The author does not claim to be a kid.
My Auntie Kit was my dad's sister, a good fifteen years older. She was slender, with dark grey hair streaked with whites, and she didn't wear it in a bun but had it long and thick to her shoulders. She must have been a beauty in her youth, but she made a point of not dressing mutton as lamb. No short skirts or tiny shorts, no make-up and no loud colours and a minimum of jewellery, and man, she was so relaxed about everything. She had a house on the beach and she'd take a chair and parasol and sit and talk openly about the beautiful boys that passed by. I never heard a woman before (or since) extol the exquisiteness of teenage boys. She said they were the loveliest thing on the planet, because, she said, not only were their bodies so luscious, but they were devoid of the attention-seeking and self-awareness of teenage girls. They were like big puppies, she said, except that they were usually somewhat shy, and would shun any hugs or kisses from elderly gals like herself.
`It's darned hard getting old and ugly, you know. All those lovely laddies, and they don't want me no more.' According to her own account, she'd been something of a boys' girl, and had never gotten married. She'd always had younger lovers, but once she turned fifty, she said, she decided it bordered on the perverse for her to go on having a resident toyboy. To my knowledge, she'd not habitually broken the law, so to speak, keeping to sixteen plus. Her favourite age, she said one night when more than usually drunk, was seventeen, eighteen, because they were still boys but a little bit more mature. She did, however, divulge a couple of torrid affairs she'd had with fifteen- and sixteen-year-old schoolboys, but that was, she said, because they'd put on a major charm offensive and made advances she couldn't refuse.
Every summer, we'd visit her two or three times for a long week-end, largely because my parents liked sailing her yacht. She'd stopped sailing now, and a local yacht club rented it from her at a very low rate, in exchange for looking after it, and letting my parents use it every now and then for a ridiculously low rate. In her day, she said, the yacht was a magnet for boys, whom she'd teach how to sail, and sometimes she'd go on a cruise with a group of youngsters and an older boy as assistant. The parents would pay and there'd be skinny dipping out at sea and they'd open their hearts to her under the stars, mainly about sexual frustration. They all tried to get laid, but she never indulged them. Not that she didn't want to, it was simply too risky. Too many boys around, too many would know. But some groups would indulge in homo-erotic activities, although she didn't know how far they went.
My parents would go out on the boat for two or three days, and I'd stay with Auntie Kit. I really loved her company, not least because she let me smoke and drink beer and wine and even the odd little bourbon or my favourite, Southern Comfort. She put me in a small room by myself in the attic, and when I was nearly twelve, she pointed out a large box of tissues on the bedside table and a bottle of moisturizer, for `spanking the monkey', as if it was the most normal thing to say to a young boy. I had no idea what she was on about, and when later I asked, she was openly astonished that I wasn't masturbating. `Why, your uncle Otto was at it already when he was nine! He taught me how! He was circumcised like you are, but his friend Marvin wasn't, and that's how I know the difference. Circumcised boys are deprived of a lot of the sensitivity, so you need oil or something to help you along.' I just loved the way she talked. But how did she know I was circumcised?
`Why, my dear Alfie, your mother and I squabbled about it. And I mean a real squabble, with shouting and all such. I said it was barbaric an' she said it was none of my god-darned business, an' I told her that it was none of her god-darned business either but only your god-darned business, an' she walked out of the room in a huff and a puff and I'll blow your house down. When she brought you round the next year, the dastardly deed had been done and there was no point in fighting any longer. And I looked after you, sweetie, I washed you every day. I washed your sweet little botty and your poor little willy.' Although I was super relaxed talking to Auntie Kit, I didn't dare go so far as to ask her to teach me what her brother had taught her. But back home, I bribed the grocer's boy one day when he delivered goods to the house. That very evening, I handed over one of my most precious comics, and he taught me how to spank the monkey. He didn't show me, he explained to me, and the only cock that was exposed was mine, and the only boy to touch it was me. And I ejaculated the very first time too. Luckily, he'd foreseen it and had had me remove my shirt. And the next summer, at the end of our first visit, Auntie Kit said she was pleased to see I'd been using the tissues and moisturizer. I didn't even blush, just joined her in a good giggle. She also turned a blind eye to my taking Henry Miller's Sexus to my room, not that it made much sense to me, just the naughty bits, which by today's standards really weren't that naughty.
When I was fourteen, Auntie Kit told me I was turning out to be quite `scrumptious'. She was adamant that I not wear swimming shorts to the beach but Speedos. `Your mum's such a prude. We don't want you a prude as well. Girl prudes are fine, but boy prudes I can't stand. It just ain't natural.' And she took me shopping to get me a couple of Speedos. `Not dark colours, mind you, can't see nothin'.' And I chose yellow with blue panels, and light blue with yellow panels. I had to pose for her on the porch, twirl round like a model. `There', she said, `now we can see you're a boy, a luverly boy. We girls want to see our boys, you know. We pretend we don't, but we do.' I was delighted at the attention, and the slight sexual frisson, even if she was old enough almost to be my granny. No one had ever told me I was scrumptious, well, my mum'd told me I was cute, but that's something else, isn't it, and anyway, mums don't count do they? Aunties and uncles count because they treat you like a real human being. I guess it's because they don't have that parental idea of their children being `Mine! My son! My daughter!' and other such stupidity.
The summer when I was fifteen, my parents had asked me if I could spend a little over a month with Auntie Kit, for they wanted to go for a longer cruise with another couple, and they knew I'd be bored. I quite agreed with them, and rather looked forward to spending time with my slightly zany aunt. So down we went, for nearly five weeks. My parents spent about three days getting things readied, practising with a few short excursions, and then it was time for the big tour.
By this time, I was tall and lanky, with dark brown hair cut short, long bangs at the front, sort of covering my eyes. My mum said my eyes were royal blue, and I had thick brown eyelashes, slight freckles about the bridge of my nose, and a wide mouth. My face was triangular sort of, and my ears stuck out a bit at the top. I played tennis a lot, but hated team sports, and while I was fit, I was not muscular as such. (Already then, I loathed body-builder muscles.) Again and again girls told me I was cute and had a `cute butt'. My genitals were well developed, on the long side although not more than average large for my build. Auntie Kit had made me aware that I was good-looking and aware that my body was `scrumptious', and there was more than a little vanity now when I stood naked in front of the mirror and jerked off. I only wish Mum hadn't had me mutilated, but it was too late, and so normal that I didn't think too much about it. There was, however, occasional exasperation at the unapologetic contradiction between her outspoken and often tiresome feminism and then her having self-righteously had not herself mutilated but another non-consenting infant person.
Auntie Kit and I stood on the jetty, waving Mum and Dad good-bye, as they sailed off on their month-long cruise. They were going to pick up their friends further along the coast, and would make stops on the way, and call us to let us know where they were and how they were. Once they were to far off to wave to, Auntie Kit and I walked back up the beach and down the little lane to her house. That night, and almost every night after that, I went to bed slightly drunk, after long and really intriguing conversations with my auntie. The whole day I'd spend in my Speedos and in the evening I'd just slip on a sweatshirt to keep me warm. Auntie Kit insisted: `It's not every day I have a scrumptious teenage boy in my house, is it? And who knows when it'll happen again?' Don't worry, Auntie, I'll be back next year as usual. `Who knows? You may fall for a gal, and go off with her instead. D'you have a gal?' I did, in fact, but it was nothing heavy. `Have you done it yet?' Nope. Only necking. I didn't want to lose my cherry using a condom, and she didn't want to risk anything. Anything else was not mentioned. Auntie Kit approved. If boys mess around with boys, she said, no harm's done. But if boys mess around with girls, you get unwanted babies. Very fashionable nowadays. Very fashionable to kill the baby in the womb but that don't make it good or right, does it? I hadn't given it a thought.
`D'you know your Dad was an accident?' I didn't. `That's why there's such a gap. And d'you know, if abortion had been as fashionable then as it is now, he'd have been killed in the womb?' I looked at her in horror. `Yes, sugar plum. But it wasn't done in those days, except illegally. Decent people just didn't dream of killing the unborn child. And then he wouldn't have been born, would he? And you, my dear boy, wouldn't have been born either. Now that's worth giving a thought, ain't it? I'm not conventional as you know, and I'm all for women's liberation and all that, but abortion, that's got nothing to do with women's liberation. It's premeditated murder of an innocent babe, so you better be very careful. I'll never talk to you again if you knock up a girl and have the poor chile slaughtered.' I was dumbstruck, and she patted my bare thigh. `Nobody ever says these things, it's taboo. You know, like how many innocent people we really killed in Indochina, and the brutal occupation of Palestine. Taboo, forbidden. In the U S of A at any rate. We live in this kind'a Disney world, shining city on the hill and all that bosh, so we censor our free speech ourselves and pretend there were nearly no injuns here when we arrived.' I had no idea what she was on about, of course, receiving a respectable private education. I was more interested in the surfboard I'd found in her garage, and frolicking in the waves with other boys, either local boys or boys on holiday with their parents.
One such boy was George, a local boy who biked down to the beach every day. Sixteen going on seventeen, with thick and curly blond hair that reached his shoulders. He was a big boy, slightly overweight, meaning he didn't exactly have wedges of lard round his neck or a huge belly. He was an expert surfer who wallowed in the waves like a happy walrus, worshipped ice-cream, and was so laid-back, he made me feel like a jerk. But he wasn't apathetic. He could surf for hours on end, and he was always thinking of ways to make a extra buck.
He was sharp as a razor and caught on things Auntie Kit said which I didn't get. When I first introduced him, she said: `Zac, from Zachariah, a good apple-pie name, if ever there was one.'
Zac laughed: `He was a Hebrew prophet!'
`Exactly. Circumcision and Jewish names are fixtures in American culture. Abraham, Hebrew patriarch; Aaron, founder of the Jewish priesthood, brother of Moses; Moses is maybe not that commonly used except among blacks; Jake from Jacob, Abraham's grandson; Benjamin, son of Jacob; Cal from Caleb, invader and conqueror of Palestine; Jeremy from Jeremiah, Hebrew prophet; Jed from Jedediah, Josh from Joshuah, after Moses's death leader of the Israelites, and great slaughterer of Canaanites; and many more. Reuben, Mordecai, Tobias, Jesse, Ezra, even David and Eva. It's perfectly insane, a culture that prides itself on being Anglo-Saxon and its sons are named and mutilated according to Biblical Jewry. I'll bet you even many of America's neo-Nazis have Jewish names. Hitler's minister of propaganda was called Joseph. Even Stalin had a Jewish name.'
Zac quickly became a fixture because he gave Auntie Kit the giggles. He'd make her giggle so much she had to run off and pee. And when he found some ice-cream making kit at the very top of one of the kitchen cupboards, he got her interested in a money-making idea he had. Make ice-cream and sell it on the beach. Load up the old bike in the garage with tubs of ice-cream, and go up and down the beach, and sell it to those who couldn't be bothered to walk all the way down to the shops. He said there was a lot of beach with no facilities. Auntie Kit said all the equipment was there, because her elder brother and a friend had done exactly that, but before there was really any facilities on the beach. So began our adventure as ice-cream vendors. I wasn't all that keen but reckoned that endless surfing would soon lose its interest.
In between our making batches of ice-cream, Auntie Kitty proposed a sales strategy. We agreed and she told me to stand up and twirl around.
`See, George?' What?
`What d'ya see?' He laughed. I see Alfie, the surfing world's great new hope.
`Noooo! If you were a girl, who didn't know him, what would you see?' George looked at me. I s'pose I'd see a pretty cool guy, cool body, not fat like me. And he laughed and we laughed. In those days, a fat person was allowed to say he was fat, he wouldn't be besieged by Politically Correct denials of the undeniable. And when he laughed at his own fatness, others were allowed to laugh with him. And he didn't pretend that fat was not a disadvantage in the looks department. So he was not averse to admitting that someone like me had a `cool' body.
Auntie Kit also laughed. `Yes, Georgie, you let ice-cream be your master, but Alfie's got the goods. And the girls are going slaver at the mouth at the sight of him. And what about the old women like me?' Well, he said, he knew she thought I was scrumptiousness incarnate.
`So, how to put that to good use?' George looked at her with a crooked grin. He's the bait?
`Yup! The lure. Alfie's royal blue eyes, his royal smile, his broad shoulders, his smooth chest, his long brown legs, his right royal little ass, etc., etc., are going to lure your customers to you.' She put on a girlie voice: `"Man, look at that guy! I wanna eat'im alive! Mummy, Mummy, can I go and buy an ice-cream from that boy?" and bingo!' George laughed out loud, and the gay section down south, they'll go crazy!
`Oooo', and she put on a real camp voice: `Esmeraldo dearest (one of my best friends called himself Esmeraldo), will you just look at that creee-tjure over there. Will you just look at those little swimming briefs he's wearing, will you just look at his pert little ass, ooooo. I'm just gonna give up the ghost right here!' And Auntie Kit did a poofy wrist twitch. And they both screamed with laughter. We'll become rich! Rich! I just stood there looking at these two lunatics. Wait a minute, guys, how about me?
`What about you dearest?' You're suggesting I waltz about exhibiting my goods like a hooker? `Don't all the women waltz about exhibiting their goods like hookers? And you've spent every day of this holiday in just your trunks, haven't you? So you just behave completely normally. We're just using your scrumptiousness as a lure, that's all. You're not prostituting yourself any more than anyone else.' I wasn't so sure. And the next day, Auntie Kit presented me with a pair of white swimming trunks. `Ice-cream vendors always wear a white uniform!' That was my uniform? `Yup! George will be in charge of the money, so you don't need any pockets.'
There were no panels, so the whole thing was one piece of silky, clingy, almost spermy white fabric. It was cut high in the thighs, leaving a lot of bare thigh with my genitals almost in a pouch, and the fine fabric creased where it clung. When I walked in and twirled round, Auntie Kit positively shrieked: `You're deeee-licious!' And I was.
We loaded up with three big tubs of ice-cream. Two over the handlebars and one on the rack. George had ice-cream cones in a sack, and an old black leather bag round his waist, designed to hold money. And off we went. Me, stark naked except for my alluring white swimming trunks, and George in big white shorts and a white shirt that said: `homemade ice-cream.' Yes, we wore shirts in those days, I mean real shirts, not just endless T-shirts.
This was before modern day media-driven hysteria about health, so there was no talk of suntan lotion, I'd never ever used it, I'd never ever dreamt of using it, and ever year, in the beginning of the summer, I'd get burned, and no big deal, everyone did, and no, people didn't drop dead from skin cancer. Advertising wasn't in its infancy, nor was big pharma, but things hadn't become as hysterical yet as they are now, so so many things in those day were just not an issue.
We set off at ten-thirty, when many people had already been on the beach a bit, and yet not too close to lunch. We went far from any shops, so as not get any hassle. And before I knew what was happening, we were selling our ice-cream. George pulled the bike along the hard sand near the water, and I walked in front strutting my stuff. Most people would come up to the bike and buy their stuff. When someone waved from afar, I sprinted off to get their order and payment, back to get the ice-cream and change, and then deliver. We'd decided to make only one flavour, so as not to complicate things, and it was vanilla. Nobody complained. And I think Auntie Kit was right. The girls were just all over me. They'd buy their ice-creams and follow me, having a good gloat and ask girlie questions. Once we'd become known, many took photographs, and I had to pose with many a girl, her arm round my waist and her head on my shoulder. People talk about how teenage boys always get boners, and can't control them. I don't know, I never had a problem, and I never knew anyone who had a problem, I never heard of anyone who had a problem. But it was certainly a turn-on with some of the girls, very pretty they were, and they smelled so sweet! And their soft arms round my waist, and their hair tickling my shoulder, stuff for wanking fantasies definitely. In little more than two hours, we'd sold all our ice-cream. A little girl was very disappointed when I told her there was no more, and stomped off angrily.
Next batch would be at two-thirty, and George said we simply had to try the gay beach. Auntie Kit had very early on in my life made sure that I never developed any homophobia, by taking me for walks along the gay beach, introducing me to friends of hers who were gay, and sometimes having a gay friend with or without his boyfriend round for a meal or a drink. So I didn't have the fear and loathing of the homophobe, but I was a teensy bit apprehensive. Auntie Kit's bathing trunks were neither so tight that they made my genitals indistinct nor so loose as to conceal them. The trunks were the exact in-between that made it clear that I had two balls, that I was cut, and that my phallus was either to one side or the other. Behind, the fabric hugged my buttocks like a second skin and creased at the crack. Even George said my ass looked creamy and edible and he was straight as a bat.
Of course, nothing `happened'. The guys were more outspoken about my bodily attributes, that's all. A couple of guys were around our own ages and they flirted mildly with me, but everything was perfectly proper. There were no children, of course, so there wasn't the same crowding around us. I had to sprint back and forth a lot more, and built up a bit of a sweat, but there were many `Keep the change'. Many guys had instamatics and they asked for permission to photograph me. There were not enough `gay customers' to sell out, so we went back to the families section, and quickly sold out. By four o'clockish we went home. We were tired, but we'd made a goodly sum of money. George reckoned if we did it every day, we'd have a tidy sum by the time I had to leave. `Once you're gone, no lure, and I'm done. Unless I can find another.'
Auntie Kit refused to do any of our work for us, it was our little adventure, but she did drive into town and buy supplies for us, reimbursed of course. In the evening, we made new batches of ice-cream, and stuck them in the freezer overnight. Once we got into the rhythm of it, it really wasn't that hard, and we still found time for surfing.
After a few days, people began to expect us, and on the gay beach, the comments were getting more and more, shall we say, `gay'? `Could you take off your trunks for a little photograph? No? Just a peek then? Just your butt? No? All right, dearie, then I shan't buy ten ice-creams after all, only one.' There were many `dearie's. And always someone would buy us an ice-cream for ourselves. `You look hot, here, sit down, have an ice-cream! It's on me!' And we'd chat and the younger ones would flirt. Strangely, many of the older guys wore g-strings, in spite of slightly flabby thighs and buttocks (much like the multitude of flabby women who opt for tiny shorts and bikinis), but there were also younger g-strings, even my own age. And once we'd become a fixture so to speak, they became familiar. Inevitably, it was, `Please tell me you're one of us, please?' And I'd say sorry, no. `That's a cryin' shame, you know. But never mind, you're still a nice guy.' And we'd all roar with laughter.
There was James in his forties (so he said), bald with the typical gay moustache. His boyfriend Aaron was twenty, with black hair, buzz cut below and a huge mop of waves on top, and a red mouth. He looked like a boy and was very camp. Of course, he wore a g-string, always idly playing with the string between his little buttocks, daring me to check him out. And he'd insist on buying us ice-creams for ourselves, and we'd sit and eat them with the two. From just friendly and polite small talk, Aaron moved on to the more and more risqué, but it was all fun. First it was things like, `You like my g-string?' `Like my ass?' `Why don't you wear a g-string? You've got just the ass for it. I'll get you one, if you want.' Grinning, I told him he had a lovely ass (which he did), and he squealed. Then it was things like, `You ever done it with another boy?' and I'd say no, never. `It's good you know. If you wanna try, I'll give you free lessons. Blow you till you shoot torrents down my throat. Rim your lovely ass till you scream with delight. Conversion therapy.' I didn't know what `rim' was, and it was: `Why don't I show you? Here, lie down here and let me pull down your trunks. And I'll lick your little asshole, suck it, and stick my tongue inside, till you're panting with lust. That's rimming. You'll just beg me to fuck you then, up your ass.' I was giggling wildly now, and couldn't help blushing, and his older boyfriend told him to stop. `You're embarrassing our sweet boy!' `Oooh, I am? I'm sorry. Here, slap my hand. No, slap my bottom!' And he stuck out his ass and pulled aside the string, showing me his little asshole: `Slap my botty!' And we all laughed out loud, including George. This verbal horseplay went on every time they were on the beach. George was laid back as always, but it was with glee he gave daily reports to Auntie Kit with all the details. And ever day, Auntie Kit would have to run off to pee.
Sometimes, there was a third guy with them, Ken. He was one of those many guys where you were tempted to say: `That's funny, you don't look gay at all.' He looked like just a regular guy, a good-looking regular guy. Not even a gold bracelet or gold necklace, nothing to signify (this was before the male earring again became fashionable in the West). He was in his forties too, and had a boyfriend from Cambodia. But his boyfriend was never there, because as an Oriental he didn't like getting tanned. Ken was far more composed, and Aaron delighted in leading him on.
`Wouldn't you like to rim our Alfie's sweet ass, our Ganymede's awesome ass?' Ken said he certainly would, but he was sure I wouldn't like him to.
`Wouldn't like you to? Wha'd'ya mean? There's no boy in the whole wide world who wouldn't like to have his ass sucked. He's just playing hard to get, that's all.' This went back and forth and eventually one day, Aaron got Ken to say he'd pay me 100 bucks to let him suck my ass.
`How about it, Alfie? A hundred greenbacks, and all you've gotta do is pull off your trunks and Ken will suck your ass. You don't have to do anything except gasp in ecstasy. How about it?' Smirking, I said I'd give it some thought, certainly. And goddamn if I didn't give it some thought, in the dark, after I'd had my bedtime wank. I'd never had a blowjob or anything, but getting one's asshole sucked, that wasn't really losing one's cherry was it? It was sort of an alternate sphere. So why not? Just an experiment, a one off? I'd rather have Aaron do it, but he hadn't offered, and I couldn't state any preference. He'd misunderstand it, wouldn't he? But he was a lovely lad for sure, smooth and slim. Ken was all right really, he was fit, with a flat stomach and hair on his chest, a bald spot at the back of his head and otherwise light brown hair, and a kindly face. It would be just his mouth, not like having his cock up my ass, was it? And for days I thought about Ken's offer.
George kept on goading me too. In those innocent days, 100 bucks wasn't something to be sneezed at. `A hundred bucks, man, to have your ass sucked, just think of it. All you do is lie back, spread your legs and enjoy sexy feelings in your ass. It'll be something to tell your grandchildren about!' And he was right, of course, and wrong, of course. Having your ass sucked by a man isn't the same as sticking on those fake tattoos from the bubble-gum packets. Your ass is your ass, it's private property. Then again...
James and Aaron had only two weeks' holiday, and on the day they left, it was an orgy of photographs. I couldn't deny Aaron pictures of my bum and bulge, nor of me with white ice-cream on my lips as if it were sperm, nor of him hugging me in a hundred different ways, and looking at the camera through my open thighs. He nagged me for nudity but I wasn't having it, not even a mooning, not even after he demonstrated what I should do.
`Like this Alfie, and then pull them apart so I can see your honeypot. Can you see it?' Yes, I could, and it looked lovely, but no thanks. I felt a tickle in my groin, for his ass was alluring. He nagged but he didn't go too far, and I didn't get annoyed. It was all good-natured banter. And then it was kisses good-bye and Aaron stuck his tongue in my mouth. Just not to be a complete killjoy, I returned the favour, and we French kissed for maybe four of five seconds, quite a while for a straight boy. I was getting a boner but broke away. Aaron looked at me with glazed eyes, and smiled. No campy comment, just a sweet smile. There was a sweet boy hiding behind that facade.
The next day, Ken was alone. He continued the tradition of offering us a rest and told us about Aaron. `He's a nurse in a paediatric hospital, with terminally ill kids. And he's magic. They love him. The girls fawn over him and the boys cuddle up to him. Whenever there's a birthday party, he's invited. And he goes religiously, even if it's his day off. And when they're on their last legs, it's always Aary, Aary, where's Aary. And he's told me about the awful things he has to witness, the terrible suffering those kids have to suffer. They confide in him things they confide in no one else, least of all their parents. Their biggest secret is that they know they're doomed, and they know everyone is playing around. They know it's unbearable for their parents to acknowledge, so they play along. I think that's why Aaron's such a clown. It's a survival mechanism. It's either that or the bottle, which he doesn't dare touch. Because of him, I've come to understand that camp antics are sometimes compensation for something else more serious and painful.'
George hadn't forgotten the 100 bucks. He began to call me a sissy. `I bet you're afraid you might enjoy it too much. You're afraid you might beg him to fuck your ass as well. The little gay phantom that's hiding inside of us all.' And I'd protest and we'd giggle, and eventually one day George asked Ken where he lived. And he said he'd deliver me there at five that evening, to have my ass sucked. Ken looked at me. I smirked, without protest. So five it was. I fled the scene and accosted George.
`Come on, it's just a suck! You're never going to do it otherwise! There are those who'd pay for it, I promise you!' And then there I was at five, standing at Ken's gate, in a chequered blue and white shirt and red Speedos and a very well-washed asshole. George stood on the other side of the street under a tree to stop me from chickening out. Ken opened the gate, waved to George, and ushered me in. My heart was pounding. Me getting my ass sucked by an older homo. Was I going to end up with his cock up my ass, gagging for it?
The house was on concrete piles, with the car parked underneath. We climbed the back stairs onto the veranda and into the lounge, and boy, it was crackerjack. One side was just glass overlooking the veranda and sea. One whole wall almost was a huge painting, all the way across. It was an uneven sort of really golden yellow curry colour. And off to one side was a life-size image of a boy, sort of slightly abstract, in white, sort of a patch here and a patch there, and a curvy line there. But you got the whole picture at once, mind you. He was in the buff, with short hair parted in the middle and longish bangs reaching to below his little monkey ears, Oriental eyes, fit and slim like me, and not with a tiny Michelangelo's David sort of cock but a regular size longish cock, unmutilated, with a patch of pubes and a snug pair of balls. His ass was just a few lines and simply beautiful. He was standing with one leg slightly bent, looking away. His toes were long and delicate.
`Hey, man, that's awesome!' I was amazed. The picture just sucked your mind in, and you were looking at the beauty of the boy. I could see why some boys love boys. But it wasn't prurient or anything.
`It's fucking awesome!' I turned to him. `And it isn't even sexy. Know what I mean? It's sort of innocent, because he's just standing there all alone in that empty space, alone like, nobody knows he's there... it's fucking amazing!' Ken was grinning widely.
`That's the best analysis I've ever heard of it. Really really good. You've obviously got the artistic sensibility.' I glanced at him, and he shook his head. `Don't worry, I'm not saying you're gay. Most men artists were not and are not gay. They're just painting the human form, they're not out to fuck the model.' And we both laughed.
The yellow painting dominated the room, and was complemented by a blue sofa and two armchairs. Maybe not bright blue but very blue blue. Not deep blue but the blue of, say, a kingfisher. Ken said it was ultramarine. It made the room so fresh and inviting. You just wanted to be in there. We sat down on the sofa. The material was slightly rough on my bare thighs, sort of like canvas.
`Are you a designer or something?' He nodded.
`I absolutely love this room. I've never seen anything like it.' He grinned and pointed at the naked boy.
`That's how I'd like to see you.' I laughed out loud. A hundred bucks. No, he said, that included a little lingering. Lingering? Yes, anilingus. Ani-lingus? Like cunni-lingus, but on the back side? Yeees, that was why you're here, remember? I giggled. Yeah, to get my asshole sucked. Fucking weird, but I was willing to give it a try.
`You won't regret it, Alfie. I can tell you, boys become addicted to having their assholes sucked.' Again I laughed. Anilingus junkies. I felt completely relaxed with this charming man and his awesome painting, all nerves gone. He could suck my asshole if he wanted, why not?
`You get 100 greenbacks and I get to suck your ass, right?' I blushed lightly. Nothing else. Only that. No more.
`I don't get to suck your cock and I don't get to fuck your ass and I don't get to kiss you or anything.' 'fraid I don't want it to get too heavy. I'm not gay. I'm doing it just for the bucks. And again I laughed. And the thrill. Never thought someone would actually suck my ass.
`You know gays are the champions of the blowjob?' What?
`Well, we know how really to give you a blowjob. One that blows your mind. We love it, you see. You're never gonna get a girl to give you a blowjob like a boy does. You're never gonna get a girl to suck your ass, I can promise you. Girls don't love boys' bodies the way we do.' It all sounded very tempting, but just the lingering for today, thank you.
`Don't worry, just teasing, really... how about a drink to relax those inhibitions?' I nodded. What was I drinking? I asked for Southern Comfort, and without batting an eyelid, he went and rummaged in his fold-out bar. He found the Southern Comfort and poured us two generous drinks with ice. Would I mind removing my shirt then? Sit in just the Speedos. Oh, all right, I thought, I wasn't gonna be a spoilsport, and stripped off my shirt. After all, I was running around like that most of the time anyway.
We sat down, he offered cigarettes, and he told me about the painting. Took down a huge book about Mark Rothko the abstract painter and showed me those of his paintings that are panels of colour. One was two panels of yellow with one white in-between. That, he said, was his favourite Rothko painting. And it inspired him to take the principle of the panels but instead of having a white panel as the second element, he decided to have the white nude as the second element. And precisely because of what I had said. To keep it unerotic. We talked in this way for about an hour, smoking and drinking, and he pulled down masses of huge books with illustrations. We had another drink, and I got a teensy weensy bit drunk. I don't know about him, but I completely forgot that I was there to have my asshole sucked. My mind was brought back to it, when he showed me a painting in the master bedroom, but in shades of red, of the same boy. He was leaning forward on a chair, you could see his balls and the tip of his penis in between his legs and just a dot for his asshole, and he was looking back at you over his shoulder, inviting you I suppose, to fuck him up the dot.
`That's completely different. It's highly erotic. In the other, he doesn't know you're watching him, in this one, he's sort of waiting for you.' Ken laughed out loud again.
`You should be an art critic. That's again right on the nail. He's waiting for a rim job.' Now I blushed, which I hadn't before. `He is? Waiting to have a rim job?' I laughed nervously.
`Well, this is the perfect place... there's a chair, are you going to lean over it and wait for me to rim you?' I backed away, simpering. I could barely speak.
`I don't know now, Ken.' He raised his eyebrows. And I looked at my bare feet. My naked body, brown skin, red Speedos, brown skin, like Rothko's panels.
`Can I be completely straight with you?' And we looked at each other and and I blushed deep purple I guess, and then we laughed, .
He smiled sweetly, `Yes, of course, my beautiful Ganymede, you can be completely straight with me.' And again we laughed.
`Well', and now I giggled nervously. `I've kind'a lost my nerve... It's those drinks and our talking. Suddenly I don't dare anymore... If you'd asked me before the drinks, I was all game, but now, I'm sort of freaked out about the idea.'
`I've become human's what you mean. The arselicker became a man. ' I shook my head in protest. `No, no.' He laughed.
`Yes, yes. Before, I was just a friendly guy on the beach who wanted to stick his tongue up your ass. A means to a thrill, a hundred bucks, just for a laugh.' I shook my head again, and he smiled. `Then you walked into my house, saw the beautiful décor, had a few drinks, we talked, and we talked really good talk, valuable talk, not tittle-tattle, and I became a fellow human being, a real guy, not just a guy who wants to suck your ass, but a guy with personality, who can tell a joke, talk about art, etc.' I wasn't shaking my head anymore, slowly, I was nodding my head. He smiled and I laughed.
`You're right, you're fucking right. I was just gonna go in here, get my thrill, get my bucks, and out again. Maybe sell you some ice-cream again on the beach. But now I'm here, I like being here, without any sex, I loved talking with you, and it's another ball park. I don't want you to suck my ass, I want you to talk with me. I'd be embarrassed now to take off my trunks.' He laughed again and patted my shoulder: `God, I like you, Alfie. You're a star. Never mind rimming your ass, come and see my other paintings.'
The next stop was the bathroom. It had a circular bathtub at the end, overlooking the sea. The whole wall was a painting, all the way round, but it was baked into the tiles. Large tiles, half a foot across, in blues and white. It was a view of a river. By the bathtub, large as life, were three young teenage boys, bathing naked in the river. The bathtub was in the river, so to speak. Again, the boys were Oriental again not erotic. Cute rather. All three were up to their knees in the water, wet and shiny. One was grinning as he poured a bucket of water over another, the third one was bent over, laughing as he splashed water on the other two, his ass a perfect curve. Farther down the river a canoe, and a buffalo with huge wide horns and two small boys naked on his back, one holding the buffalo's tail. Yet farther down a man in trousers rolled up, scrubbing an elephant with a long-handled brush. The sun was setting, and there were birds in the sky. It was quite idyllic. Like the Promised Land. Ken whispered: `That was the land we bombed to smithereens.' As usual, I didn't connect the dots; I didn't even ask for them to be connected.
`No females anywhere?' Ken laughed. No. Plenty of their images outside, wouldn't you say? Go into any art gallery and count how many paintings of nude women and how many of nude men. It's usually a hundred to one if any at all. In the cinema, the woman always appears in the nude, it's a must. The man? Taboo. Girls? Sometimes. Boys? The most taboo of all.
There was someone at the door. He came quickly into the hall and Ken introduced us. He was Chantrea, with a soft hand. A young and slight Oriental man with shoulder-length raven hair, parted to the side, and beautifully cut. His skin golden brown, he wore thick black eye glasses, and had a smile on his round face, like a bright moon. He was shy, and put his arm round Ken's waist. He wore pale, tight jeans, a big flowery shirt, and black cowboy boots. His shirt was open, so you could see his hairless chest and flat stomach.
`Recognize him?' Chantrea leaned his head on Ken's shoulder and grinned. Ken stroked his shiny hair: `It's more than five years ago.' Are you the boy in the painting? Chantrea grinned again. Again Ken stroked his shiny hair.
`Alfie thinks you are beautiful.' Chantrea kissed Ken quietly. And he followed us around silently, holding Ken's hand, and leaning into him whenever we stopped. He was very cute and quietly clingy. Ken said his name meant moonlight.
The hall had one long wall again blue, two panels, one ocean blue, the other sky blue. You knew that was what they represented because again a life-size naked boy was paddling along on his white surfboard. He had wet hair plastered to his skull, was dark golden, with pale buttocks. It was beautiful but not as captivating as the one in the lounge, because one was standing too close. It was also more naturalistic, so one could see the boy's blue eyes and his white teeth.
`That's actually one of many photographs taken from a yacht, many years ago.' I wanted to ask if that boy too had been a lover, but Ken volunteered nothing more. He took me down the stairs to the small swimming pool in the back. There were deck-chairs, with a large mosaic on the house wall of five boys in that same pool and lounging in those same deck-chairs, all in scanty swimming trunks. I told Ken he should invite Auntie Kit, and told him what she said about luverly teenage boys. He laughed.
Chantrea had doughnuts in a bag, and Ken invited me to stay for coffee. Chantrea loved doughnuts, he said. And I ended up spending the rest of the evening with this charming couple. When Chantrea was washing up in the kitchen, Ken told me he'd had his whole family killed in Dr Kissinger's secret bombing of rural Cambodian. (I didn't ask for clarification on that one either.) Ken had been in the Peace Corps, and had found him, one of many young teenagers living in the streets of Hanoi. Ken had been a complete closet queen, but the boy had coaxed him into an intense relationship, and he adopted the boy and brought him to the US. He said Chantrea's Buddhist faith was perhaps the main reason he wasn't more traumatized than he was. He'd seen his peaceful little village bombed to smithereens, with everyone either dead or shell-shocked, giving rise to the dread Khmer Rouge. He escaped by the skin of his teeth and had a hard time in the streets of Hanoi, because there were so many of them. He needed a lot of love, but was otherwise sunny and cheerful, not dwelling on his tragedy. He would dress up as a schoolgirl and be very camp when the occasion arose, and otherwise be sweet and sober. He had an enormously civilizing effect on Ken's life because his love was so pure and child like. As Ken said this, Chantrea walked in, and sat on Ken's lap.
`Ken saved mee! Looks after mee!' And he giggled and put his arm round Ken's neck, leaning his head on his shoulder. Boy, he was so cute I wanted to cuddle him myself, and he was twenty-one! When I left, they both saw me out of the gate, and Chantrea said: `Come again, handsome boy!' and giggled into his hand. Now, no one had ever said I was handsome, had they? And I did come again. There was something perfectly enchanting about the two, Ken talking to me about art and design, and Chantrea hanging on to him like a piece of art himself. But he didn't like getting tanned and wasn't interested in the beach at all. When Ken invited the walrus George, Chantrea took to him like a younger brother, even though George was the younger. Chantrea would sit on George's lap and they'd chortle, and George told me he almost wish he was gay, Chantrea was so cute.
So I never got my 100 bucks, but I got two fine friends. When I had to leave, Ken took a memorable photograph of me in my white trunks and Chantrea in white briefs, standing on either side of the beautiful boy in the painting. A fine memento of my `gay' summer. It was never repeated, for George found a sweet and delicate Cambodian girlfriend through Chantrea, `Now I've got a female Chantrea, the best of two worlds!' I brought a new girlfriend down to stay with Auntie Kit. I never again went to the `gay beach' but met James and Aaron at Ken's house, and they all came to Auntie Kit's for a beach party. Auntie Kit also fell in love with Chantrea, and he adopted her as a surrogate grandmother. They'd spend hours in the kitchen together. `Ooooh, he's angelic! I wanna hug'im till I die!'
When Auntie Kit's beach party was over, and I returned to my room, I found a small box, gift-wrapped on the pillow. Inside was a white g-string and a note: `Conversion therapy, hands on, still available. Highly qualified teacher. Free of charge. Call number below. Grand Master Aaron'