian Lee, however, was experienced, someone who had fucked, and been fucked. I knew he'd been with other boys, boys who had fucked him, and I knew enough about sex to know that he'd fucked them. So, the question was, would he expect to fuck me in return? I decided to confront my doubts head on. "Damian Lee . . ." "Yeah? And why aren't you greasin' your dick?" "I need to ask a question." "A question?" Damian Lee growled. "Don't tell me you've never fucked one of your buddies, and that you don't know what to do!" he said in an exasperated tone. "I know what to do," I sniped. "But, well, Damian Lee, I never fucked a guy before." He laughed. "So, you'll learn by doing!" "It's . . . it's not that," I said. "So what is it, then?" "Are you going to want to fuck me?" I asked bluntly. "Is that what's buggin' your ass?" he asked, his tone equally blunt. Then he softened. "Cooper, I will never ask you to do something that you're not comfortable doing," he said. "It'd not, well, Damian Lee, I do want you, but . . ." Damian Lee rose up and gave me a searching look. "Well I'll be damned, little brother is in love, and not with me!" he said with a grin. Damn, I thought, caught! "Well, yes," I admitted. I did not want to hurt him, so I told Damian Lee, "I love you, but I'm not in love with you." "But you are in love with someone," Damian Lee pressed on. "You want your first time to be with him." "Yeah." Damian Lee lay back down and started to laugh. When he stopped chortling, he looked at me. "Cooper, you are a hopeless romantic!" Before I could answer or react, Damian Lee's eyes grew dark. "I was, once." "Please don't be angry with me!" I begged. "It's just that, well, I am in love with someone, and I want my first time to be with him! I want you to fuck me, but not the first time!" I laid my head on his chest, and started to cry. "You're my brother, and being with you is wonderful! Please Damian Lee, please try to understand!" I wailed. He hugged me close and rubbed his cheek in my hair. "You smell nice, you know what. Little brothers aren't supposed to smell nice. They're supposed to smell like goats because they rarely wash!" "Damian Lee!" "Oh, Cooper, you are so young and sweet, and I am going to give you the time of your life!" "You're not angry?" Damian Lee shook his head. "No, I am not angry at all. I just want to try to save you from what I suffered," he whispered. "Save me? Save me from what?" "Cooper, do you remember Harry Boykin Chestnut?" I searched my memory. Damian Lee's circle of friends was more or less confined to the boys and girls who lived in town, were part of the local Scouts, or went to school with him. No Boykins lived in town, or on one of the surrounding farms. Not that the name was unfamiliar to me. The Boykins were an old, aristocratic family, Confederate nobility in fact. They were kin to the Millers and the Decaturs. But they were from Stateburg, in the high hills of the Santee. They had a plantation, Mulberry, there. "Think jamboree," Damian Lee hinted. Then I remembered. Four years earlier Damian Lee had attended the National Jamboree, an event attended by Scouts from all over the country. He had returned with a boy, a fellow Scout and they were inseparable for the week that the boy stayed. If memory served, Harry Boykin Chestnut was a slim, willowy boy with dark, curly hair, gray eyes, perfect teeth and a winning smile. He'd been very nice to me, I recalled. At the time, being only ten, I had no interest in Harry, and besides, he was too attached to Damian Lee. "I remember him now," I told Damian Lee. "He stayed a week." Damian Lee glowered. "Yes, he did." I thought a moment. "Was he the one with the dirty dick?" "No! That was some cracker from North Charleston," snapped Damian Lee. "Harry Boykin was a proud hangin' boy and he was my first." "He was?" I asked, surprised. "I thought Philip Charles . . ." "He came later," Damian Lee said. "My first was Harry and the bastard fucked me and . . ." He stopped speaking. "Never mind," he said presently. "But I don't understand. It was what you wanted!" "Yes, it was. But you see, Cooper, I was madly in love with him, infatuated beyond explanation in fact." "But he wasn't in love with you?" "No. Oh, he told me he loved me, which sent me over the moon. We'd done everything, he even sucked my dick, and I thought he cared for me. I wanted him, Cooper, desperately, and without reservations." "So you did it." "Yes, we did, but he didn't make love to me, didn't care about me. He fucked me, Cooper. I was just a place to dump his load in! A piece of meat to make him happy." "Ah, Damian Lee!" I reached out a compassionate hand. "Did he, like, hurt you?" "He was rough, and the first time was, well, let's just say not the wonderful, glorious, experience I had dreamed it would be." "Why didn't you just tell him to fuck off and go play with himself?" I asked. Damian Lee shook his head. "I told you, I was so in love with him. I wanted to please him, and if getting mauled was the price I had to pay, so be it." A tear rolled down his cheek. "The second time he fucked me he found my prostate and I blew - man, did I blow!" "But . . ." "Yeah, but . . ." Damian Lee sighed. "The last morning, before he left, he bent me over the bed and really put the blocks to me. It was like he was pissed off at me, that fucking me was just another chance to get his load off. When he was finished he wiped his pecker with the sheet, pulled up his pants and left. I never saw him again, he never tried to contact me, nothing." "I'm sorry," I said simply. "You deserved better." "Don't be sorry. I wanted him, I gave myself to him, and I didn't stop him when he came back with his pecker in his hand." I didn't know what to say and remained silent. "Cooper, I hope you find the love you want. Just please, be careful. Make sure that the boy you want cares for you, wants you as desperately as you want him. I don't want you to be hurt like I was." By this time I was feeling so sorry for Damian Lee that I decided to do something for him, for him alone. Wordlessly, I rolled away from him and scooted to the end of the bed. There I spread his legs and said, "Damian Lee, I love you, and I care for you. I'm not going to fuck you." He looked at me with lowered eyes. "You're not?" I giggled and lowered my head. First I tongued his balls, and then up the shaft of his pecker. I gently swiped the head of it and then said, "I've never done it, Damian Lee. I want to make you happy so . . . help me to make love to you." ****** Sex with Damian Lee was so very different from sex with Wade Hampton or, for that matter, Sinjin and Tony Ravelli. Wade Hampton lived and breathed sex. He loved sucking peckers, and didn't care who or what was attached to them. He preferred anonymous sex, hence his depredations in White Point Gardens, the boys' room of his school or the glory holes of the Citadel and points in between. Wade Hampton wanted no attachments, and damned few emotions. Sinjin and Tony were still in the thrall of their first sexual experiences. Up until I came along, or Wade Hampton, the only sex Sinjin had was with his hand. Tony was much the same. Sex was a wonderful new experience for them, and being boys, they wanted to continue to explore those experiences. A tantalizing factor was that what we were doing was forbidden. Throw in magnificent orgasm, and the thrill was increased. Neither, or so I thought, was interested in companionship, commitment, or anything other than getting off, which was the case in what went on after the Scout meetings. The Senior Scouts were horny, and had few, if any outlets to "relieve" their needs. They all knew each other, and up to a point they all trusted each other - they had to. Silence would ensure a steady stream of sexual favors, orgasms, and good times, at least until a girl came along. They all enjoyed sex, they all wanted sex, and so they had it. No questions were asked, no promises of eternal love were made, nothing promised but S-E-X! Unlike Wade Hampton, all the other boys drew the line. For some, initially, anal sex was not considered. Only queers and fags did that . . . although for some reason it was all right to fuck a guy, but never get fucked. Sucking dick was acceptable, if both participants did it. Quid pro quo, I suppose you could say. Kissing was out, rimming was out. What they did was a means to an end: blowing their loads. They were all also firmly convinced that a guy had needs, and his friends would help him out. They would stop the secret boy with boy sex sessions when the girls finally smartened up and took notice of them, which is usually what happened. Damian Lee, however, was a different kind of queer. He believed that sex with another boy was a giving of oneself to him, and a receiving of the other boy. While he admitted to sex acts with his Scout buddies, he much preferred to be with a boy who actually meant something to him. Damian Lee would never have gratuitous sex with anyone he didn't care about. He was a bit of a naïf, really, as much as I was, I suppose. He had convinced himself that Harry Boykin Chestnut was a caring, loving boy when he was, in reality, a sexual predator. Damian Lee had given of himself to Harry Boykin. Harry Boykin had used Damian Lee, fucked him and left him. Given Damian Lee's romanticism, I could understand his disappointment. Of course, I was as bad, although I was never to give my heart to anyone, not really. My insistence to remain a virgin, and give myself to Charlie Pegram, a boy I didn't know even wanted boy with boy sex, was a case in point. However, my eyes were wide open, and I knew full well what I wanted. I wanted sex with Wade Hampton, I wanted sex with Sinjin. I wanted to lick and tease and suck Tony Ravelli's pecker. I wanted to take Pendleton Izard's sweet pecker into my mouth and taste his sweet cream. I wanted it and I didn't expect anything in return, certainly not "love" in any of its forms. That night with Damian Lee taught me to admit to myself what I was: a queer, pure and simple. My times with Wade Hampton taught me something else: discretion. I realized that blowing Adam Blake in the bathroom was stupid, although I also realized that what I had done was based on the fact that he was hardly a virgin. Besides, his attitude had pissed me off. I made a firm promise to myself that under no circumstances would I emulate Wade Hampton. I would have sex - lots of sex - but only with boys I knew were as willing as I was. Sex with Damian Lee was wonderful, and informative. He was not interested in a quickie in moonlight. He liked to cuddle, and hug, and feel his partner's naked body. He loved to kiss, especially at the moment of truth. He liked foreplay, and after play, and while he vastly enjoyed being a bottom, he also enjoyed topping, but would not do anything his partner wasn't comfortable doing. He told me that while he did want to fuck me, he would wait until I was ready. He understood my feelings, although he also thought I didn't have a cat's chance in Hell to bed Charlie Pegram. Under those terms, we locked the doors and made love. It was exhilarating, and so magnificent that I won't sully the memory of the night with details. ****** I awoke the next morning with Damian Lee spooned against me, his hot, warm body nestled against my back. His morning wood, strong and proud, was hot against my backside and his arm was draped across my waist, his hand cupping my balls. While I felt warm, protected and satisfied beyond redemption, Nature called. My pecker, as usual, was a small, hard pillar, more from the need to empty a full bladder than the manipulations of Damian Lee's hand. The early morning sun streamed through the window, and a muggy breeze, laden with moisture and humidity filled the bedroom. As much as I enjoyed lying there with my brother, cuddling and feeling his warm breath on my neck, the combined heat of his flushed body and muggy air was a bit much. I slipped from the bed, being careful not to wake my brother, and into the bathroom. While the night with Damian had been wonderful, I had no great desire to give rise to any suspicions. I took a shower, dressed, and went downstairs. My mother and father, early risers, were in the small dining room, Mummy drinking tea and Papa sitting at the head of the long table, reading his newspaper. On the sideboard was an array of chafing dishes and plated food: eggs, bacon, biscuits, and a cold meat. This morning it was ham. After bidding my parents a good morning, I piled a plate high with scrambled eggs and bacon, grabbed some toast and sat down. Mam Berta shuffled in and plunked a glass in front of me. I was allowed juice or milk only. Mummy and Mam Berta were of the firm conviction that coffee was bad for children, especially boys. It made us "rambunctious". It felt strange sitting there, calmly eating. This was supposed to be the first day of school, and in the past school day mornings were always confusing, hurried up affairs. Either Damian Lee or I would have slept late, Mam Berta would be hectoring us to eat and "git out from under" her feet. Papa would be rustling his paper and muttering under his breath, and Mummy would be dreamily sipping tea. I was a trifle confused that morning. School was supposed to start today. However, when I checked my room, my new clothes were still hanging in the closet, my new shoes still in their original box. Damian Lee, who usually rose with the roosters, was snoring away, and Mam Berta was unusually quiescent. Once again all the signs told me that something was up. However, as I had long since grown to know that I would be told eventually, I enjoyed the peace and quiet. Damian Lee, unshowered and unshaved, shuffled in wearing a T-shirt and his boxers. He'd become very casual of late, and while Mummy rolled her eyes and shook her head, she said nothing. Boys went through phases, or so she thought, and Damian Lee was just being a rebellious boy. As long as he kept his legs closed, and his pecker was not peeking out at her, Mummy let things ride. Papa, who never seemed to notice or care, also remained silent. Philip Charles had also gone through his casual, informal stage, much to Mam Berta's disgust. Gentle folk did not go around in their underwear and she barred anyone not wearing pants from her kitchen. Not that any of us wanted to venture into the lair. As she grew older the old woman grew grumpier, and would rattle and crash pots and pans around if any of us dared to enter her domain. Of late her temper had been shorter than usual, what with the lingering effects of the riot, and losing most of her house. Her boys were also giving her trouble, being emboldened from the effects the riot had had on white folk. Her oldest had become quite the civil rights activist and twice had been arrested and hauled off to the calaboose where he'd been "taught his manners" by the Sheriff's deputies. She was also having troubles with the men she'd hired to repair her house. I thought that if she'd leave them alone to get on with their business things would have gone better. Being Mam Berta, though, she just had to inspect everything they did and complained constantly of shoddy workmanship. All in all, I was glad to be in the small dining room and not in the kitchen! Damian Lee, blooming I swear, and with the biggest, goofiest grin on his face, piled a plate high and sat beside me. He couldn't resist reaching under the table to give my parts a good squeeze. I sniggered and pulled away. The memory of what we had done during the night was still fresh, and while I wouldn't have minded a session on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, I didn't think the breakfast table the place to start the proceedings. I gave him a dirty look and a slight shrug of my head, and he withdrew his hand. We ate silently for a few minutes and then Damian Lee regarded Papa. "So, we goin' to school today?" he asked no one in particular. Papa lowered his paper and regarded his middle son. "No," he said bluntly. "School does not start until next week at least." He returned to reading his paper. Mummy gave my father an exasperated look and then looked at Damian Lee. "The new buildings are not quite ready and so school will be delayed somewhat." She smiled thinly. "Not that some will complain, I think." Well, I wasn't about to bitch, but I was curious so I asked, "What new buildings?" It was then that I learned that while Parker-Semmes was more than willing to "expand", they had neither the money, nor the accommodations for approximately a hundred new "day boys". While the fees the fathers of the "new boys" paid took care of part of the problem, there was still the matter of classrooms. This had been solved by Mr. Blake, the contractor, who knew a man who built pre-fabricated structures. These turned out to be long, low, shed like buildings at first sight. However, once the clapboard siding had been covered with stucco and painted white, they didn't look all that bad. Although designed to be temporary, in fact, thirty years later the buildings still didn't look too bad, the stark whiteness eased by the green ivy that grew up around them, their permanency strengthened by yearly applications of whitewash! In addition to being in the last stages of construction, the buildings also lacked the basic necessities for a school room: desks, chairs, and teaching aids, toilets and washbasins. As it happened, we would not be in the "New School", as it became, until the end of September, so we had another three weeks of holidays to look forward to. Pleased at the thought of extra holidays, I finished breakfast and was about to rise and leave the dining room when my father carefully folded his newspaper and regarded Damian Lee and me. He slowly pushed his chair back and said, "I shall be at the hospital most of the day." He fixed his eyes on me. "Both of you stay away from the schools." As usual, Papa did not elaborate. I gave Damian Lee a questioning look. He winked and said, "I think maybe we'll go riding," and then he added, "With your permission, sir." Papa chuckled wryly. "With my credit card, you mean," he observed. He nodded his approval and went off to work. Mummy snickered. "Try not to spend too much money, boys," she asked gently. Then she added, "But have a good time and do not be too late." ****** Papa's prohibition was all we needed, of course. As we left the house I asked, "We goin' downtown?" "You bet," Damian Lee laughed. I thought a moment. "Damian Lee, if no white kids are going to school there again, how come Papa doesn't want us to go?" As we walked around the house and into the old coach house, where we kept our bicycles, Damian Lee said, "Well, there will be white folk there, but not gentle folks." "Huh?" "Cooper, not everybody can afford to send their kids to Parker-Semmes or the convent school, and not everybody wants their kids to attend the new church school either." This I could understand. The Evangelical Church was sponsoring a school for children of the congregation. But not everyone attended that church and I had not heard that the Baptists or the Presbyterians had planned to open private schools. In addition, many of the country folk were fiercely independent, and not about to allow "white column aristocrats" to tell them what to do. "You think there'll be trouble?" I asked. Damian Lee shrugged. "Probably. I heard Simmonds Richmond talkin' about the Klan puttin' on a show," he said softly. As he pulled his bicycle out he added, "I hear folks are coming in from the next county." "So there will be trouble," I said as I mounted my bike. ****** There was trouble, but not of the kind Damian Lee, Stubby Richmond, the Mayor and Town Constable were capable of even dreaming of. ****** I really don't know what I expected to find when we arrived at the Consolidated Schools. Sandbagged machine gun nests? Lines of helmeted National Guardsmen with bayonets affixed to their rifles? Lines of State Troopers with riot shields and batons? Being much influenced by what I had seen on the television news when other schools had been integrated, I couldn't help but think of crowds of screaming whites and stoic, well dressed, book-toting negroes. To my surprise, the school was relatively calm, without a huge crowd of angry whites shouting and gesticulating. The Town Constable and two of his deputies were there, a dozen or so State troopers were there and, off to one side of the near-empty faculty parking area, Stubby Richmond was there, but of the black students, there was not a sign. Milling around Stubby and Simmonds was a small mob of slim, raw-boned men I had never seen before. Their weathered faces and lower arms were sun-baked and wizened, evidence of long days spent in the sun struggling to grow a crop from dry, sun-baked fields; their hats, straw for the most part, were battered and the older men all seemed to wear a uniform of sorts: Bibb coveralls and mud and mule-shit dotted working boots. The younger men in the crowd, sons of the older men I supposed, all wore a uniform of sorts as well: tight, low slung jeans with the cuffs turned up, leather shit-kicker boots and tight, white T-shirts with packs of cigarettes in their shirt pockets. They all looked mean and feral, and I would not have wanted them on my ass. The crowd seemed quiet, and aside from dirty looks and loud expectorations, they actually seemed peaceable. There wasn't a white robe, pointy hat or weapon in sight, although over the crowd somebody was waving a new Confederate Battle Flag. Crazy Betsey showed up to "lend support" to the small gaggle of NAACP members and Civil Rights activists gathered in front of the high school. The mob murmured at the sight of her but Stubby Richmond, who seemed to be in charge, waved their comments away. Betsey was a crazy old bitch who would be dealt with in the fullness of time. The morning passed slowly, the sun rose higher and a few white children were led into the Junior and Middle Schools by anxious, worried-looking parents - for the most part white liberals from Lewisham Estates. The high school, however, remained ominously empty, and from time to time one or two of the teachers who still remained would appear in the doorway, along with Mr. Letts, the principal, looking for the buses from Overbridge. Eventually word filtered through the crowd that all was not exactly well in Overbridge. A small group of parents objected to their children being bussed from their familiar neighborhood, friends and school, to a school where they would be treated worse than they normally would be. The protest was long, and loud, with much waving of fists and name-calling, but in the end the County Commissioners prevailed and the buses were loaded. Around 11:00 four yellow school buses trundled down the road and turned into the lane that fronted the main entrance of the school. Frightened black faces peered from the windows at angry white faces, and while there was some shouting, no rocks were thrown. Signs appeared, seemingly from nowhere, decrying integration and vowing death and other threats at "race mixers", but in the main the protest was quiet and orderly. The black children exited the busses and slowly made their way into the school. The mob growled, but the Town Constable and his deputies and the Troopers kept the protesters well back. Mr. Letts appeared and welcomed his new students. His mouth might have been speaking words of welcome, but the look on his face and in his eyes made it plain that the black children were as welcome as a case of crab lice. After the black children went inside the school peace and quiet settled over the area. I decided that nothing was going to happen and nudged Damian Lee, telling him that I was going back into town to see if Sinjin or one of the other boys was up yet. Damian Lee shrugged his indifference. He was eying Simmonds Richmond and scheming for a way to get him back to the house and into his bed. As I turned to leave I heard a low chuckling rise from the crowd, and noticed a wide grin splitting Stubby Richmond's face. The crowd parted and out of the milling, laughing horde . . . came the Smiths! Shocked and as curious as a cat, I returned to stand beside my brother, wondering what was going on. The Smiths were the bane of the local school board, and the lone Truant Officer spent much of his time at the Smith hovel, arguing with Daddy Smith and demanding to know why his whelps were not in school. Daddy Smith was not in any way impressed. Schools were all right, for some, but his children were needed on the farm. Which was true if you were running a successful still and bottling operation. Besides, as Daddy Smith always pointed out, book-learnin' had not done much for him, and he didn't see any reason for his children to be forced to attend when they had better things to do with their time. Well, if you're busy making corn likker, hustling the truckers and off-duty soldiers at the road house, and dodging revenuers, yes, I suppose you did have better things to do with your time. The Truant Officer threatened the law and for a week, sometimes more, sometimes less, the Smiths would attend school; mostly the males, except for Bradley, chawin' tobacco and trying to put the moves on the girls, Bradley and his sisters fluttering and batting their eyes and trying to put the moves on the boys. When, as they always did, they wandered away, the teachers breathed a sigh of relief and went about teaching the children who were there to gain some education. First to emerge from the crowd was Bobby Lee, the oldest Smith, and so far as I knew, much too old to be a high school student. As he strutted forward Jeb and AP followed, sniggering and squaring their shoulders. Normally they sauntered around town in torn jeans and dingy shirts, but today they actually looked decent. They wore new Levis, new shit-kickers and white T-shirts, fresh from Biedermeyer's bargain bin from the look of them. They were shaved and from the stink that wafted as they passed by, it seemed that they had actually taken a bath and doused themselves in after shave. The girls were as clean, wearing new flowered sun dresses (no bras or panties) and had washed and set their hair. They didn't look too bad, actually, and if I had not known them better, I might have thought them country gals on an outing. Then there was Bradley. He was wearing a pale lilac, sateen shirt, and gray dress pants. His normally bare feet were shod in new loafers, brown as I recall. He was smiling and giggling and it was a toss-up as to who was more ladylike, he or his sisters. In the event, into the school they went. Damian Lee was of the opinion that the presence of the Smiths meant nothing. The first day of school was always "Orientation Day", where the new students would be introduced to their teachers, given their class schedules and shown around the school rooms. The day was always shortened, and the students let out after lunch. All in all it promised to be an ordinary day. Or so I thought. While Damian Lee sidled over to put the moves of Simmonds Richmond, I skulked around, my curiosity having got the better of me. Something told me that the Smiths were up to something and to be honest I could not wait to see what. An hour passed slowly and, being bored, I was about to head for town when Miss Virginia Peebles, the Girls Gym Mistress, came charging out of the building, waving her arms and screeching like a banshee! "Heeellllppp!" she shrieked. "They're killing each other!" The Town Constable, his deputies and the Troopers charged into the school, nightsticks and pistols at the ready. Simmonds Richmond grinned like a loon and waved his arms and the mob bayed with laughter. Eventually order was restored and the town rocked with laughter as the stories came out. The Smiths had been on their best behavior - at first - and then they struck. Bobby Lee and Jeb found an excuse to be in the toilets with four very large, very black boys. Words were exchanged, epithets hurled and knives drawn - everybody seemed to be carrying a weapon of some kind. Steel blades flashed and the dull white tiles were spattered with blood. While mayhem reigned in the can, AP had enticed one of the black girls into the Lab Supply closet where he proceeded to show her his huge, thick, sheathed "dick of death". She was screaming and he was grunting like a hog when the school janitor found them. In the carpentry shop, Bradley had enticed two of the younger black boys into his web. He was voraciously sucking on one while the other plowed his butt to beat the band. Mr. Hammond, the Shop Teacher, took one look when he discovered them and promptly had a heart attack! In the Home Ec room, Peony, Rose and Lily were "worshiping" - their words, not mine - a tall, muscular, well-hung black boy, licking and sucking every inch of his naked body while next door, in the sewing room, Lilac was emulating her brother Bradley, giving a stand up performance to two black boys, if you catch my meaning. The other black kids were cowering in corners, two of them armed with the legs of chairs, prepared to defend the honor of their sisters. Two girls were in hysterics and one just sat in a corner, looking dazed. The authorities acted swiftly, rampaging through the school, knocking innocent and guilty aside. All of the Smiths were taken into custody, Miss Virginia fled the district and Mr. Hammond was taken to the hospital, where he recovered eventually, and promptly announced his retirement. I never did learn all the details of what the Smiths had done to the black children as the trial judge cleared the court whenever some juicy testimony was about to take place. Reporters, salivating at the prospect of a sex trial, were barred and all records were sealed. I did learn that at their trial, the Smiths made no apologies. Only Rose, when asked if she wanted to say anything before sentence was passed, opined that as far as she was concerned it had been a "larnin" for her. When the judge asked what she could possibly have learned she replied that suckin' a dick without skin like her brothers had was tastier. She got thirty days in the Columbia Juvenile Hall for lewdness. ****** While on the surface the Landing's experiment in integration and social evolution was an abject failure, it had been short-lived. On the surface it had been - up to a point. Half of the few remaining teaching staff resigned and moved on to new careers in private schools. The mini-riot in the high school caused some of the white parents, nominally liberals and supporters of integration, to withdraw their children. Most of whom ended up being home schooled. In Overbridge, irate parents organized and demanded protection for the morals of their children. Every preacher in town thundered and pounded his pulpit, railing against the immorality the children of Overbridge were forced to endure. A petition was circulated, demanding that the Smiths be barred from any of the county facilities, schools included, unto the ninth generation. It got nowhere because, as someone pointed out, you cannot bar someone for doing something far too many teenagers were doing in the dark and anyway, everything had been consensual! While there had been no actual violence, it was quickly decided that keeping the schools open simply was not economically viable. The authorities in Columbia, who subsidized the state public schools, could not see keeping three schools open for a total of seventy-eight students so everything was closed down. The school in Overbridge was upgraded, and things returned, more or less to normal. The bureaucrats in Washington were not too pleased, but nothing could be done. The status of the schools remained more or less the same until 1973 when the oil crisis and the decline of the stock market precipitated a recession. Crop prices nose-dived and soon enough no one had any money to spare on private schooling. Washington coughed up some money, Columbia re-arranged its budget and the schools were upgraded and the doors opened again. The white students, mostly country folk, drifted back. They had to be educated, and the only way to do that was through publicly financed schools. So, compromises were made, ancient beliefs were shelved, and by 1976 full integration had come to the Landing. But that was in the future, and while it was a new beginning, it was marred by the dark cloud of hatred that would forever hang over the little town of my youth.