Date: Thu, 3 Oct 2002 16:04:15 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: THE TARZAN MUSHROOM HUNTERS BOOK VII

THE TARZAN MUSHROOM HUNTERS
by R. Forbes Emerson

(Bi-ped, inc., rom.)




                  BOOK VII





                  One good turn deserves another.  The logic got twisted a
little, but, nonetheless, Florence's second request for help fell upon open
ears.

                  "It's Mrs. Cavanaugh," she said.  "She's an old family
friend.  Her husband died last year.  She's got six boys, twelve through
eighteen, and a girl, Crystal, eleven."
                  "Saints preserve us," Alex thought to himself, not even
bothering to add the extension: "here we go again."
                  "She's desperately afraid of anything happening,"
Florence said.  "I veer off from conversations out of my scope, but I knew
she was barking up the wrong tree.  Crystal's a beauty, with six handsome
brothers; she's back at work to support them.  Two plus two plus two plus
one equals another one, in her book.  I don't think it's anywhere near that
simple."

                  Alex mulled her words over.  What if Crystal wasn't a
beauty, as advertised, but, rather, a fat, sullen, rebellious nuisance?
Wouldn't she deserve, as a fellow human, exactly the type of help he and
the club were able to provide?  Deserve it, if anything, more than Vicky,
Amy, Frankie and other young beauties that had crossed his path, to stay
awhile, and resume stronger and happier than they had been?

                  Yet one grump in a rollicking, reading household.
Wouldn't a he or she of that description spoil everything, like the
proverbial rotten apple?  On the other hand, what was fair or just about
those needing the most being politely sidetracked to the line with the
least?
                  It was a numbers game.  If one impoverished family were
found, if one neglected child was brought to the public's attention, that
family or that child would, in a matter of weeks, become petted, stroked
and wealthy.  Disgruntled punks were a dime a gross, inevitable byproducts
of a status-mad culture in which the same caliber of individuals who sold
you faith, and faith, only, were the politicians, educators and
journalists.  (Industry certainly doesn't want them.)  There were, a, far,
far too many of them, and, b, each one took and enormous amount of time and
energy for the sketchiest possible results.
                  The only revenge was living well.  Living well meant
avoiding punked out kids.  There was a savagery to it, it was grotesque, it
was democracy in action.  One could only try to see the humor, usually
black, in it, and, again, live well.

                  Speaking of which:

                  "Do you think you could intervene?" Florence went on I
feel terrible asking so soon after your helping Amy beyond my wildest
imagination, and hers, too, I think."

                  "Where do they live?" Alex asked, bringing an instant
sparkle to the eyes of his housekeeper.  She wrote the address and hurried
off to make another phone call.  "Is this Batman and Robin, the Lone
Ranger, or the Hardy Boys?" the pastor wondered as he went out into the
living room and hailed his troops.

                  "Six boys?" Vicky and Amy said as one.  Bless their
hearts, they looked excitedly into the eyes of Glenn and Gregg, but agog
they were at the thought.  Nice of them not to hide it.  Glenn and Gregg
grinned back.  They liked boys, too, and there was an eleven year old girl
into the bargain.

                  Florence reappeared and he hushed everyone so they could
get their marching orders.  "There will be twelve of you, altogether, she
said, "so I arranged for you to take them on a hike.  There's an abandon
farm a few miles from where they live, so you could hang out there if the
weather changes."  She gave the directions and Vicky and Amy disappeared
like double-barrel shots To get some things.

                  A good way to get to know each other was to pile the
Chevy full like a tin of sardines.  Since it was only a few miles to the
trail entrance Alex told them to go for it, and drove his telephone booth
with a wary eye for cops.

                  The old farm was neat-o, groomed by cattle and well
weathered.  Alex found an old length of rope and shook a noose into it,
throwing an end over a beam in the barn.  "For any passing clergy," he
said.

                  While the others explored, he took Crystal aside, finding
a bench for them to sit on in the tack room.

                  "Your mom's worried about you," he said.  "I'm not.
Whose right?"
                  "I guess my mon," the girl said, head bowed.  She was
taller than Vicky or Amy, with cropped brown hair.
                  "And how worried should she be?" Alex queried.
                  "I guess, some," the girl murmured.
                  "How much do you want to tell me, if anything," Alex
coaxed, gently.
                  "It's hard to talk about it, but I know I should,"
Crystal said.
                  "Would it help if I quizzed you?" he asked.
                  "Yeah," the girl said.
                  "Do you want me to be evasive and ask you unspecific
questions, or would you like me to be more explicit?" the minister asked.
                  "I guess, pretty explicit," the girl said, blushing.
                  "I still think I'm right," Alex said, "that there is
nothing to worry about; that you are a way-nice girl and a way-cute girl,
and you have six handsome brothers.  If you were like pretzels on a
conveyor, I would be pretty surprised."
                  "They're nice," the girl said, a soft smile on her lips.
                  "Saying that to me is like putting meat in front of a
tiger," Alex said.  "That's all I have to know.  That you like each other
and that you're happy just being together.  If that's the situation, then,
as far as I'm concerned, anything you choose to share with your brothers is
going to be nothing you invented, nothing that millions on millions of
other siblings want to experience together and ages three or four younger
than yours.

                  He ended by saying he'd give Vilma (Mrs. Cavanaugh) a
thumbs up, indicating with a nod that the girl could join the others.
                  "Could we talk some more?" Crystal asked, barely
breathing and sitting stock still.
                  "All day if you want, maybe with a break for lunch at the
Red Coach Grill," Alex said.

                  "If something happens," the girl asked, too nervous to
smile at Alex's light touch, "will I go to hell?"
                  "If nothing happens," the young man said, "you get up
each morning in hell and spend every night there, to boot."
                  "That's how it's getting to be and I think I'm ready for
a change," Crystal said.
                  "So," Alex said, "you're not pregnant by one of your
brothers?"
                  "I wish," the girl said, adding: "with Ben, but it
wouldn't matter.  I love all of them."
                  "Okay," the cleric said, "you understand that I had to
ask that at the outset.  What we're not interested in is getting abortions
for any but the most undeveloped fetuses,"
                  "No," Crystal repeated, "no baby.  In fact, that's why I
wanted to talk to you more.  We're kind of Victorian at home, and I don't
know anything except what the girls talk about at school, and the girls who
really know are in different groups."

                  "What kind of groups?" Alex asked. "Some schools have
slutclubs, if you'll excuse the expression, and some havehalf-throttle
groups, in a manner of speaking. Groups of kids who want to experiment and
learn, but who are more scared of the jocks and lady killers than they are
interested in them.
                  "I suppose either kind could give you the information you
want," Alex continued. "The basics are simple enough for every animal on
earth, except select humans, to figure them out, and the refinements take a
minute or two longer."

                  "I just know it happens inside me," Crystal said.
                  "And you think you'd like holding Ben in your arms while
he was in you?" Alex asked.
                  "I want to be like my friend, Polly, she's nine, and her
brother's Tony. He's seventeen and hehas really bad acne so none of the
normal girls will go out with him. They had a long talk and she told him
she had a big crush on him. He said he had one on her, too, so they decided
to have an affair. She thinks having six brothers is the most awesome thing
in the world."
                  The girl smiled shyly. "That, plus I'm starting to
develop so I could get pregnant. Her family is well off so she wants me to
have a baby so her mom and dad can adopt it to go along with her and Tony."

                  "Unique," Alex commented. "And how do youfeel," the young
man asked.
                  "Twins," the girl said with elegant simplicity.
                  "Be careful of what you wish for," Alex said with a
laugh.
                  "That might be over the top," the girl acknowledged.
                  "And you've felt this way for awhile?" the pastor asked.
                  "Long enough," the girl replied in a tone far more
reassuring than her mere words.
                  "Well," Alex said, "I guess that leaves the mechanics of
your being with six young males. Do you want to talk about that side of
things, or wait and find outwith them?"

                  "They don't want me as a virgin," Crystal replied. "Ben
saysNo-way. I have to have a boyfriend, then, if I still want something to
happen, they won't face a lifetime of guilt for having corrupted me."

                  "For all it's bad rep," Alex observed, "incest is often
played out to as noble standards as you'll find in the most respectable of
marriages. Person, first,body, second. The only thing I'd worry about, if I
were you, is becoming overly committed to your brothers, and I have a
feeling that would hardly be a disaster.

                  "We coach our girls in the Hunter's Club on what amounts
to quantity. Where do you draw the line? I think you'll be okay there. It's
total common sense; loyalty, and not variety for itsown sake, but,neither,
slavish devotion to abstraction in the name of a moral norm becoming more
evidently defective with every passing year. If you aren't well bred enough
to handle a small group of males, at your age, your problems are just
beginning.
                  "At this point," Alex continued,"the only thing left to
discuss is kind of sensitive, okay?"
                  "Yes," the girl murmured.
                  "It's whether you want to be with your brothers, each,
alone, and in private, or together, sharing your body with them
openly. Ifyou pick the latter choice, that doesn't mean youcan't ever be
alone with them, but that most of the time you'll bewith one group or
another."

                  "Is that better?" the girl asked.
                  "Yes," Alex said. "Boys tend to obsess over things their
girls do with other boys. If they can see and take part, at least from time
to time, they can concentrate on their homework."

                  Again, the shy smile. "I guess that makes sense,"
theeleven year old said.

                  "You can't look for too much of that," Alex noted, "or
you wouldn't be watching McDonald's addict kids to yummyfood every Saturday
morning. What you have to find is balance. In how youhandle money, boys,
school, sleep, parties, food, just for openers. It's impossible to get it
perfect, just as it's impossible to draw a perfect freehand circle on a
piece of paper. We teach getting closer to perfect, is all; accepting the
wobbles in the line, while minimizing them. Most of the people we see
through theHunters, or, as seems to more the case these days, through my
so-called pastorate, are like your friend Polly with her big
brother. One-on-onecrushes, that, with a little guidance and suggestive
rather than arbitrary instruction, turn into long-term affairs of an
extremely high quality. Six boys with an eleven-year-old girl simply hasn't
come up."

                  "Sorry," Crystal whispered.

                  "Yes," Alex intoned, "you brought them into this world,
therefore you are solely responsible for everything to do with them."

                  Crystal laughed. Her face grew serious."What should I
do?" she asked.

                  "My suggestion," Alex said, "is to get you guys a taxi
and we'll head back into Hastings. We've got lots of candles at the
rectory, and wecan fix up one of the bedrooms as a bridal chamber - lots of
cushions. You've got two bodacious bride's maids in Vicky and Amy. Your
ceremony will start where others leave off, and your reception will twist
the language to its limit."

                  Again, she laughed. Freaking great kid. Tony and Polly
were about to get rocket blasted into a world they were too young to even
fantasize. And why not? Alex scraped the corner's of his mind asdevil's
advocate, trying to find anyscrap of logic saying this girl and the two
families directly involvedshouldn't do what they wanted. Biblical
strictures, minor as they were, were based on clinical necessity applicable
to many species, butlargely irrelevant in modern times andon an individual
basis. The child bride - children having children - was invariably
portrayed as an impoverished deviant threatening the social order, never as
a spirited, aware life player, half-way made in heaven to act as mother in
a culture in whichnearly eighty percent of parents said they'd not have
kids if given a second chance. Babies had been made into monsters, the
friendly little creeps. Was it a sign the country was simply too fat, for
anything? Three thousand square feet, two cars, and one extra kid and
everyone dissolved. Did it make sense that there had to be a better way
simply because there couldn't be a worse one? Was the purpose of the
conventional god not to lead people astray, so they'd pay for salvation,but
to lead them to their deaths? Of course, with McDonald's doing such a great
job on that score, it might be overstating the case to put all the blame on
the major sky pilot, but did it matter, who it was; what it was? As long as
it was wrong, wasn't that the only thing that counted? Sure, it was nice it
was so wrong the evidence could be seen in every supermarket and everymall,
but that was being glib, perhaps even cute, and begged the issue, which was
finding an alternative that was right.

                  "When?" Crystal asked.
                  "Are you kidding?" Alex responded. "Now."

                  Now it did take a couple of hours.Alex briefed Crystal's
mother."I guess you're right," she sighed. "Men have to be primal and women
have to be receptive or the whole shebang stalls and drops dead."
                  "We modifycertain thingsin certain ways," Alex said, "and
try to respect codes and traditions where they do not constitute gross
inhibitions of activities and relationshipsthat are harmless to
others. We're probably right, and we're certainly historically correct,but
there are no guarantees on a case-by-case basis."
                  "It's just better to get it over with," Vilma said.
                  "I think you'll change you attitude," the pastor said,
kindly, "in a few days. Crystal will be home every evening, and so will the
boys. Hit the library and get them reading so they'll keep their hands off
her an hour or two a day, and, whatever happens, you will have worked to a
plan."

                  Vilma paused before speaking. A plan. A plan could be
changed, modified, updated, and tinkered with. A helter-skelter approach to
thegirl by her brothers would involve secrecy, conflict, confusion and
jealousy, just to name a few off the top of her head.Bye-bye, family.

                  "It sounds reasonable when you describe it," the woman
said, "but, at the same time, someone could quip that my daughter's ending
up as a brood mare for the Logan family."

                  "She's still a filly, so there's time to change your
mind," Alex said, "and a lowest common denominator rhetoricrenders
everyone's precious god lord of flies, fleas and flatulence. Skiing becomes
sliding around on boards, and, while golf defies ludicrous simplification,
almost anything elsecan be made to sound absurd with cleverly chosen
words."
                  "Or, grand," the mother observed.
                  "Touche," Alex replied, and they both laughed, tears
springing to Vilma's eyes. "I have a feeling I'm going to owe somebody, big
time," the mother said, squeezing Alex's hand until her knuckles
whitened. "If I find Somebody, I'll let him know," he said. More tears.

                  He'd let Ben do the chauffeuring. No faster way to tweak
an eighteen year old than by letting him exercise his right foot against
the throttle springof a five-hundred-inch engine. Driving was the perfect
metaphor. Patience. Routine. Then a safe opening and raw muscle, quickly
snubbed when circumstances changed. If he handled his eighty-pound kid
sister half as well as he handled the heavy Chevy there was soon going to
be another angel on Planet Earth.

                  "How safe is it to assume you and your brothers areokay
in the disease department?" Alex asked.
                  "It's hard to look at other girls with a sister like
Crystal," the teen responded. "I don't think any of ushave had any luck
along that line."
                  "My guess is that she feels the same," Alex said.
                  "Pretty weird, eh?" Ben said, his tone a half-question.
                  "I told your mother it would be weird if you were
unresponsive to each other," Alex recounted.
                  "Dead would be more like it," the boy replied with a
smile. He had a point.
                  "Do you shower with your brothers, or are you reserved
with each other."
                  "Pretty reserved, I guess," Ben answered.
                  "Okay," Alex said. "You'll have to expect a higher thrill
level tonight than otherwise might be the case, but you'll survive. I'm
almost sure."
                  "I hope so," the boy replied, simply.
                  "If you survive my jokes," Alex said, "your chances are
better than even."
                  "It's the first time since our dad died that I've been in
the mood for anything very funny," Ben said.
                  "Well, be patient," Alex advised.
                  "Easy for you to say," the teen replied, changing the
subject in a way that was not totally devoid of wit. They drove onto the
rectory grounds and entered the strangely quiet house.
                  "I've left the tactics up to my crew," Alex explained,
sitting with Ben in the living room. "They'll notify us when everything is
ready."

                  "Yonder the block, here my neck, between the two, a
chilling trek," quoth Ben.
                  "Kids earn memberships with thoughts like that," Alex
said, "if you're interested."
                  "Next season," Ben said, his eyes brightening. The
reaction was the very definition of understandable. It went without saying
he was also speaking for his brothers.

                  "What's it going to be like up there?" Ben asked after a
comfortable pause.

                  "With Vicky and Amy?" Alex replied, trying not to look
openly startled at the thought, "it will be creative. They love to watch
boys cum, what they call 'wet work' in the spy trade, so if you have any
hang-ups about being touched by Glenn or Gregg, you'd better think twice
about them, or forever let them hold your piece." When in Rome, do as the
Romans, when with a teen, improvise. It seemed to have worked because the
handsome, athletic boy in the crew cut laughed out loud. Ribald was not in
the vocabulary of the conservative group, but a little, once in awhile,
didn't really matter.

                  "Will you hold me while I'm with her?" Ben asked.
                  "It's almost too bad I'm not of a bawdy nature," Alex
thought to himself, "or I'd tell him someone would have to keep
himpositioned overwhat was going to be a very slippery eleven-year-old
girl." Out loud, he just said Yes.

                  Ben nodded nervously.
                  "They'll be awhile," Alex noted. "Speed chills."
                  "That's okay," Ben replied, having the good manners, much
appreciated, to choke back a giggle
                  "If you'd like," Alex said,"we could go up to my room and
get into a couple of Tarzan outfits. Your bride and her entourage are in
the room at the far end of the hall."
                  "I would," the boy replied.

                  Alex handed Ben a costume and directed to him to the
bathroom while he quickly changed in his bedroom. The boy emerged in a
couple of minutes, tall, handsome, and shyly devastating.
                  "It really shows," he said, glancing down at himself and
blushing, then at Alex, then into Alex's eyes.
                  "Has anyone ever seen you with a boner, before," Alex
whispered as the lithe teen stepped close to him.
                  "Just when I was in middle school, seventh grade," the
boy replied, his voice ragged and faltering.
                  Judging from the boy's comment about it being
unlikelyhe'd have any pelvic disorders, and being knowledgeable as to
things in general, Alex jumped to the obvious conclusion.

                  "It was a male that saw you?" he asked.
                  "Yes," Ben said.
                  "Did you get an erection because he was looking at you,
or did you have one and he spied on you."
                  "Because he was looking at me," the boy responded.
                  "Did he show you his penis?" Alex quizzed, his hands
going to the teen's athletic belly. Ben responded by touching and then
fondling the flanks of the older male.
                  "I felt him against my back before I saw him," Ben said.
                  "Did he come up between your legs?" the padre asked.
                  "Yes, after awhile," Ben said with a blush.
                  "Were you both naked?" the young man asked.
                  "Yes," the boy replied.
                  "Did you let him molest you a lot, or was it just an
incidental contact?" Alex asked, next..
                  "A lot," the boy said, his voice faltering. Gulping, he
added, "but always the safe way, you know, just touching, not doing
anything inside each other."
                  "If you'd been absolutely sure it was safe, would you
have taken him in your mouth?" Alex asked.
                  "I wanted to but he said I should save That much
virginity, as he put it, for my next partner."
                  "Were you emotionally involved with him?" Alex asked.
                  "Lightly," Ben replied. "I'd think of him quite a bit,
but we pretty much stayed regular friends except when we could be alone
together."
                  "How old is he?" Alex asked.
                  "Thirty, now," the boy replied.
                  "Was he in good shape?"
                  "Not boxy, like a body builder," Ben said, "but more like
you, like a swimmer."
                  "Where did he take you when he wanted to molest you?" the
teacher asked.
                  "Usually in the woods," Ben said, "but sometimes at his
apartment, and a couple of times, in his car."
                  "Was it always private between the two of you, or did you
include other males."
                  "Just the two of us," Ben said.

                  "How would you have felt if he had an attractive friend
who wanted to watch what he did with you?" Alex quizzed.
                  "That almost happened," Ben said, "but there was a
tropical storm and we had to cancel."
                  "Were you nervous about it?" Alex asked.
                  "Yeah," the boy said, "I was only eleven, I'm a grade
ahead in school, so I was kind of modest."
                  "Did you know the man who was meant to watch you?" the
pastor asked.
                  "Jeff showed me pictures and I talked to him on the phone
a couple of times," Ben said, "but I never met him."
                  "Are you and Jeff still friends," Alex said.
                  "Yes," the boy answered, "but we don't do things together
in private like we used to."
                  "Any special reason?" Alex asked.
                  "I guess not," Ben answered. "When we go visit Kevin,
something will happen. I guess we both think, at this stage, it would be
more exciting to wait."
                  "How's Jeff going to feel about your sister?" the
preacher asked.
                  "He suggested it, starting a year ago. But mom had to
come around, and Crystal had to be with another man or boy, first."
                  "Are you okay with that?" Alex asked.
                  "I guess incest is just a thing," Ben replied, "maybe
like kid's stuff.  If another boy's with her before we are, we get to spend
every day with her.  I mean no matter how cute Crystal is, she will only
have one husband, in the end.  He's the one we'll envy."
                  "I guess she wouldn't make much of a spinster, at that,"
Alex said.
                  "Yeah," Ben said, "and meantime with all of us she's sure
to get pregnant, so we'll have her baby to fuss over when we visit Tony and
Polly.  I don't think that'll be a fad."
                  "Not unless you're mad," the occasional Web writer
quipped.
                  "Do we have time to be naked with each other for a little
while before they call us?" Ben asked.
                  "He who hesitates is tossed," Alex wanted to respond,
annoyed with himself for, a, the cornucopia of lewd tidings that kept
floating into his consciousness, and, b, the image drawn by the too offhand
English equivalent of `mutual masturbation'.  "Toss this!" he whispered to
himself, then reached to Ben's left shoulder and gently pushed aside the
strap of his costume.  Ben did this to him, and in a moment they were naked
against each other, hands on their partner's cheeks, gazing into each
others' eyes.
                  Ben turned around and Alex encircled his athletic chest
with his left arm.  The boy spread his legs widely and bucked up his hips.
Alex molested him rather than masturbating him, a contended sigh his reward
for his discretion.

                  "Is this how Jeff took you the first time?" he quizzed.
                  "Yes," Ben acknowledged, his body shaking gently from the
way the man was touching him.
                  "Did he make you cum?" the preacher quizzed.
                  "Yes," Ben replied, "but he turned me around when I told
him it was going to happen.  He wanted to get me wet from before we went
all the way."
                  "Did he cum on your penis?" the young man whispered.
                  "Yes," the boy whispered back, "we held very still so he
could get almost all of his sperm on me."
                  "Did you like watching it cover you?"
                  "I was kind of shocked," Ben replied.  "I thought his
seminal fluid was his semen.  There's a really big difference between the
two."
                  "But it doesn't take long to learn," the bad puppy said.

                  Ben laughed.  "Actually, it took him a couple of minutes.
It seemed like a long time, at the time.  I kept hoping I'd never wake up."
                  "Then he went back to jerking you off from behind?" Alex
asked.
                  "Yes," the boy said, "but I was so wet and hot from him,
I lost control in just a few minutes."
                  "Did he turn you around or just let you spray off on the
ground?"
                  "I couldn't tell him it was going to happen," Ben
replied, "so some went on the floor until he got me under control, and I
could let it go on his legs."

                  "It always happened that way with him?" Alex asked.
                  "Yeah," Ben said, "it was so perfect we never wanted to
experiment.  Sometimes he'd let me cum off on him, first, then I'd stand at
his right hip with my arm around him "
                  "Did he get excited from being wet?" Alex asked,
breathing hard now and praying for intervention.
                  "It made him cum really fast and hard," Ben said.
"Sometimes we'd be together for half an hour or more, then I'd get him wet
and there's be sperm all over my belly and chest in two or three minutes.
It was the same way when he got me wet, first.  I'd loose control almost
right away."
                  "Would you like Glenn's sperm on you when I masturbate
you on your sister?" Alex asked.  Vicky and Amy might be arranging the
nuptial bed to softly lit, delicately perfumed perfection, with an
intricate dance card part of their feminine agenda, but he was bigger than
they were.
                  "Not at first, so it can last," Ben said, his ragged
voice a clear indication that Alex needed to fondle his nearly seven-inch,
uncircumcised penis more tentatively.
                  "You'll be in control," Alex assured the boy.
                  "It's as exciting with you as it was the first time with
Jeff," Ben said.  "I hope we can spend the night together, sometime."
                  "Yes!" Alex hissed, swelling the boy's erection so wildly
Alex had to make do with holding him softly and very still as the athletic
youth skated for a long minute at the brink of cumming.  Their breaths were
a symphony of ragged heat, but the extreme tension finally eased a little.
                  "Did this happen the first time in the woods?" Alex
asked.
                  "Yes," Ben whispered, shaken but regaining some control.
"He took me fishing."
                  "Did you know he was going to molest you?" Alex
whispered.
                  "We'd had some pretty serious talks about being friends
and liking each other," Ben said.
                  "Do you think he led you in those talks?" the minister
asked.
                  "I led," the boy said.  "I didn't know what I wanted, but
I knew I wanted something.  I always wanted to be alone with him.  I even
thought I was gay, for awhile, but he was the only man that made me get
excited, so I'd have made a poor example of the preference."
                  "How about boys?" Alex asked, "do you like watching them
in the shower?"
                  "Not many guys my age," Ben said, "but Corey's age.  He's
my youngest brother.  Some boys his age are really cute."
                  "Twinkies without cream," ran the next obscene though.
Alex let it pass, unspoken.  "I think all your brothers are attractive," he
said.
                  "Dad and mom did good," Ben acknowledged.
                  "Do you miss him?" Alex asked.
                  "He was enough for a lifetime.  We go to his grave and
all we have to say is Thanks."
                  "Rare," Alex noted.  "Do you think he'd approve of what's
going to happen between you and your little sister?"
                  "He used to joke about buying rocket sneakers for her,"
Ben said, "promising her a pair with her first bra.  She turned the tables
on his joke by saying she'd need them to run after us, not away from us."
                  "Happy family," Alex said.
                  "A lifetime's worth," Ben acknowledged.  "I see how other
families are -- or aren't, as the case often is -- and I know I'd have
been lucky to have one year with dad, and I had eighteen.  Besides," the
boy added, "my dad was over seventy.  It wasn't like he died early."
                  "Another brick in the wall," Alex mused to himself.
"Another reason for middle-aged men to marry young girls.  Better fathers
who stepped aside in the normal course of events, neither to hang around
and interfere -- father's often think they know about their older sons,
when, in reality, they often know almost nothing -- nor to cause any
exaggerated sense of loss at their disappearance.  Add the money they'd
often leave to kids just getting started, and the doctrine became a
lead-pipe cinch.
                   "Besides," Ben observed, succinctly completing the young
philosopher's case, "Mom's not even forty."

                  Dare he?  Dare he take it one step further?  Surgeons
were graded on the occasional bold excision to get the last of a tumor, or,
would it be reckless?

                  "Your mother's very attractive," Alex said, realizing the
potentially tawdry nature of the minefield.
                  "She's amazing," Ben said.
                  "Have you ever read stories on the alternative erotica
archives like Nifty?" Alex asked.
                  "No," the boy replied.
                  "Some of them are about mature boys becoming sexually
involved with their mothers," Alex said.
                  The boy stiffened for a long moment in his left arm.
Then in his right hand.  "Wow," the eighteen year old whispered.
                  Alex decided to let the half-awake dog lie, but he
dropped the subject with a final whisper: "You've got the club behind you
now," he said, "financially and in every other way, so your mom could get
pregnant from you if you wanted it to happen."

                  Both males stood shuddering in their man/boy stance.  It
was a long while before the moment had completely passed.

                  "Tell me about Jeff," Alex whispered, hoping the subject
was at least a little safer than sister and now mother.
                  "We walked pretty far," the teen responded, "so I could
be sure I'd be alone with him.  I wanted to wear Speedos because I was
quite a bit bigger than the other boys in gym class and on the teams, so he
could see I was mature, but I was too embarrassed, so I wore a button up
shirt and cargo shorts that were to big for me."

                  "Did you wear underpants under them?" Alex asked.

                  Ben giggled.  "How'd you know?" he asked.  "It took me an
hour at six a.m. before I decided not to wear any.  It was like the biggest
decision of my eleven-year-old life."
                  "What did Jeff wear?" Alex asked.
                  "He had an old pair of coveralls he liked to fish in.
Oshkosh."
                  "Did he look good in them?"
                  "He didn't have any hair on his chest, so he looked like
a boy, only an awfully big boy, because he was almost six-three."
                  "Do you think he wore them to get you interested in him?"
Alex asked.
                  "Yes," the boy said, "because he didn't wear briefs,
either, so it was easy to look down inside when we were climbing the ledges
to the fishing hole."
                  "Did he have a boner?"
                  "Yes," Ben said, "the whole time.  Me, too.  I was
beginning to wonder if I'd ever get used to him and be normal around him."
                  "Probably have to dress him in a coffin to make that
happen," Alex observed, to the boy's giggle.
                  "I've been the same way with you," Ben said, with a
blush.
                  "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you that way,
either," Alex said, pulling the boy's back gently against his penis to
emphasis the point.
                  "I want you to be the first one to cum in my mouth," Ben
said.
                  "Tonight," Alex promised.
                  "While I'm inside my sister?" Ben asked in a faltering
whisper.
                  "Yes," Alex replied.
                  "Could you spray a little in her mouth, too?" the teen
asked, again breathless and shaking.
                  "Yes," Alex promised, wondering only to himself what
Ben's definition of `a little' might be.


                  Since things are routine with everybody, it might be a
good time for a little authorial intervention.  Everyone will want to know
what Samantha's been up to in the week or so since she appeared.  Probably
driving her teacher around the bend with her combination of dazzling charm
and blockheadedness.  They never taught her phonics so her reading ability
is rudimentary and spastic, and she has a way of finishing sentences in her
own words.  Fine for a novelist, but coloring way outside the lines when it
comes to school.  We are twins in that we both rank(ed) at the tippy-tip
bottom of every class we attended, although for different reasons.

                  Lots of computer problems.  Yesterday, it wouldn't boot
so I had to do four thousand words, not only in Safe Mode, but as an email
draft.  It was like writing on barn with a with a paint brush.  Today it
booted first time.  For sure, the happiest day of my life will getting the
five or six hundred pages I've written since disconnecting from the phone
onto Nifty, all safe and sound.  At some point, I'll take the box in to
Malcolm Dale's house and plug into his phone line, but it will have to wait
because I'm so broke now I can't even pay the carfare.

                  Will the electricity be cut off?  That's the question of
the hour.  And me with half a candle and not even any cooling oil to make
an emergency lamp.  Well, the cats will have a field day.

                  It may be true that one gets at least a little smarter as
one gets older.  A month ago I was buying rope to make up two swings in the
carport.  I hadn't measured the installation and just had the girl at the
hardware store pace off what looked the right amount.  When I finished
splicing and knotting the four ropes and installing the swings, they were
of perfect length to the half-inch.  With all the turmoil of Samantha being
here, then taking off, then coming back, and fixing up the house, and
Linden returning with his girlfriend, I've brought us through with the last
drop of cash going for two bags of cat food, which will squeak us to the
seventeenth.  On the first of October, my quarterly comes in, so we should
be sitting on a small mountain of money.  Will we be any happier?  I
daresay.  More accurately, Samantha will be happy, and that will make me
happy.  Life can be so simple, and the fact she's remained loyal through a
longish cash draught is gold-star cool.

                  I have a hard time reckoning with myself.  Why is it that
as long as I have my keyboard in my lap, the words keep coming?  Like music
to Mozart, unstoppable And I write as he did.  First draft, only draft, and
out.  In this book, and "Stonington Stores", before it, I have neither
changed nor deleted a hundred words, once they were typed.  Obviously,
typos and glitches find their way in, but otherwise the eerie reality is
that what I type today will be read a hundred years from now, verbatim.  If
there is such a thing as mysticism, this has to be it.  On top of this,
there's the talent/work quandary.  What part is genius, and what part is
that little nugget of a hundred thousand hours of practice?  Additionally,
what part does the word processor play, with its often overlooked virtue of
allowing one to work all through the night without the annoying clack of a
spasmodically pounded typewriter?  And the private income?  It's like the
very planet.  A hundred things (and, of course, a billion) had to happen in
an exact sequence to leave us a civilized and technology rich environment.
By the same token, I had to have been read "Out Jumped Boo!" dozens of
times when I was an infant to know, by age two, I wanted to be a writer,
and that was page one of act one.

                  A musician or painter can rise to the pinnacle of a
Celine Dion, and have very little concept of self.  To be a writer, one
must read thousands of books, which give one an intense awareness of the
world, and one's self.  The lucky thing is that the issue is so complex it
is, like creation, foolish to dwell overly on it.  I don't let the noise of
my own wheels drive me crazy, I type.  If Anne gets in the way, I type on
Anne, even imagining out loud the sing-song, overly polite tone she must
have used to keep her lawyer; that Mr. Cruise must have used, and is
perhaps still using, to keep her.  I hear this in dead relationships all
the time.  Corpse talk.  They deserve each other, as well as the sweet
little notes, gifts, flowers, candy, and sentiments which so often mean I
can't love you no matter how much I try and how hard I want.  (If you love
a girl, the only thing either of you ever wants to do with your money is
save it for your kids.  Samantha isn't picking this up very quickly, but
she's retarded and fourteen years old, so it may be yet another week or
two.)

                  The diet.  It's really kicking in after two weeks or so.
I forgot to mention that you can substitutes hardboiled eggs for the hot
dogs.  It's a box diet, in more than the sense that the mac/cheese dinners
come in a box.  It's a box diet because you eat a finite meal at a specific
time, and nothing else.  This helps enormously with the psychological
implications of the process, because what is impossible is eating a little
less of this and a little less of that.  One meal a day is the only food
you ever eat, carved in stone, with milk and coffee or tea, also in limited
amounts.  I'd guess I've lost five or six pounds in two weeks, and, this is
the hard part, my stomach has shrunk enough so that the one macaroni and
cheese dinner fills me up.  Play hardball with your belly and know that you
could survive on the half stick of margarine you add to each dinner, alone,
for comfort.  And the reward?  Samantha hasn't mentioned my belly (modest
enough to begin with), for a week.  Call it a case of not putting your
money where your mouth is.

                  Writing is a little like chess; get to a certain level of
experience, and you play several moves ahead.  That's why so many little
errors like omitted words creep in.  I'm only writing this sentence, not
thinking about it.  I'm thinking about the next one, or the next page,
character, event, and so on.  Even, well into a novel like this, the next
book.  Automatic writing was a fad of the late eighteen hundreds, but
that's what happens.  The keys move subconsciously while I'm wondering if I
wouldn't be making better use of my time by diving under the bed with
spatula and rag to clean up for my four-legged art collection, before
Samantha gets home from school.  The fact that I'm not wondering about her
limber young bod taking the dive is germane, because I write about love
issues.

                  In-love-with-love and clingy -- the hopeless, incurable
romantic.  Mary Blake, who makes an appearance in "Santa Fe Stories", and
other works, attracted, one after another, clingy, romantic men.  Each
seemed to last a few months, then the little gifties and thoughtful touches
became annoying and it was time for a change.  She was Anne's mentor during
her switch from Tom Emerson to Tom Cruise, so little doubt the sentiments
flowed hot and heavy.  For how long?  One of these days I may find out.  It
would be interesting to know.  He had to be so perfect for so long it's
difficult to imagine any male jumping that many hoops without being such a
stunted, colossal bore, these factors, of and by themselves, would end the
relationship.  One slip, and he was out; nothing ever forgotten or
forgiven.  Well, he got wife, home, dog, and there was even a new Dodge
Colt thrown in by my dad, so the odds would favor a crummy time of it after
the honeymoon.  And how wrong I could be.  He may be focused and dynamic,
athletic and interesting, free of anything resembling an addiction; may
have made cute kids with her and have her set up in a fine studio while he
pays the bills and salts away twenty grand a year for retirement.  Maybe
they even visit the Caribbean.  I offered my wife the moon and stars, but,
in this age of the Hubble telescope, maybe he found her an entire galaxy.
On the other hand, the only atypical immortality he will know comes from
these ten fingers.  Of this I'm pretty sure, a hundred years from now Tom
Cruise, lawyer of Long Island and Los Alamos, will be far more famous than
his namesake actor, and at the staggering rate my files are being
downloaded, this may come to pass in half that number of years.  Wife, dog,
home, car, four-year spouse of a massive artist, and, for good measure,
immortality, with nothing left over for me but the blame and a seat on the
Greyhound.  What has my illegally-divorced wife left for me (as a man, not
an artist)?  The taste of her last kiss.  It's interesting to see how
lopsided life can be, yet they still pick up the trash twice a week every
time the truck is running.

                  As I become a better novelist, my essays improve, and
sometimes it's hard to let them go.  It's more like talking directly,
author to reader, though I suppose my leading characters do that well
enough on their own.  It is also a break in the fiendish level of
concentration needed to get through the middle three hundred pages of a
book.  The huge second act.
                  All I can say is that it's lucky for dear reader that
celibate as I've been since Anne choose Tom II, there is some sex, or at
least potential sex, in my life.  This is a fancy way of saying
seven-year-old Rhasheeda is back on the scene.  Bev thinks it would be
great for me to work with her on phonics, while Samantha drills along with
us.  Once this is established, it's a short step to fixing up a spare room
and having both girls stay overnight.  Since I've re-invented English
fiction, I might as well take a shot at the essay.  Typing is typing, after
all, and who am I to interfere?  Or we could vote on it.  All in favor of
not reading an essay titled: "After the Phonics", please write.  Be sure to
include specifics on how one might otherwise protect young girls in an
AIDS-rich environment.

                  I was talking with my Canadian (former diplomat) landlord
today.  He recounted watching an elaborate church service recently, in
which every single member of the large choir was fat-faced.  I wonder if
Anne turned out that way.  If so, I should address Tom Cruise as Esquire,
mention him in my substantive will, and say, thanks, good buddy.  Yvonne,
her mother, in her fifties, was exactly at my personal limit.  Her daughter
was lithe and athletic, a champ fencer with a perennial-teen body, so she
may be a fox to this very day.

                  Did I mention how the bird of luck occasionally chooses
to land on the shoulder of the dedicated professional?  Another question.
Guess who's been in this bed for the last hour, watching my webshots.com
screen saver.  (I picked up the habit of having my computer in bed when I
was laid up with phlebitis; it's as much a factor in the eighteen-hour days
as all the talent in the world.)  Rhasheeda.  It's like when I write
fiction, two choices of tale binding until I get them unmixed.  The hardly
second choice to Rhasheeda is Samantha, who, I suppose, does more for a
pair of Speedos than anyone.  Actually, it's the first time I've met the
seven year old, other than incidentally.  Help me, it's true, she's twice
the charmer I remembered.  Bright as the proverbial button.  Highly
affectionate.  Unimaginably cute.  She's just been through a big custody
fight.  Luckily, the lady who came down from the states to adopt her had
medical difficulties, and her father has never taken any interest in her,
so I get to experiment by seeing if I can teach a bright kid, who, in turn,
can teach a less bright, scholastically speaking, kid.  I can almost hear
the skeptics.  "Oh, he's just stocking his slime cellar."  Save as many
kids in your life as I have, on limited resources, and throw all the stones
you want.  As far as I'm concerned, the sooner I have both girls overnight,
the better.  The great American essay needs writing, and if I end up in
jail over it you'll know I'm not joking at all when I say that being a real
writer is an extremely dangerous profession.  And Clarence Smith, who came
to my old house seeking a walk-a-thon donation, and asked me flat-out if he
could boty with me, is gasoline on any potential fire.  I've picked him out
as Samantha's legitimate boyfriend, partly because he's two days older than
she is, plus being very nice and dead cute.  The truth of the matter is,
I'm not all that sure of my ability to satisfy a girl that has no trouble
acting like a half-wild tomboy when she feels like it.  Clarence is a
crystalline lover, so he adds fifteen to fifteen (S. just had her birthday)
to seven.  Promises to be a long sentence, but a great essay.

                  As there is diplomatic immunity, so there should be
artistic immunity.  From an intellectual viewpoint, it is entirely
legitimate that I experiment with these children, even thought the results
-- two happy girls, two happy guys -- are a forgone conclusion.  We
live in a changing (read `deteriorating') world.  If someone doesn't
explore new options, and report accurately on them, we become too rigid and
jaw-locked to survive.

                  Sometimes I try to estimate how much time I would have
spent in prison if I'd been caught at all the things I've done.  I only
molested one child in the States, Steven, but we were together perhaps
fifty or sixty times.  I've driven while drunk about two hundred times.
I've possessed enough marijuana to earn me one thousand years.  I've never
stolen anything or harmed a hair on a human or animal head, but even if
that's taken into account, it's still ten or fifteen thousand years plus
millions in fines.  No wonder Anne married a lawyer.  (In some respects,
she was in for her own grand adventure.  A lawyer works frequently with
young divorcees and heiresses, and must be on call for late-night
consultations with single mothers with errant kids.  Quite a maze to wander
paired with a `the relationship'-oriented wife, who, in her turn, lay with
her brother-in-law and is around handsome doctors and wealthy patients on a
daily basis.)

                  As I've mentioned elsewhere, these are cautionary tales.
First, in reminding males that their first wife is their treasure of
treasures; it's a rare second wife or mistress that can even half fill the
bill as a replacement.  Second, anything will set a woman off.  There is no
such thing is a past imperfection, these are recalculated with accrued
interest, on a daily basis.  A woman judges a man, permanently, by the
worst thing he ever does.  I didn't write it, I read it, and, lived it.
Third, consider the fact I even mention the past at all.  I've had ten
times the life of a dozen people in my search as an artist, replete with
vaulting literary success, ample money, exotic addresses, and a select
number of boyfriends.  Still, I consider myself a danger to Anne, even
twenty-three years later.  Maybe that's more cautionary to the girls than
the boys.  Dump with prudence, because when you dump you are half-killing
your partner, and if you sashay off to have your kiddos with number two,
it's more than half, plus the literal of not legal murder of the children
you were meant to have had together, so number one may just come after you.
Norris killed the Queen of the Bay, both old friends, and by no means was
he the Lone Ranger.  (It's so dangerous being a writer, it's a hazard to
one's spouse.)  And a couple of notes in the name of perspective.  Anne or
I could have injured or killed one another other by means of a moment's
inattention while driving or boating (etc.)  Even more to the point, she
was an expert fencer, leading to the not-farfetched conclusion I might have
been more in danger from her than she would ever have been from me.

                  A more mundane issue is something I think of as Class in
America.  It leaves me scratching my head.  Other people are so proud of
their station in life; their house and impedimenta, profession, ancestors,
homeland and accomplishments.  Their money.  It's such a waste of time.  As
a 24-caret Concord Emerson and scion of the most important single family
ever to walk the planet, I get no feedback, nothing of value, and never
have gotten any.  So? someone would say, were I bumptious enough to bring
up the issue.  Yet this same phlegmatic person would prominently display
the colonel's medals, though the colonel's been dead and gone neigh these
hundred and fifty years.  If he doesn't care about anyone else's
background, why in the world would he assume anyone would care about his?
The `so?' mentality even rules Concord, itself; a town which fairly bursts
with Revolutionary and literary pride, but in which I got a ticket for
drifting a red light, after a full stop, at three-twenty a.m.  I don't
think the cop was acting when he looked totally unimpressed.  I'm saying
this in vengeance.  To discourage you.  To tell you that no matter what you
do, no one cares, just drop the check in the mail.  Maybe if you wallow
deep enough and long enough you'll get tired of your own stink, and, when
someone yells souee, you'll listen up and follow.

                  And so my life as a novel(ist) goes on.  I had a
malignant melanoma scare the same time the computer acted up; painless,
bright-red patch out of nowhere.  It was literally where the sun never
shines, where I wear a bathing suit (I'm far too cute to survive as a
nudist.), but otherwise fit the description in the ghastly book to a T.
Today it shows real signs of clearing up, so it's just a blotch, after all.
(Maybe the bite from a spider sent by the urban socialists.  I can't be
very high on their good-fellows list.)

                  My last candle is down to a couple of inches.  They
provide the perfect fill light for all-nighters.  I'll be happy when I can
buy more.  Well, to quote Clark Griswold from the motel scene in
"Vacation", "Nice talk, Russ."  (Hey, Underpants!  You wrote a great
script.)



                  Wicked pixies times two.  If the shoes fit, wear them.
How's this for a fit?  Vicky and Amy had tamed Glenn, Gregg, and the five
brothers enough to get them to perform a pageant from "The Sound of Music".
"I suppose a dinner bell would have been on the crude side," Alex mused
silently as the brothel sextons, dressed like cherubs, approached with
candles and in song.  "I think they've come for us," he said to Ben,
whispering, "I'd like to hear more about Jeff," before he tenderly released
the boy so they'd be presentable for the supplicants.

                  Glenn and Gregg presented togas.  Alex and Ben donned
them.  Allen and Chief, Ben's second and third younger brothers, joined
Glenn and Gregg in carrying a chaise with improvised handholds.
                  "I made the crown," Corey said, approaching his eldest
brother with a bow.  "Rich in kindness, rich in deed, you're the only king,
that we will ever need," he recited.

                  Alex looked on, losing a fierce battle with himself,
modesty vanquished by a smug conceit.  Perhaps he was not the `rightest'
person who ever lived, but he was a whole lot closer to that imaginary soul
than to the wrongest denizen of the planet.  How could any sane soul find
anything wrong with the pageant now taking place before him?  Beautiful
young children, lovingly supervised, in relationships that would endure for
years.  Wasn't it better than a passel of barrel girls camped on a couch
and munching their way through hours of MTV?  That would be legal.  What he
was up to with these babes was felonious and despised.  Why?  Because
beard-muttering morons who thought the earth was flat as a fritter passed
on their conceits as legends and superstitions?  It took enormous opulence
to exist under insane, god-fearing leadership.  What would happen when the
gravy train was flagged onto a siding?  A dog-eat-dog world, for openers.
The only silver lining in the cloud was that with One-Book Bush, the mental
inferiority became so palpable not only could he be disregarded as
nonsensical and a tool of urban socialism, but he provides, as the end of a
chain, absolution for so-called sins of the past.  It's like my computer.
I'm never wrong, it always is.  The proof of this is that when it's right,
I use it with effect.  We haven't been wrong, we boylovers and pedophiles,
society has been wrong in discriminating against us.  So far my proofs are
an extensive collection of life experiences, largely off the record,
however frequently bits and pieces find their way into the stories.  Time
to change all that.  To live outside the defective codes and statutes, and
chronicle the chips as they fall where they may.  And please, I'm not
feeling sorry for myself.  Like T.C. with my wife and package, fast start,
fast finish.  Having had so much of the best, including Anne when she was
worth having, to say nothing of a blistering literary career, it seems
inevitable that days of equalizing lie ahead.  (Think what poor Bill Gates
must be in for, if this logic is salient.)  Assuming this to be the case,
Samantha, Rhasheeda, Clarence, and little honey-skinned Winzie, waiting in
the wings, are my personal choices as companions in facing down the
whirlwind, in operating the buzz saw, and in mocking every cloud-cuckoo god
since the first caveman parted his beard with an oath.  Sound good?  Yeah?
Well how `bout when the first cop cusses me out?  You-all wanna hold my
hand?  Well, how about, at the least, a kamikaze sendoff?  I know, I know,
most of you would prefer to just keep reading.  Ironic to have one's very
talent draw folks away from him, but the big leagues are different so I
don't hold any grudges.  Go ahead, if you want, read:

                  At first, five mirrors seemed like overkill, with two
dozen candles, like the 110 cornets, right behind, but, on perusal, it
appeared the girls had put some thought into the design, and that it might
be wise to accept the arrangement of light and stage dressing as they were.
In any event, no one was in the mood for additional housework.

                  Yogi was not only there, but enjoyed pride of place, Yogi
being the bearskin rug from the Epping rectory, gracious gift of the former
congregation.  Surrounding his artic eminence were two rows of five chairs
each, the seats draped with curtains from the bay windows, with these
expensive fabrics protected by neatly layed bath towels, all in white.  The
mirrors were set high on their floor stands, and had been adjusted with
great care, focused on what constituted a dais or matrimonial stage.
Lighted by the candles it was all tres Hollywood, but what else could it
be?

                  The young males in their bed-sheet togas sat on benches
formed by the chairs, while Vicky and Amy knelt at the head of the white
bearskin.  Crystal was laid out like a corpse, her head tilted slightly
back, breasts wrapped, covered with silk, arms at her sides, eyes closed.

                  "Wake our princess from her sleep;
                  From her virgin's lonely torment.
                  Cum in her hot, cum in her deep,
                  And cum in her this very moment."

                  So the ensemble, saving Crystal, Ben and Alex, sang, the
males standing in front of their benches, even Corey conspicuously tented
above his thighs.  Alex was glad his gang had put most of their time into
arranging the stunning boudoir, because their poetry was both too racy and
rushy for his tastes, although the song was a reassuring reminder that the
imperfections found in humans, at large, were to be found in this group.
Combined with mirrors casting full-color reflections, it was most
comforting.  Unholy, but comforting.  That they would be considered zombies
and the living dead by pastor, priest and padre was also a consolation.
Nobody was there to defy anybody or any institution, per se, nor were they
there for fun, per se, nor filling a void, per se, nor, Alex shuddered at
the inelegance, for pussy, per se.  It was neither sacred nor offhand,
Stooges comic nor O'Neill neurotic.  It was extreme art, utter radiating
beauty, but that part could be taken care of with black and white film.  It
was free of disease, that was good.  It, for students of the finer points
of modern history, had segued into the Segway, leaving real value to those
who might find -- it.  It was no better than a group of scouts around a
campfire.  It occupied neither crest nor pit.  It wasn't fat, another good
thing.  It wasn't liking-them-young, per se.  It may have been more like
ice cream than anything else, unnecessary, yet not without substantial
nutritional value, and sweet enough if one happened to like that kind of
thing.

                   Plain vanilla?  The writer in Alex knew he'd bog down on
something.  They weren't zombies or ghouls, but they were all white.  He
could rationalize misbehavior to hotter extremes than the next guy, for
sure, but there was, nonetheless, a nigger in the woodpile, and all the
dazzling wit in the world wouldn't change the fact that the loaf was whiter
than white, and, very rarely, politically and genuinely incorrect.  Good.
It was nice to have an agenda, something to sink one's teeth into, even if
said agenda was not to patronize or tokenize, or integrate, per se.

                  Shelved, not settled, the issue was nonetheless replaced
with the realities of the here and now.  Two nymphs, each naked at her
right breast, knelt at the shoulders of a corpse that seemed unable to lie
convincingly corpse-like between two rows of four boys standing
shoulder-to-shoulder as teacher and brother stood at the foot of the altar
on which the undead was presented.  Did `sacrifice' have an antonym?
`Salvation', or something like that?  For Crystal was not to be forfeit,
not to be converted into smoke for rain, but rather she was to garner, to
receive, to incubate, and to give only in the sense of instilling a
life-long respect for, but not obsession with, love, while not neglecting
sex.  It all seemed so reasonable, so beautiful, so dignified, so
worthwhile; why, you'd have to go out and build two rooms of a house to
beat it.  Constructive.  Everyone leaving the bridal suite, should that
ever happen, would leave more complete, more knowledgeable, more focused
and less confused.  Would it be the perfect start to a perfect life?  If
one of the brothers went off his trolley from watching a brother cum off,
and the rest lived more happily ever after, how would you sum up?  There
was a lot of the pneumatic tire in the lifestyles of certain Hastings
residents and visitors.  For most, a far smoother and safer ride, but, once
in awhile, a blowout.  It was unnecessary for Alex to look out the
upper-floor window to see if people were still driving on their Goodyears.
He just assumed it, since any acceptance on faith would have been out of
character.

                   Alex, studying the tableaux before him, tried not to get
ahead of himself.  He was finding this difficult, when he had a little help
from a friend.

                  "Story," quoth Vicky.
                  Gregg was the first to pick up the soft chant, and, it
appeared, a story it would be.


                  "I can find out the stuff at school," said eight-year-old
Alex Christopher as he climbed into Kirk Villiers' station wagon.  "Mom
shouldn't have drafted you for the big talk.  No man deserves that/"
                  "I shot her twice," the thirty year old replied, "but she
kept insisting."
                  The boy giggled.  "She's all hung up on me getting
molested," he said, "so it's a case of single-mother paranoia."
                  "I think she's symptom-free as far as that goes," Kirk
said, "because if I were in here shoes I'd want my kid to know more than
echoes of the locker room."

                  "She thinks it's getting more dangerous out there all the
time," Alex observed.
                  "It's still pretty safe.  You'll study statistics in
college; graphs can be lumped a lot of ways, but as a white-bread kid in
white city, you're about as safe as any kid who ever lived anywhere."

                  "I wish I lived in Polynesia," Alex replied, "those kids
learn without hang-ups and embarrassing stuff happening all the time."

                  "If things get too casual there's a negative effect, just
as there would be if Christmas came every day and you had to get up at six
and unwrap more damn action figures."

                  "I have a Commodore 64," the eight year old replied,
"when I turn it on it IS like Christmas every day."
                  "And you've survived?" Kirk asked, rhetorically.
                  "Sort of," Alex replied, "I mean it's really embarrassing
to ask questions and talk about stuff, but, at the same time, I feel kind
of empty without knowing."

                  "Not knowing, at your age, can have devastating effects,"
Kirk said.  "The slightest distraction that takes the edge off your school
work can sink you.  That's the reason your mom shanghaied me and
buttonholed you; pulled the czar act."
                  "No birds, no bees, all D's," Alex said.
                  "Well, you might scrape by in English," Kirk allowed.
                  "It's a head-chopper, for sure," the boy responded.

                  Kirk mused on the boy's remark.  Could it be that simple?
Was history driven merely by the need to use such a fluid and mercurial
tongue?  Spies and skullduggery, rampant for ages, largely because the
players had the intricate language required for the most devious and
fiendish of double and triple-dealing plots?

                  "How do you feel about Churchill?" Kirk asked, intrigued.
He eased the car out of the school parking lot, heading for the hotel, and
made a note to, when time allowed, advise the boy that they were going for
weekend in the honeymoon suite, upon his approval.  That could wait; it was
a half-hour drive, largely in the direction of the Christopher home.

                  "Surviving him was the biggest challenge ever faced in
human history," Alex said.
                  "Look," Kirk said, "you're about five times what I
expected.  I want to hear why, but first I've got to tell you something,
okay?"
                  "Okay," the big-eyed cutie said.

                  "We're booked in at the Royal Arms," the man explained.
"I was going to bring it up as we drove along, but I'd rather talk about
other things.  If you don't want to spend the weekend there, I can cancel.
I know it's kind of all-at-once news..."

                  "How high is the room?" Alex asked.
                  "Twenty-second floor," Kirk said.
                  "If I'm really careful no one's around, can I drop one
water balloon out the window?"  Alex asked.
                  "It's a suite, it has a balcony, so tell me we're not
birds of a feather," Kirk said.

                  "I knew that as soon as I figured out you're not dumb,"
Alex responded.
                  "It's a honeymoon suit with a hot-tub," Kirk said.
"They're not full so I could change it if you think that's over the top."
                  "It sounds expensive," Alex noted.
                  "Why do I think you're probably going to be worth it?"
Kirk asked, rhetorically, to the boy's shy smile.

                  "Because I'm a cynic," he responded, "and you know, when
the time comes, I'll wait until a dowager's under the balcony."
                  "I almost forgot," Kirk said, advising the boy to wait
for a nice plump one.
                  "So let's hear you dissertation on Winnie the Wacko,"
Kirk suggested.
                  "Ain't that the truth," the responded.  "I mean picture
it.  Europe had been doing the war bit for ten or twenty thousand years.
They had it down to a science, or at least halfway.  When the kings and
nobles saw to many young men milling around they'd have a hack at each
other, but it was all very dignified and traditional with cease fires,
truces, armistices, and the troops playing ball in no-man's-land between
skirmishes.  At sea, same deal; yeah, you could sink an enemy warship, but
if you sank a cargo ship you had to play by the rules and let the crew off.
                  "So this has been going on forever; fields of honor,
rules of engagement, battle flags, white flags, holidays off, parlays,
equal aid to enemy wounded; often as not, civilian spectators picnicking on
the hillsides overlooking the battlefield.  Not exactly ritualistic like
the Myan's, but organized and traditional; chivalrous.
                  "Then along comes Super Doom, circa 1912.  England and
Germany are going at it in a befuddled way, rule book in one hand, pistol
in the other, the bulldog growling a lot and snapping a little.  The Great
Bellowing Meat Face brings change to the admiralty.  The dog will now bite.
He does this in a specific way.  He rigs merchant ships with pop-up
five-inch guns.  When the submarine commander approaches with his rule
book, he is killed and his ship is sunk.  Germany retaliates to the
warmonger by starving England to the brink of insanity.  Millions are
gassed and killed.  Six hundred people a year die of combat residue to this
very day, mostly kids my age who like to explore.  World War I leads
directly and categorically to World War II, during which, said colossal
moron allies himself with Joe The Man Stalin, denigrating Hitler because he
served as a corporal.  Quite a lifetime achievement."

                  "He'll go down in history," Kirk admitted.
                  "Yeah," Alex agreed, "but how are we meant to deal with
it?  This big media persona, like a mile of flags flying and banners
waving, while the truth is he should have been executed for criminal
arrogance, callousness, and incompetence as a result of Gallipoli, alone."
                  "The invasion of Europe was my favorite," Kirk said,
enjoying preaching to the choir.  "If the least thing had gone wrong in
their giant onion of subterfuge and spy-gaming, Rommel would have pounded
Ike of Kansas back to Kansas.  As it was, the losses were staggering when
hammering in at Calais probably wouldn't have cost five thousand allied
lives."
                  "Yeah," the young scholar agreed, "with an umbrella of
fifteen thousand aircraft operating at point-blank range, against an enemy
operating at extreme range, it should have been your basic cake walk."
                  "Plus the navel guns," Kirk added.

                  Both males shook their heads in disbelief.  But the boy
was right.  Where did one find ballast when media rock and stone turned out
to be balsa wood and Styrofoam ?  Luckily, the thirty year old had thoughts
on the subject.

                  "Has anything exciting happened to you so far?" Kirk
asked, his voice halting and clearly indicating he wasn't talking about a
find at the library.
                  "No," the eight year old said.  "Why do men like young
boys?" he added.
                  "I don't know if it's complicated or simple," Kirk
replied.  "Partly for the same reason you might like a puppy, or a lamb, or
a colt.  Likely, it's a natural attractiveness given the young so they'll
receive attention.  Even wart hogs get all mushy over little warthogs.  But
there's obviously more to it than that.  With some men, it's an inability
to function with mature people of the opposite sex.  There are a million
and three good reasons for this, so it's prevalent.  Current thinking is
that rape isn't about sex, but, rather, is an act of vengeance for
mistreatment, so domination and violence can be the motives. Additionally,"
the older male continued, "there are men like myself, who like to teach.
Another point is that young boys make extremely excellent lovers, should
they be enthusiastic about their partners.  "

                  "What's the complicated part?" Alex asked.
                  "Disenfranchised men are often that way for good
reasons," Kirk explained, "they don't, in the words of grade schools, get
along with others.  They can be obsessive and violent.  Many are
dysfunctional because of extended abuse, and can't wait to pass on the
tidings."
                  "So they rape little kids?"
                  "Kidnap them, imprison them, have forced anal intercourse
with them, torture them, take pictures of them, kill them, and, guess
what...."
                  "Eat them," the bright-eyed newshound replied, instantly.

                  "Guess we can turn the page on that subject," Kirk said,
to the boy's engaging, thoughtful smile.
                  "But you've got to tell me how kids can be good lovers.
I don't get that part," Alex said.
                  "First by being dead-cute," Alex said, "for some
perverts, that's enough.  They can be satisfied masturbating on your body
while you're asleep.  That's not the norm.  Most boys experimenting with
homosexual relationships learn to use their mouthes and hands; learn what
to say and how to touch to coax a lover, and, the really bright and
responsive ones like to watch a mature male cum, even get semen on their
bodies while they're watching.  Plus, inquisitive boys are just plain fun
to hang out with."

                  "So it's curiosity that spills the sap?" the nascent wit
asked.
                  "Next to a tiny bride, a curious boy is the world's best
lover," Kirk replied, graciously preceding the remark with a laugh at his
young friend's dyspunctional observation.
                  What was the world's greatest bargain?  A
thousand-dollar-a-day suite and a cutie to share it.

                  "Do men do stuff with boys once, or does it happen a
lot?" Alex asked.
                  "A lot, if they can," Kirk answered.  "Affairs between
men and young boys usually last for years, if there's no interference, and
if there is an underlying friendship.  In most cases, the sexual part of
the relationship disappears almost completely in a few years, but, because
it means so little, in the first place, that has almost no effect on the
friendship."

                  "So we could spend the weekend re-writing history to our
preference, and never use the hot tub?" Alex asked.
                  "I think we could do that at my house for a thousand a
day less," Kirk observed.
                  "And someday, I'm sure we will," the youthful genius
said.
                  "Do you think you'd like to date a lot?" Kirk asked.
                  "Yes," Alex replied.
                  "Me, too," the man said, "but not go steady.  Guys pretty
much don't do that unless they're neurotic and obsessive.  We can spend a
lot of time together, but if you meet someone who's safe and decent, that's
okay, as long as you're not only honest about it, but graphic, too.  Bring
the cheat-mate home, either physically, or at least in story form, and
there's less chance of knotty secret worlds colliding."

                  "You should have said `sappy secret worlds', Alex noted,
with a giggle.
                  "How about `sticky secret worlds'?"
                  "Oh, that's so sweet and flowery," the boy said,
obviously knowing a thing or two about Vermont, "it almost defines
maypole."

                  The savagely brilliant play on `maple' left Kirk
speechless.
                  "It happens to my teachers, too," the boy said, apropos
of his friend's dazed countenance.
                  "Do you know where it comes from?" Alex asked as soon as
he was able.
                  "Yeah," Alex said, "I can't figure that out, either.  Bad
mothers are meant to be the leading cause of comics, but mom and I get
along wizard."
                  "Were you parents cousins?" Alex asked, finally, turning
the tables on his seat mate and getting him to think for a moment.
                  "How did you know?" Alex whispered.
                  "You told me," Kirk said.  "I've studied incest in Europe
and England, trying to get some kind of lock on the subject as it relates
to creativity.  My thesis is that inbreeding, while generally highly
detrimental, does produce anomalies in the form of savants; inventors and
artists of extreme excellence and unimaginable productivity."
                  "Like John Harrison?" the boy asked.
                  "Prime example," Kirk agreed.  "But it's hard to track.
Was he or wasn't he?  Records don't help much, because many a stallion has
jumped a fence, and many a filly has welcomed him.  But, probably.  It you
could get hold of a large amount of correspondence, there might be hints or
clues."
                  "Don't forget the chronometer," Alex said.
                  "Perhaps proof of the pudding is in the beating of tiny
escapements," Kirk allowed.
                  "But I'll bet he'd be really ticked if someone found
out," the irrepressible mentalist replied, again, instantly.
                  "I don't exactly picture him doing handsprings," Kirk
agreed.

                  "I have quite a bit of money saved up," Alex said,
changing the subject, "and I want to pay for the suite."

                  History is long, history is ragged, but in all of
history, Kirk Villiers was absolutely sure, no eight-year-old boy had ever
offered to pay the way of a man over twenty years his senior.  It was a
thought.  Atari had just come out with a VGA style computer, a little out
of his price range at the moment, but, should one hand wash the other, the
boy would be thinking way beyond little-old Christmas every time he pushed
the On button.  Another factor was relevance, twisted.  Since boys usually
dominated at the core of sexual relationships with mature males, mightn't
it be appropriate for them to pay?  He wondered if the "Playboy" advisor
still published his column.  What would he say, once he'd choked and gagged
the coffee from his nose?

                  No time to wait for answers from Chicago.

                  "You're on," Kirk said, agreeing with the prodigy's
proposal, "but what say we do a little shopping before we check in?"  Ah,
perfect answer.

                  "I would have been excited, anyway," Alex said, trying to
underplay the importance of the machine now gracing a card table in their
suite.
                  Kirk believed the boy.  He'd once attempted to molest a
young male teen in an arcade and had been shocked to discover the boy limp
and cold, there for the money.  It has been an ugh encounter, and he'd
parted with a twenty on the spot to get rid of the hustler.  Alex was a
different breed of brat.

                  "There's a way we can make it even more exciting, if you
want," Kirk said to his young companion.
                  "If I get much more excited there won't be any blood for
the rest of me," Alex observed.
                  "We'll find a substitute fluid," Kirk promised.
                  "Then what would be more exciting?" Alex asked.
                  "While we were waiting for the bellboy to get the box
from the trunk," Kirk said, "I noticed a couple in the pool."
                  "The guys in the white racing suits?" Alex asked.  There
had been probably fifty people at and in the pool, so the boy's eyes were
as bright as they were big.
                  "Yes," Kirk said.
                  "Do you think the man was a child molester?" Alex asked,
half rhetorically.
                  "Seemed to me," Kirk replied, "that the boy was a man
molester."
                  "He seemed pretty friendly," Alex admitted.
                  "They were watching us," Kirk said.
                  "I know," the eight year old replied, blushing.

                  "We could invite them up for a drink," Kirk said.  "The
boy looked about eleven, he might be able to fill you in on details I might
overlook."
                  "If I could get him away from the new computer," Alex
said.
                  "One look at you disappearing into the bathroom to take a
shower should do the trick, in that department," Kirk said.


                  Alex had been standing at Kirk's side as the man
installed software on the Atari.  Where his hands had been subconsciously
shielding his waist, he now removed them, letting them hang at his sides
and hanging his head in embarrassment as Kirk looked at the obvious bulge
in his shorts.  The thought of seeing the slim, ultra-blond pool boy had
re-excited his own continuing erection, so at least the blushing boy had
something to look at.

                  They changed like strangers, Alex in the spacious
bathroom, Kirk in the bedroom, meeting in the living room.
                  "Aren't you forgetting something?" he asked Alex.
                  "What?" the child replied.
                  "You were going to bathe a matron from on-high."

                  "Oh," the boy replied, "the balloon.  Guess I'm
outgrowing stuff like that."  They grabbed towels, the key, and headed for
the elevator.

                  Liff Evans and his uncle, Josh, grinned at them as they
found lounge chairs, waving a welcome as the boy piggybacked on the
athletic adult.  Kirk and Alex dove into the pool and joined the couple,
making introductions and finding out that their very new friends were from
Texas and Minnesota, together for the first time in three years.

                  The adult males gave and received signals by discussing
the attractiveness of their young male companions.  Probing delicately,
Kirk discovered the pair had met that morning and checked in an hour
earlier.  These were basics.  Next came the subtle task of finding out if
the were on the same page.  Boylovers were divided into two camps: the rude
and crude "Suck-that-dick" hissers who wanted Action with the Package, or
the more intricate and intimate school of gentle sharing.

                  The eight year old and eleven year old acted their ages,
and were off to a far end of the pool, frequent glances at their adult
companions indicating they were a pair of a foursome.

                  "Did you have time for a shower before you came down?"
the twenty-five-year-old uncle asked Kirk.
                  "No," he replied, explaining about the computer.

                  "I guess a normal boy would still be up there checking it
out," Josh said.
                  "Yeah," Kirk laughed, "only an abnormal boy would want to
do that with a friend."
                  "Have you spent time alone together before?" Josh asked.
                  "No," Kirk replied, "we've known each other casually for
a couple of years.  His mother works in my lab."  He went on to outline
their reason for being together and asked if he and Liff had spent time
together.

                  "First for us, too," the young uncle acknowledged.
                  "Have you talked with him?" Kirk asked.
                  "Mostly on the telephone," Josh said.  "He has a teacher
who's taking a special interest in him, and he wanted to talk to me about
it.  When we got to the room, it was obvious that he was pretty
embarrassed, so we just changed in separate rooms and came down here."
                  "We came down right after we set up the new machine
because of you guys," Kirk said.
                  "Way cool," Josh responded.  "It will really help Liff to
have someone near his age."
                  "They seem to like each other," Kirk said.
                  Both nodded.

                  "Have you spent time alone with other boys?" Kirk asked,.
                  "Truth is, I'm happily married with three kids," Josh
said.  "so this is pretty much out of left field.
                  "How about you?" he asked, in return.
                  "I pick up a chickenhawk a couple of times a month," Kirk
replied.  "but I've never had a relationship with a family boy.
                  "Does anything happen with you and your children?"
                  "My ten year old girl is becoming a dedicated and
persistent flirt," Josh said, "so, if it lasts, we may be on our way
somewhere, but my boys aren't interesting to me, that way, or I to them, I
assume."
                  "Sounds like a smart girl," Kirk said.
                  "Thanks," Josh replied, I'm hoping Liff will think so,
too."
                  "Have they seen a lot of each other?" Alex asked.
                  "Just holidays every couple of years.  That's about to
change."
                  "He's a beauty," Kirk agreed.
                  "So is Alex," the younger man said.

                  "Do you read the alternative sites?" Kirk asked.
                  "Yes," Josh said.
                  "What kind of stories do you like?"

                  "True ones.  Romantic minus neurotic."
                  "That makes two of us."

                  "What kind of language do you want to use with Liff?"
Kirk asked.
                  "Victorian," the younger man replied.
                  "As long as it's not so English you're into `tossing' and
`wanking'," Alex said.
                  "A Wankel's a rotary engine," Josh said, making Alex
excited to be on the same page with him.  "Did anything happen to you when
you were a boy?" he asked his new friend.

                  "There was a retarded boy on our block," Kirk said.
"When I was twelve I used to go stay with him until his mom got home from
work.  Mostly I did my homework, but then one day the physical therapist
was delayed and didn't get to Jess until after I arrived.  He was a tall
Norwegian with blue eyes and blond hair.  I'd never had any sick thoughts
before, but suddenly decided the proper world wasn't much of an example, so
I indulged myself."

                  Josh laughed.  Logic was where one found it.

                  "At first Ran was nervous having me there, but there was
more to it than that.  He was excited, too.  He asked me a lot of
questions, then he seemed to like me and asked if he could tell me a
secret.  I said it was okay, and he told me that he gave Jess a special
massage that he needed because he, Jess, was fifteen and didn't have a
girlfriend.  Ran explained he only was able to see Jess once a week, and,
that if I was mature, and didn't have any sincere hang-ups about gay stuff,
he could teach me, then I could be Jess's partner every two or three days."

                  The two boys came echoing back.  Liff swam up to Kirk.
"I want to piggyback on you and Alex wants to ride on my uncle," he said.
                  "Liff?" Kirk asked, "I was just telling your uncle a
story, it's along the lines of why you're here together, you know, mature
stuff.  If you boys want, you can piggyback us at the edge of the pool."
                  "Cool," said the older pre-teen.  The men swam to the
edge, standing in deep water, their arms over the curbing, and the two
young males attached themselves like remoras.  Kirk brought the newcomers
up to date and went on.

                  "I told Ran that I really liked Jess.  He said Jess often
talked of me when he was getting coordination therapy.  (It turned out he'd
been `accidentally' late.)  He said it would have to be secret if things
happened, but I knew about that from school.

                  "When he was sure I was interested he told me that he
gave Jess his special massage while they took a bath together, after their
regular session.  He said I could watch, then massage Jess in private on my
next visit, or join them in the tub.  Then he took Jess down in the cellar
where the exercise equipment was.  I worked on my homework, which is to say
I did the same long division problem so many times I can remember it to
this day: four-thousand-eighty-five divided by seventeen-point-three;
answer, two-hundred-thirty-six point twelve.  They cut their session in
half, probably saving my life, and I heard Jess saying my name when he came
up the stairs.

                  "You don't have to," Ran said softly to the twelve year
old, as Jess ran ahead to the bathroom.
                  "I want to," Kirk said.
                  "If you feel freaky, afterwards," the therapist said,
"remember that almost half of all boys learn with another male, many of
them with a young man."
                  "It's okay," Kirk assured Ran, "it's just that I don't
know anything."
                  "Boys who don't know anything get girls who don't know
anything pregnant every day," Ran said, "so that must mean it's not very
complicated."
                  The boy nodded.  "Priests do it," he said, "and think of
all the dumb stuff they're into."
                  "Jess will get a joke like that, if you go over it
slowly, and repeat it a few times," Ran said.
                  With anyone else Kirk would have responded: "I was
joking?"  Present time, present place, present company?  He didn't.

                  Ran might have picked Jess out of a hundred kids just
because they looked so much alike.  The one was six-four, the other six
feet, even.  Both had swimmer's builds and wore their blond hair short
without making a point of it.  If Jess wasn't as steady of eye as his
trainer, he was avid and flickering, tongue darting, and almost hot with
greed.
                  "Kirk awesome dude," he stuttered.
                  "He may be challenged but he's not stupid," Ran said,
high-fiving his trainee.
                  Kirk blushed.  He'd just grown three inches in six months
and wasn't used to looking anything but sprouting and wobbly, even to the
tracery on his upper lip.  At best he was a typical brown-haired,
big-toothed kid, though, when he thought of it, the eyes of Coach Schmidt
and some of the other boys did seem to follow him in the locker room.  The
thought made him blush again, and get the same way that made him grab for a
towel at school.

                  "Have you had any experience?" the tall athlete asked.
                  "No," Kirk said.
                  "How about porno films, magazines, you know, the basic
mechanics?" Ran asked, not ignoring Jess, but not including the disabled
boy.
                  Again, the twelve year old answered in the negative.
                  "Have you started doing in things after you get in bed at
night?" the counselor quizzed.
                  "I get big before I go to sleep," the boy replied.
                  "Has anything unusual happened while you were asleep?"
                  "Last week I got wet in the middle of the night.  It
wasn't pee." Kirk said.
                  "Were you dreaming about something?"
                  "Being in the locker room." the boy said.
                  "That's an excellent sign," Ran said, "it means at least
you're open-minded about things.  Boys who reject relationships between
attractive young males, automatically and completely, are unlikely to
develop intellectually; they'd rather be whuppin' slaves."
                  "But they have high self esteem," Kirk replied.  "I've
read some articles about it."
                  "The flag-pole sitting kind," the mentor said, "high and
flighty.  They don't do well when the wind blows."
                  "Good for the wind," Kirk said, high-fiving Ran and
laughing as Jess joined in, eyes livid with excitement at the husky note in
the conversation between his teacher and his young baby sitter.
                  "Jess is also a learner," Ran said.  "We've only bathed
together three times, and, well, he's slow, so pretty much still a virgin."
                  "I thought I noticed a change awhile ago," Kirk said.
"He's seemed a lot more with it.  Before, I could do all my homework while
I sat with him, now he's more lively.  It's cool because I don't like to
have to make him do stuff, just like I don't like it when grownups make me
do stuff that doesn't make sense."
                  "There are therapists in Europe who have total success
with sexual intervention, but Americans are dog-sick on the subject."
                  "Pretty soon they'll all eat themselves to death," the
boy replied, "and leave us alone."
                  "Or die of credit poisoning," Ran laughed.  They call it
bonding, now.

                  "Kirk," Ran said, "Jess has been premature with me all
three times we've been upstairs together.  He can't control himself when I
pull down his briefs.  I think if I did things with you, while he watched,
it might teach him to at least know what control is, that there is a reward
for holding off."
                  "I'll try," Kirk said, wanting to add: "digging a canal
with a spoon."  Holding off didn't feel to his juvenile body like he'd want
to bet anything on it.
                  "Are you feeling the way you do in the dream?" Ran asked.
                  Kirk blushed his answer.
                  "Jess and I are feeling the same way, too," the young
adult said.
                  "Bat time scrub dub in tub," Jess stuttered.
                  "I taught him to say `rub, rub,'" Ran said, "but only in
private.  He knows what bad is and what secret is, and he's probably more
grownup about it than most teens would be."
                  "I'll try to be, too," Kirk said, his voice sounding
hollow and shaky.
                  "It's not an end-all secret," Ran said.  "If a guy and a
boy hang out together, most people will take them as they come, knowing
pretty much what's going on behind closed doors.  Plus, if you dream about
things happening to you while you're naked with your coach and other boys,
you'll probably end up having male dates in the future, and you not only
can tell them everything, as graphically as you want, but you should tell
them.  Any boy or man who doesn't want to is probably just with you for
monkey business, which is not a best-case scenario."

                  Sick voices or not, Jess had had enough talk for the
moment.


                  Likewise, Alex and Liff had had enough of the pool for
awhile.  Their adult partners agreed that wrinkling up like prunes was not
a `best-case scenarios', so they adjourned to the honeymoon suite of the
Royal Arms.  Sensing a long morning ahead, they changed out of their wet
suits and donned terrycloth robes.  Kirk and Josh sat side by side on the
sofa, Alex and Liff in the laps of their alpha males.

                  "My uncle's getting one," Liff whispered to Alex.
                  "Kirk is, too," Alex replied, echoing the ragged whisper
of his friend.
                  "It feels nice against me," the older boy went on.
                  "I didn't know it could happen so fast," Alex said.
                  "Would it have happened to you if the pool had been
warmer?" Liff asked.
                  "Yes," his young friend whispered.
                  "Me, too," said Liff.  "Everybody would have known when
we came up the ladder."
                  "Some guys did look, don't you think?" the bright eight
year old asked.
                  "I'll be they're wondering what we're doing," Liff said
in answer.
                  "They probably think we're getting molested in the
shower," Alex said.
                  "Yeah, who'd guess we visited you to hear a story?" Liff
giggled.


                  Jess was old enough to play host and let the way
upstairs.  The bathroom was spacious and furnished with an upholstered
settee at one wall.  Jess turned on the water of the large tub, fiddled
with the valves for a few moments, then dabbed Ran with water.  The trainer
double checked, high-fiving the boy for getting the temperature just right.
                  "Why don't we strip to our underwear, then we can talk
while the tub fills," Ran suggested.  Jess promptly demonstrated his
increased ability to focus on adult conversation by dropping to his knees
and returning to the water valves.  He kept the temperature the same while
reducing the flow to a quiet trickle.
                  "It looks like I chose the right therapy," Ran said to
Kirk, "he's made the connection about making things last, because of you.."


                  It wasn't exactly Anne Sullivan and Helen Keller, but a
breakthrough, nonetheless.  Josh especially received instruction from the
story, and was doubly glad do have linked his shy eleven year old up with
Alex and his mature partner-to-be.

                  Now it was nearly quiet.  Ran gently pulled both the
fifteen year old and twelve year old so their backs were against his waist.

                  "This is what we do together before I get him in the
tub," he said, gently running his fingers over the chest and flat belly of
the developing teen.
                  "Maybe he'd like to do it with me," Kirk said.  He sidled
in front of the much taller boy, and Ran guided the older boy's gentle
hands.
                  "His boner's getting bigger," Kirk whispered.
                  "Is yours, too?" asked Ran.
                  "Yes," the boy said, his voice husky from being molested
for the first time.
                  "Who knows how thing will turn out," Ran said, "but for
the moment you are a very hot-blooded young homosexual."
                  "Glad I've got company," Kirk whispered back.
                  "Is what Jess is doing the same thing that happened in
your dream?" Ran quizzed.
                  "It was a man like you that was behind me," the boy
replied.
                  "Did he have a face?" Ran asked.
                  "No, but I felt his breath in my ear, and he kept doing
what he wanted to do with me, then there was a big rush and it felt sort of
like sneezing, but all over underneath my belly, and I woke up."
                  "And nothing's happened since?" Ran asked.
                  "No," the boy said; "will it happen again?"
                  "Not tonight," Ran assured the child, "but once in
awhile.  You'll start masturbating after today, plus being with Jess, so it
may not happen at all."
                  "It's better this way," Kirk whispered.
                  "Well, the dream's pretty conclusive in indicating that
you aren't a homophobe," Ran said, "but twelve year olds aren't exactly
cast in granite, so pay little attention to this, or to what Jess is doing
with you."
                  "I guess it's not exactly the SAT scores," the boy
observed.
                  "It's so unimportant," Ran said; "that's the ironic joke.
You could do this with a man or a boy three times a day, and, as long as it
didn't interfere with your day-to-day life, it would mean no more than
playing a video game together, and, for sure, it's less fattening than
hanging out at Mickey D's."
                  "I've wasted so much time trying to read the crap of
Salinger, Faulkner, and Fitzgerald," Kirk said, "I feel life owes me
compensation."
                  "Yeah," Ran said, "the publishers have become suicidal.
Those mindless slobs along with Grand-Beard Hemingway turn kids off reading
by the tens of millions, but there's huge profits in touting them and
running their slop through the presses.  It's a tough break for the
country."
                  "You can buy a lot of chips and dips for the price of a
hardcover," the twelve year old allowed.

                  Their foreplay was relaxed and tender.  Jess kissed
Kirk's slim neck and nibbled his shoulders as he molested the coltish
stripling, his hands fondling the slim boy's belly lower and lower toward
his white underpants as he listened contentedly to the whispering back and
forth.

                  "How did you start with Jess?" Kirk asked.
                  "Like a fox trapped by a hen," Ran said.
                  "How so?"
                  "The dickens poured honey inside his shirt, so I had to
give him a bath.  When I pulled his briefs down, he started doing what you
did in bed last week."
                  "What did you do?"
                  "Tore my shirt open and held him against my chest," the
young man whispered.  "I didn't want him to get any more stimulated than he
was, by watching himself ejaculate.  Since then, we've always had our
climaxes in a washcloth, for the same reason."
                  "Is it addictive to watch it happen?" Kirk asked.
                  "Yes," Ran answered.  "Retarded boys frequently
masturbate at the back of their classrooms, so they can watch each other
cum off, because they learned too much, too fast, too soon.  But Jess is
fifteen and we've taken it at his pace, so I think he'll be okay in
public."
                  "Let's never take him there," Kirk said.
                  "I'll drink to that," Ran seconded.
                  "Yes," the boy came back with a daring giggle, "but
what?"
                  "Do you know about doing things with your mouth?" Rand
quizzed, in response.
                  "Just from the kids at school," the youth said, "halfway,
I thought it was just talk."
                  "Well, whether you hit the nail on the head accidentally
or on purpose, I don't know," Ran said, "but that's just what I was
thinking.  That we could take two steps while the three of us are together.
First, he could watch one of us have an orgasm, then, one of us could cum
in his mouth.  That would bond the two of your, and, since doing it inside
each other's bottoms isn't exactly a great idea, except, maybe on your
birthdays, that will be that, and he may settle into a stable routine; not
neglected, but not too much."

                  "Something that might help," Kirk said, "is that
Mrs. Platt is always inviting me to spend the night, and I know it would be
okay with my mom, so what do you think of that idea?"
                  "Well," Ran replied, "I left my box of gold stars out in
the car, thought why, I'll never know, so I'll owe you one for the middle
of your forehead."
                  "Just save the rest of the box for yourself," the boy
responded, then asked if the trainer had other special boys.
                  "Just Jess," Ran said, adding: "that's my great weakness.
I should be doing these same things with two other boys I train, but
they're fat and dumpy and not very friendly.  As a professional, I should
treat all patients to the limits of my training an experience."
                  "They get their pleasure from eating," the bright child
observed.
                  "I think you get the box of stars, after all," Ran said.
"I never thought of it that way.  I guess those boys would pass through
this bathroom on the way to a pizza pie, and never break stride."
                  "While I'd pass through the best Italian restaurant in
town to get here, and never stop running," Kirk said.
                  "It's another tough break for the country," Ran amended.
"If kids were allowed to get into sex at six or seven, they'd have, a, a
giant motivation not to get fat, and, b, a whole lot less time to think
about food, to search for it, prepare it, and eat it."
                  "I'll drink to that," the boy said.  Yeah, more bonding.
"How old do you have to be?" he asked.
                  "As far as I'm concerned," Ran responded, "age two.  In
extraordinary circumstances, obviously.  Normally six or seven.  Some
people aren't ready until their teens, and, rarely, later, or even never in
their lives.  Two or three percent of the population never have any sexual
experiences, homosexual or heterosexual."
                  "Who besides lawyers?" Kirk asked.
                  Ran laughed.  "They don't have much in the way of honest
personalities, do they?" he said, "but, seriously, some people just aren't
interested."
                  "Ever met one?" Kirk asked.
                  "A couple of legitimate priests," Ran said.  "They
actually happened to believe in their beliefs."
                  "I guess maybe if some lawyers do, some priests don't.
Does that fit?"
                  "It fits this conversation," Ran laughed, "but whether it
fits, overall, I'm not so sure."
                  "It's fun to talk about it," the boy said.
                  "It makes you a more vivid lover," Ran agreed, "but not
everybody's into it, and it's only the first few times that it's exciting.
After that, you know each other's secrets, so there's not so much to
whisper back and forth.  The main thing is never to make anything up or
tell phony stories.  That can make you seem too eager, and is a real
turn-off.  If a boy goes around a carnival humping against every man's leg
like a dog, no man will take him home.  If he stands shyly to one side,
half the men there will try to make eye contact."
                  "It's almost as whacky as religion," Kirk noted.
                  "That may be stretching a point," Ran said.  "In Mexico
you find people tormented by flies during the day and mosquitoes at night;
His flies, His mosquitoes, yet they give Him one peso in ten and waste
several hours a week celebrating Him in stagnant pageantry and ritual.  If
they used their money to buy screening and their time to install it, they'd
be bug free.  The codes and mores related to sex really aren't any stranger
than that."
                  "I guess they don't have to be for things to be
abnormal," Kirk said.
                  "In a lot of ways it's actually about right," Ran said.
"If you and I hung out together in public, most sensitive people would
assume we were having sex, yet we'd be judged on our attitude and behavior,
nothing more.  The subtle commentary would be more laudatory than critical.
But all it takes is one gal who got done over when she was a kid, and then
it's mysterious calls from the police to you and anyone you know asking
questions like, `If so-and-so were arrested for a crime, what do you think
that crime would be?'  Chances are nothing would come of this, assuming a
voluntary relationship, and, in the end, to carry on with the theme of
Weird, you'd gain new status and engender sympathy because nosey cops are
no one's friend."

                  "Could we date in public sometime?" asked Kirk.

                  Molesting a boy should take hours.  All three seemed to
know this instinctively and purred contentedly.  Jess contributed by
turning off the water, and the three young males slipped out of their
underwear and into the large, old-fashioned tub.  Ran held Jess,
masturbating him gently, while the fifteen year old did the same with Kirk.

                  "Hypocrisy 101 that would be," Ran said, in answer, "you
wear a cut-off T-shirt and short-shorts.  We'll walk into any restaurant
and well over half the eyeballs in the place will be glued to your cute
little-boy belly.  But these same people, male and female, all ages, won't
vote to sanction us, and a single naysayer can set phones ringing all over
town."
                  "Let's," Kirk said.
                  "If we want to push the envelope we'll dress our cute
friend here in a cut-off and short-shorts, and haul him along for the
ride."
                  "Awesome," Kirk said.
                  "And wouldn't it just be," Ran laughed, "but no PDA.
That really is offensive.  I'd, personally, be the first to call the police
if a man and an underage boy started acting flirty in public.  The citizen
has every right to be protected from that kind of psychic assault.  It's
why they put doors on the restrooms of finer establishments."
                  "And have restrooms, in the first place," Kirk giggled,
apparently preferring a bond that was permanent and absolute.
                  "And bathtubs," Ran noted, doing his part.

                  They hadn't come to bathe and they didn't.  Jess's
breathing was becoming ragged, his erection massive in Ran's gently
stroking right hand.
                  "He's going to cum off if we stay here," Ran whispered to
the twelve year old, "and we've reached the point where it would be better
if that happened in his bedroom, not the bathroom."
                  Kirk was old enough to appreciate the symbolism, and
eased himself from the retarded boy, in turn helping him out of the tub.
The three shared two towels, and had the opportunity to really ogle each
other for the first time.  Ran was circumcised, bent strongly to his left,
and a thick seven-and-a-half inches.  Jess was extremely big for his age,
uncircumcised, slightly bent to his left, and so erect his penis almost lay
against his flat belly.  He had the shades of new growth just above his
wildly jutting penis.  Kirk had a shading of hair too, matching the dark
peach fuzz on his lip.  He was youth beautiful, over five inches,
uncircumcised, and, he almost giggled (three-of-a-kind) over it, bent to
the left like the more mature males.

                  Dry, they hung the towels and stood in a dense circle,
looking at each other, and gently masturbating themselves and one another.

                  "He's doing incredibly," Ran whispered, "it was pretty
close in the tub, but I think we can really have sex with him on his bed."
                  "Mrs. Platt won't be back for an hour at least, and it's
easy to hear her can in the drive," Kirk noted.  Enough said, the three
gently group-hugged the tall, slender teenager down the hall and into his
bedroom, setteling on a large toy chest, Jess in the middle with Kirk on
his right and his trainer on his left.
                  "I'm sure she'll know what's going on," Ran said, "but,
as I said before, people are largely tolerant of things when others fail to
rub their noses in said things."
                  "I'll make sure it's always really private with him and
me," Kirk said.
                  "I know you will," Ran said, kindly, "that was just a
reminder.  Double-check everything before you take down his underpants.
That no one's actually in the house, even though you assume no one is, that
the door is in fact locked, not just you think it is, that you really do
have time, an hour at least in the beginning, instead of thinking you do,
and having to leave things between you incomplete.
                  "It's the highest privilege a child can have, about on
the order of a new car for a sixteen year old, so protect it so carefully
the only way you'll get caught out is if a burglar catches you in the act."

                  "Discreet business is repeat business," Kirk said, to
Ran's laugh and hug.  "It's hardly business, but you've got the idea," he
responded.  Jess liked the males hugging and hugged his partners back.
                  "Can we take him on the bed?" Kirk whispered, his voice
faltering.

                  "Yes," Ran whispered, a harsh urgency filtering its way
into his response.  The trainer lay Jess back in his lap, and, as Kirk
gently masturbated the fifteen year old, he swung him to the bed, laying
him on his back and arranging his arms so his hands were behind his neck.
                  "He is so beautiful," Kirk whispered as he knelt to Ran's
left at Jess's feet.
                  "I guess you'd both pass in a pinch," Ran agreed putting
his left hand low on Kirk's flank, and resuming their whispered
conversation as he again molested the pre-teen by fondling him close to his
jutting boner..
                  "Was there any special reason you were asking about how
old a boy has to be?" he asked.
                  "There's a boy down the street," Kirk replied, " Randy,
he's only seven but he likes to hang out with me.  Sometimes it's kind of
embarrassing for a kid my age."
                  "Is there a place you can take him and have privacy?" Ran
asked.
                  "Up in the woods behind my house," Kirk said.
                  "Then take him up there sometime.  If he's a quiet kind
of boy, you can tell him you've started to get molested by a man.  If he's
interested, you can show him some of the things I've been doing with you
and Jess.  If he's that mature he'll understand that you can't be open
friends because of protocol, and you can use that fact as an example of why
the social codes are just guidelines, and why people go around saying
Different strokes for different folks.  Then you can ask him if he wants
you to get naked so he can see you and if you can take his underpants off.
If you tell him you have sperm, he'll be pretty easy to convince, and
there's little chance of him getting hit by ricocheting taboo or cumsumer's
remorse, partnered with a cutie your age."

                  It took Kirk a second and three-quarters to get the slick
pun, but, since bonded is bonded, he just laughed.
                  "Would you like to molest him?" Kirk asked.
                  "If he's that pervect combination of mellow and
enthusiastic that boylovers need," Ran said, going for joke, rationalizing:
whom god hath joined, let no man tear apunder.

                  "Yeah," the boy replied, "he's really nice.  It always
hurts to say goodbye to him."
                  "Sounds as if he might be a good boy to have an affair
with," Ran said.  "Sometimes that happens.  Boys fall very madly in love
with each other.  It's not necessarily about being gay, it just happens."
                  "Could I bring him over to be with Jess?" Kirk asked.
                  "Yes," Ran said.
                  "And if you could be here, it would be perfect," the boy
added.
                  "I can change my schedule to visit every week at four,
but I'll have to stop charging.  I didn't mind the last few times, because
everything happened after our hour together was over, and not that much
happened, to begin with, but if we're going to have the cutest little harem
in five hundred miles, there cant' be any money involved."
                  "Does that make it kinky?" the twelve year old asked.
                  "And how," Ran said.  "Kinky and complicated -- funky
business -- even before the tax people take an interest."

                  They discussed it, taking turns to lean forward and kiss
Jess so he wouldn't feel left out of the conversation.  On reflection, one
date a week seemed inadequate to both the compos-mentis males, so they
agreed on every afternoon, at least in the beginning, but later, after
Ran's work day.

                  "You really are perfect for him," the trainer said,
leaning to nuzzle the boy's coltish neck, his voice clearly indicating
their time had come.
                  "How do we do it?" the child responded.
                  "Masturbate me on his chest," Ran said, "then if you want
you can take a little of my cum on your tongue and kiss him.  If he likes
it, crawl over him and spread your legs over his shoulder so he can take
you in his mouth if he wants."

                  "Okay," the boy whispered, knowing he'd be forever glad
to have had such a leader as Ran for his first time.  The athletic trainer
positioned himself along Jess's right flank, and Kirk lay on top of him,
fondling then masturbating the mature male while holding the wet tip of his
penis against Jess's heaving chest.  The retarded boy lay with his hands
still behind his neck, head propped against his pillow, and gazing avidly
at what the pre-teen was doing with the handsome, young adult.

                  "When we're with him from now on," Ran whispered, "we'll
let him do this with both of us.  No better way to teach muscular
coordination."
                  "Do you think he could make us go all the way?" the now
panting and trembling boy asked.
                  "Not at first," Ran said, "we'd have to be there for each
other, but, after awhile."
                  "And if he was successful once, he probably would be,
again," the child observed in an understatement so overt Ran wondered if he
was being playful.  "How many drops of sperm are there?" the winsome
(speaking of understatement) boy asked, sensing a climatic stiffening of
his athletic partner.
                  "It's only in drops the third or fourth time a man cums
off," Ran said, gasping with the little left of his voice.

                  Unable now to speak, he showed his young partner.  He
cummed fluidly and fully over Jess's panting torso, spurting from the
teen's erect penis to his throat as Kirk gasped and stroked, instinctively
sphinctering Ran at his base, holding him still, so the fifteen year old
could see exactly what was happening, and mewing encouragement as he stared
in fascination.  Nor were his instincts transient.  As Ran's ejaculation
settled to an intermittent flow, he wet his right hand in a convenient
puddle of semen and found Jess.  He manhandled the youth's flaring glans
with his slick palm, then slowly drew his clenched fist from top to bottom.
"Cumming, cum, cum," the retarded boy panted, then spurt hotly two feet
straight up, half fainting at the sight of his white spray.  "He can't be
premature now," the sparkling brain of the twelve year old noted as he and
Ran froze, panting and watching the quaking teen.

                  Jess cummed again and again, sweating, head lolling, face
slack, eyes glazed, grunting and moaning as he shook all over and banged
his hips up and down showering himself and his partners with flying
tendrils of hot sperm.  After half a minute it was over for the young male,
and Kirk maneuvered between his widely spread legs, kneeling, bent over,
experimenting with the taste of semen by dabbing the tip of his tongue,
then lapping and moving up over his lover.  Tentatively he brought his lips
to the older boy.  Jess stuck his tongue way out to nuzzle the lips of the
pre-teen, going for the left corner of his mouth where there was the most
sperm.  "One way to get chips and dips off the menu," Ran noted to himself,
gazing intently at the two boys and doubting if many boys Jess's age had
experienced quite such a first kiss.
                  By nodding his head down, and mewing, the retarded boy
made known his wants, and Kirk was quick to respond, going back to the
teen's still-panting chest with his tongue, then returning to the now
greedy lips.  This went on for minutes on end, kissing, licking, and
returning to the beautiful, willing mouth to once again join in a
lingering, gulping, oral embrace.

                  Now the so-called disabled boy nodded vigorously in an
upward direction.  Ran, waiting for a sign from his student, put his arm
gently around Kirk's waist, easing the twelve year old forward.  Kirk
responded by placing his hands on the headboard of the bed and straddling
Jess.  Ran guided the tip of the boy's huge boner to the waiting lips of
the supine child.  Jess's tongue flicked out like a snake the second the
older boy was in reach, lapping him avidly and welcoming him with a happy
gurgle.  For a few seconds Ran helped them jockey into comfortable
positions, then he guided the young boy into the mouth of the eagerly
waiting teenager.  Ran rose to his kneels and embraced Kirk's now heaving
chest with his right arm to help support and steady the youngster.

                  "Tell him when you cum," he advised in a hoarse whisper.
                  "You may have to," the boy responded, and the ragged,
hollow half-nothing of his voice gave Ran to know he wasn't kidding.

                  Looking down between the two young male body, Ran could
see that the teenager had been able to accept almost the entire length of
Kirk at his first penetration.  Apparently the boy lying on his back was
superbly talented, because in a matter of seconds both boys stopped moving.
Ran could see Jess's mouth working to a heavy, slow beat, which was echoed
with gasps from the younger boy.  In less than three minutes the child
began to stiffen in Ran's arms, his young muscles drawing on themselves
like chilling steel.  "He is going to cum in you mouth," he said slowly and
clearly to Jess.  "If you want to taste his seed, take it on your lips and
on the tip of your tongue."

                  Both the young males slightly changed their positions.
Half a minute went by, and then Jess's throat began working reflexively as
he hummed wantonly against his lover's hard, steady pulsing.



                  Time for a break.  Just passing 150,000 words.  Super
news.  Took my computer into Malcolm Dale's and uploaded the last four or
five files of "Stonington Stories", plus Books I -- IV of this yarn.
Total relief.  That would have been a lot to lose, and I've had several
close calls, plus the big speaker crash.  This machine must have fifteen
thousand hours on it, over three years, and it likes to test my heart every
time it boots with one trick or another.  I don't mind re-writing a hundred
or two pages, but when it's closer to a thousand, I get that sinking
feeling.  Anyhow, packed and shipped.
                  Rhageedha, correct spelling, I think, was here for an
hour with Samantha.  What a freaking duo.  I searched the book store for a
phonics text, with no luck.  I'd skip such a minor detail, but I don't find
it minor.  When I was in the used book business in Iowa, I'd occasionally
get in a box of old school books.  I'd buy them on the spot, and often
spend a happy hour going through the collection.  The old books are superb.
Total dignity.  This is work, this is information, Let's Go!  Very few
pictures, and no graphics, except, obviously, in the geometry texts.  A
dense list of questions and comments at the end of each chapter.  The books
today are the exact opposite.  Loaded with color graphics, drawing, photos
and any kind of illustration that is compatible with paper and ink.  They
are confusing, numbing junk; far more an exhibit of some yoyo's knack with
an airbrush, than anything to do with teaching and eager child, anything.
F minus.
                  Yesterday I asked Samantha what she wanted to buy now
that the monthly money came in.  She said a dress for Kira, her
two-year-old cousin, and a pair of "ears rings".  The dress was ten dollars
and the ear rings, thirty-six dollars.  "So, how much for both?" I asked.
She couldn't get it (and, as I think I've mentioned, Samantha is mildly
retarded).  Ten guesses didn't work, so finally I told her.  "Okay," I then
said, "I'm going to give you fifty dollars, and the dress and ear rings
will cost forty six.  How much change will you have?"  Samantha has been in
school for nine years, and she didn't have the foggiest.  This to say that
the graphics and slick artwork may lessen the burden of the publisher's
sales department, but they don't teach children.  As a child, the mod
approach gave me the same sick feeling as an overfriendly teacher.  "We are
not here to enjoy ourselves," I always thought to myself, or, maybe they
were.  (Though, to be honest, I never walked in on a teacher sitting in his
or her chair cooing over the color artwork in a geography text).
                  The old books were things of great beauty, printed on
good paper with lead type.  They had such-and-such a feeling in one's hand.
They were dense, all well-written business, with no Disney rejects trying
to entertain somebody.  Again, the first word that comes to mind is
`dignity'.  The had it because they pretended to be no more than they were.
                  In any event, I could find no book that wasn't a
cartoonist's extravaganza, so the phonics project is on hold.  I have every
instinct to haul Samantha out of school, and when the cops come, ask the
judge to ask her how much change she'd have from a fifty dollar bill if she
spent forty-six dollars.
                  To a limited extent I did get involved.  Rhageedha
complained of back pain, so I looked through her backpack.  She had no less
than seven collegiate size notebooks.  I wrote her teacher politely
informing her that kids in the states were running into chronic stress
issues from being overburdened hours out of each day.  In this case it was
a fitty pound girl carrying perhaps fifteen pounds of books.  So, not only
do the schools, which would be typical in less prosperous American, not
teach anything, they damage every cartilage in every spine.
                  In a democracy, the loud stupid candidate wins over the
smart, quiet one often enough to destroy the culture in infests.  It is
destroying your culture.  The only answer is absolute monarchy and
crystalline obedience.  The rushing you hear around you all day is not the
wheels of progress, it's the descending blade.  Samantha and Rhageedha are
proof, though, I'll admit, scanty proof because they weigh so much less
than typical American girls of their age.  If I were in a frivolous mood,
I'd add that it must be because of the exercise they get lugging their
packs hours every day.  I'd buy into this, but for a recent documentary on
the Moulin Rouge, where even dancers who do three shows a day in heavy
costumes have to step on a scale before they can punch in.

                  The great fly epidemic.  How could I forget the gift of
the god of Abraham?  To set the stage, I should mention that my old house,
until I got cats, was infested with some hundreds of giant roaches.  They
never bothered me one iota, and I quickly learned to let them be.  The
housefly is a different breed of cat.  Like Louis L'Amour, I could write in
chaos city, no problem, but set a dozen houseflies loose, and it's bye-bye
keyboard.  In a way, it was fun.  About every two hours, I'd go on a hunt,
armed with a rag flyswatter.  Stalk and kill six or eight in ten minutes,
then try to get back to work.  Not a success.  Finally Linden showed up and
found used Pampers (a Belezian national obsession that drives me nuts, with
hot trade winds virtually every day of the year) in Jessica's watermelon
tree.  No flies since, but two days and twelve-thousand words lost to
posterity.  That's what you call being a real writer.  Time into words.
Nothing else should matter, but I like my clean, well-landscaped pad, and,
who knows, maybe someday Steve and Norm will show up, and this not-very-old
house will provide something to write about.

                  Alex, my landlord, left a copy of "Macleans", a Canadian
magazine.  Article on unknown and unhonored writers.  Common denominator?
They all wrote stories while in primary school.  I not only didn't, I don't
think it's a good idea.  Read.  Get your foundation.  Don't even think of
trying fiction until you're in your thirties, because you'll pick up so
many bad habits the best you'll ever be is a niche composer of romances,
sci/fi, or religious sentiment, as all the writers in the article were.
Your early years should be spent dumpster diving for anything new to read,
anything.  Writing cute stories and getting unwarranted praise because of
one's tender years is the express lane to nowhere.  Another bone to pick
with the same article.  No mention of Nifty or similar sites.  From my
reading, Canadians are not only frequent contributors, but write some of
the best stories.  Talk about unhonored.  Let me be the bow of the ice
breaker on Hudson's Bay.  No problem, but you guys follow in close behind,
before everything freezes two-feet deep, again, how `bout it?  Yes, I've
said some nasty things about our northern neighbor, elsewhere, but here's
where the country is ahead of us.  In fact, in place of the Free-Spirit
family, which I believe lacks universal connotations, maybe a Canadian-Syle
family would be appropriate, and catch on quicker.

                  Exercise in perspective.  Marsha, your daughter, is
fifteen.  You've done your best by her and never had an impure thought
regarding her developing body.  For her sixteenth birthday, she wants to go
to a rock-`ola concert with Narff Nasty and the Hip Thrusters.  As Marsha
heads out the door, you know if a roadie plucks her from the nosh pit,
she'll go backstage with anyone in the cast or crew and do everything they
want, while you, good father, get kinked and knotted for taking a shower
with her.  What's wrong with this picture?

                  I just found something more distracting than houseflies.
Cat fights that break the PVC water inlet pipe, naturally, on my side of
the meter.  Roused Jessica, who happens to have a machete you can shave
with, so we whittled a plug from a broom handle, and got wet.  PVC is a
miracle here, allowing affordable town water to outlying areas, but, after
six years in the sun, it gets so brittle even a cat can snap it off.
Tomorrow's shopping list will include a pipe wrench, for next time, and,
meantime, I've found plumbing emergencies are less Mario when the water
temp is a little over eighty degrees.  (The only advantage to living in New
England, besides excellent seafood, fruits and vegetables, is ice cold tap
water in the winter months.  Regrettably, Harvard University trivializes
these niceties to the point they become incidental.)

                  Okay, Crimson, trivialize this:



                  Eight-year-old Alex Christopher liked Kirk's story.
Neither Josh nor Liff had remembered a phone call, though both were
yawning.
                  "Something I didn't bring up before," Kirk said to his
young temporary ward, "is that your mother might not have just been trying
to protect you.  There's a chance she wanted to reward you for doing well
in school, reading a lot, and being a nice all-`round kid.
                  "I mean what if you got dragged for miles under a school
bus, and you'd never had any exciting experiences?  How would she feel?
                  "I'm not saying it's true," Kirk continued, "but it might
be so you should half-assume it is, that she sent you to me, not just for a
bunch of warnings about getting raped by bikers, but so that you'd end up
in a swank hotel bathroom with some guys that like you and think you're
cute.
                  "The point being," he concluded, "that you kinda owe her
at least half big-time."
                  "It sounds like you're selling me on A's in algebra, when
the time comes," young Alex replied.
                  "Well," Kirk said, "if you want to molest little boys
when you get to be our age (meaning Josh), you've got to get jobs at summer
camps and be a scout leader, coach, or boy's club volunteer.  Good math
grades are the surest route to those jobs and positions.  Just a word to
the wise."
                  "Promise to marry me when I'm eighteen," Alex replied,
"and A's it will be."
                  "Deal," Kirk replied, adding how nice it would be to have
a decade so they could be sure they weren't making a mistake.  Alex
countered that Kirk was just glad it would be eight years before he could
drive.  All four thought that was funny.

                  "What did Jess say after you let it happen in his mouth?"
Liff asked Nick.
                  "The rest of the story," the man replied, "is pretty
saccharine.  Ran knew what he was doing, and after a months we stopped
getting together every night and went back to our former relationships, at
least most of the time.  Jess got into a country-club school where he found
a female friend his own age.  Last I heard, they'd tamed themselves and
were doing better than anyone expected."

                  "Liff," Kirk said, "your uncle said you had concerns
about one of your teachers.  Is that private, or would you like to tell us
about it?"
                  "Can Alex make my uncle excited like you did with Ran in
the story?" the boy asked in a sweet, quiet voice.
                  "Do you want to see what happens?" Josh asked, "or would
you like it to happen while you're kissing me and licking me?"
                  "If I watch, will there be enough to get a little in my
mouth so we can experiment both ways?" the eleven year old asked.
                  "Yes, darling," the young man said.  "Do you want it to
happen here, or in the bedroom?"
                  "Here," the boy said, saving a thousand miles over deep
carpet on wobbly limbs, with a singe word.

                  The four rose from the settee.  By accord they stripped
slowly out of their briefs and underpants, watching each other avidly.
Naked, they came together in a tight circle, drinking each other in with
their eyes, the adults experimenting with the two children, carefully
gauging their levels of acceptance.  Sensing no reluctance beyond the
natural timidity over most anything new, the men formed with the boys
around the leather bench.  Josh sat with Liff facing him in his lap.  Alex
knelt to the young man's right, and Kirk stood behind him to support him,
look over his shoulder, and sexually molest him.

                  Josh had carefully shaved himself and looked like a
little boy, but for his seven-inch circumcised penis.  Liff's boner was
almost six inches, very slim, and uncircumcised.  Alex was big for a child,
almost the size of a frank, and Kirk was a near twin of Josh.

                  Snuggling in behind Alex, Kirk openly fondled the eight
year old with his left hand, while he guided the child's right hand to
Josh.  Liff laced his fingers behind his neck, and sometimes bent a little
forward to watch Alex, and otherwise stared into his uncle's eyes.  As the
little boy began experimenting with his uncle's slippery seminal fluid,
Liff told his partners about what had happened to him at school.

                  "Liff," Francisco LaJolla said," I'd like you to stay
after for a few minutes, if it won't mess up your afternoon."
                  "I was just going to go home and read Kenneth Roberts,"
the eleven year old boy said, "My uncle sent me "Rabble in Arms."
                  "I might have known," the teacher laughed.  "How you do
so poorly in English, while reading everything, is a mystery to me."
                  "Well," Liff replied, "outlining sentences will always be
a mystery to me.  You don't write math equations, chemical formulas, or
navigation solutions out in English, so why in the world are we trying make
syntax into graphics?"
                  "To keep you from reading Hemingway," the
twenty-five-year-old teacher replied.
                  The boy grinned at the touche.  (I've sketched my concept
of bonding enough times in this book to feel safe in assuming you don't
need another reminder of what it is that makes humans interesting to each
other.)

                  "The reason I wanted to talk to you," Francisco said,
"was the essay you wrote last week on your uncle, Josh."
                  "Was it okay?" the boy asked.
                  "More than," the teacher said.
                  "Then I didn't throw `The Snows of Kilimanjaro' against
the wall for nothing?"
                  "Apparently you learned that a beard, square chops, and a
knit sweater don't a writer make, and put the lesson to good use.  One
sentence had two --hundred-thirteen-words."
                  "Where I know he's come to visit because I wake up to the
sound of splitting firewood," Liff murmured.
                  "You catch the weather, the light, the birds, the sound
of the rasp of the file on the blade of the ax, the cadence shift as he
gets back into the rhythm he grew up with.  Quite something."
                  "You counted the words?" the boy asked.
                  "It beat grading the other papers," Francisco teased.
                  "Did I get a good mark?" Liff asked.
                  "I saved you with a D," the young teacher responded.
                  "Spelling," the boy said, glumly.
                  "It's a lesson to you, Liff," Francisco said.  "You are
not college material, and it's a wonder for you to find out, or, for me to
find out, for you, at your age.  It will save you a, grief, and, b, a
bodacious amount of loot."

                  "I'm meant to go," the boy said.
                  "No way," the teacher responded, "you're a writer; born
to the craft, perhaps the art.  You should be reading.  I've checked with
other teachers and they say you have no gift for math or chem.  They could
be a collegiate loophole, and a big one, at that, but not the case.  You
can't spell.  In college, they mark you down ten percent for every
misspelled word.  Your essay on your uncle, Josh, would have earned an F
halfway through the second page.  To compete, you'd have to look up every
polysyllabic word from truly, which you spelled with a double-L, to
pursuit, which you spelled with an E, to polysyllabic, which the other
students might have to look up, too.  Bad math and bad spelling are a
lethal combination above the junior college level.  You shouldn't waste a
minute of your life doing anything but reading, and reading mostly history,
at that."
                  "I wish," the boy said.
                  "It takes serious guts to be a writer," Francisco said,
"getting reamed for lousy grades is just the beginning.  Then girls will
dump you because all you do is sit around reading and thinking; lie around,
if you have a comfortable couch.  When you hit the two hundred book level,
you'll be so much smarter than everyone around you you'll lose touch with
them, like a hawk loses touch with a mole.  By forty, when you might begin
to take yourself seriously, you should be a the three thousand book level.
                  "Then, oddly, you stop.  Read nothing more.  Assuming
you've done some traveling and living in general, along the way, you are
prepared, and you don't want anyone else's style to tie you down.
Imitation is oblivion."
                  "I saw on CSPAN II where a lot of writers tried to
imitate Kerouac," Liff replied.
                  "He's famous for his typing," Francisco observed.  "If
people tried imitating someone like that, it's an indicator of how
dangerous the syndrome is.  The only way to beat it is to read so much, no
one's style rubs off, and be sure to include V.C. Andrews, so you'll know
you can write with no style, not a trace, and still become massively
popular."
                  "She's great," Liff said.
                  "Isn't she just," Francisco said, adding, do you know how
much of a writer I am?"
                  "No," Liff answered.
                  "I'm enough of a writer, because we don't sit around
typing all day, you know, to have taken you from your essay to Ms. Andrews,
and in more or less jig time, at that."
                  The handsome boy nodded, feeling there'd be more, neither
in his young head nor in his juvenile heart.  There was.

                  "Your essay, your Uncle Josh, and V.C. Andrews.  That's
what I'd like to talk to you about, now that I've flunked you out of every
accredited school north of the Mason/Dixon line."
                  What was there to do, but laugh?  But the boy was too
nervous.

                  "If you don't want to talk about mature stuff, it's
okay," Francisco said, "this is just a bull session, anyway."
                  "You wouldn't be keeping me from Kenneth Roberts if you
didn't think it was pretty important," the boy noted.

                  Francisco's eyes grew hot as Liff looked at him.  He was
a tall, craggy Creole, black hair in a ponytail, with hooded brown fiery
orbs.

                  "In your essay," the teacher said quietly, "I found a
strong attraction, you for Josh.  Whether it's conscious, or subliminal, I
don't know, just that it's there.  I want to cast my vote for you.  For
something very special happening between the two of you, when you next get
together.  If there's any way I can help that something happen, I want to."
                  "I thought maybe you'd talk to me if I wrote it just
right," Liff murmured.
                  "One more sentence like that, my eleven-year-old friend,"
Francisco said, "and I will burden myself with your kidnapping and hide you
in a shack until you make yourself rich, famous, and immortal."
                  "I hope it's bigger than Thoreau's cabin," the boy
replied, "it was so small he didn't have room for the smallest wood stove,
so he had to heat it with a fireplace built at one end."
                  "He was so lazy," Francisco added, "that he built a house
too small for the stove, and then used twenty times more wood to heat it
than if he'd built it four square feet bigger.  The prototypical liberal."
                  "They are inferior," Liff agreed, and, for some reason,
they let the cultural commentary pass.

                  "Am I right about your having strong feelings for Josh?"
Francisco asked.
                  "I think about him a lot.  Only reading makes it go
away."
                  "Okay," the handsome young teacher said, "let me ask you
something really personal, and then you can decide if you want to hang out
here, or get back to your book."
                  "Okay," Liff said, his voice becoming ragged in response
to the huskier note of his teacher's speech.

                  "This takes place in the bathroom, but has nothing to do
with the toilet, okay?" the older male said.
                  "Okay," Liff repeated.
                  "Josh is showering.  He says he left the shampoo in his
suitcase, and wants you to bring it to him.  How would you feel about
opening the door to the shower, and handing it to him?"
                  "I think I'd forget what page I was on," Liff responded.
                  "I'm getting just a tingle," Francisco responded, "that
asking you to stay after this afternoon was the smartest thing I've ever
done in my life."
                  "You taught me to hate Fitzgerald," the boy noted.
                  "That I did," the teacher mused, half to himself and
nodding slowly.  "Tell you what," he added, "we'll throw in the big H.,
Faulkner, Salinger, Heller, Golding, Kafka, and four more, and I'll
stipulate it's the tenth smartest thing I've ever done in my life."
                  "You warned me about a Tyne Daley movie once, remember?"
the bright-eyed eleven year old asked.
                  "Knock it off," the teacher laughed.
                  "You shouldn't be so modest," the boy, also laughing,
replied, "after all, who wants to hang themselves over some dumb actress."

                  (Aren't we glad all those cute little `bonding' notes are
a thing of the past?)

                  "Okay," Francisco said, after a couple of minutes, "back
to the shampoo and the shower.  If you could see through the frosted glass
that he was facing you, would you want to open the shower door?"
                  "I think so," the boy said.
                  "Do you know about the things boys do in the shower,
besides washing?" Francisco asked.
                  "I've heard kids talk about jerking-off in the shower,"
Liff blushed in a ragged whisper, "but I don't know what it is."
                  "Do you want me to tell you?" the teacher said, "because
you'll be with Josh in a few days, and you can ask him.  He may not be
interested, but I don't think he'll flush you down the toilet."

                  "I know you better than I know him," the boy noted, "but
I love him more, because of the uncle thing, plus he's neat and cool and
stupid stuff like that."
                  "It's your choice," the young man repeated.  "Some men in
his position would prefer to be with a virgin, but most would probably be
more comfortable, especially in an incestuous situation, if their young
partner had some experience."
                  "If something happens between us," Liff said, "I'd like
to know how to make him really happy."
                  "You'd do that wearing a snowsuit all day and all night,"
Francisco said.
                  "Well," replied the brilliant boy, "I guess that leaves
just me to please, and I'd be pleased knowing how to go after him, if he's
interested, and knowing means knowing, and, not to put too fine a point on
it, knowledge comes from teachers."
                  "Watch how you spell that one," Francisco advised, unable
to resist the double-entendre.  The child reddened slightly, and nearly
instantly, super proof that however slowly they were reading the opening
chapter, they were on the same page.  "No kissing and no foreplay," the
teacher continued in a more serious vein, "that's for the two of you.  If
you'd like something mature to happen between us, we can go to the
infirmary as doctor-patient.  It's private and comfortable.  Everybody will
be gone and I have a key because I'm back-up emergency co-coordinator for
the district."

                  "I want to," Liff said.
                  "Okay," his teacher whispered, adding: "if you want to
make it the most unforgettable day of your life, which it may be, anyway,
of course, there's something we can do, you know, just to make absolutely
sure not one instant of what happens ever slips your mind."

                  There was more?  It seemed to Liff it would be impossible
to forget a moment with his tall, athletic English teacher, even if he
changed his mind and sent him home.  What more could there be?

                  "If you want, and if you're up for being scared half to
death," Francisco said, "we could strip here in the classroom, and walk to
the infirmary."

                  That was more; practically defined the freaking word.
Liff was gong to ask if Francisco was kidding, but his mouth was suddenly
dry as cotton.  If his teacher's idea of `no foreplay' including walking
the halls, naked, the boy was glad he hadn't decided on no sex.
                  "Is the building empty?" the boy managed to whisper.
                  "Not necessarily," Francisco said.  "Once in awhile
someone on the cleaning crew gets here early, or there are stragglers
leaving for the day."
                  "What would happen if we got caught?" Liff asked.
                  "You would become and immediate and intense center of
interest," the young teacher said.  "Every last girl would want you to ask
her out, and half the boys would want you to come for an overnight."
                  "Guess I'd have to be careful of my spelling, again," the
boy said, his mind whirling.
                  "Come off it," Francisco replied, "you're a writer, not
an editor.  Spell it as you wish."
                  "What if I'm not in the mood for any spelling?" the cutie
said, temporizing because the thought of seeing his rangy, athletic teacher
stalled his mind and froze his body.
                  "You could sit on my lap and wait for another mood to
come," Francisco suggested.
                  "So if I sat for a spell, it would come?" the boy
rejoined.
                  "I doubt it will go," Francisco observed, with precision.
                  "It does sound better than going home and listening to my
big brother's drunk-teen music for two hours," Liff acknowledged.
                  "How about Mr. Roberts?" Francisco asked.
                  "I read until midnight," Liff said, "so I'm kinda ahead
of schedule, not that I have a schedule."
                  "Good," the teacher responded.  "As a writer, you'll have
to get used to working vastly ahead.  That's the only way you can maintain
the confidence to stay at the top of your game.  If you get behind, you'll
have to search for words; reach down the mountain, so to speak.  That's
what a writer does, a real one, he sits at the top of the peak, not moving
a muscle.  The strongest words make it up to him, and he types them out.
As soon as he feels any stress or distraction, he'll start reaching down
the side of the mountain to help the lesser words, thoughts, and ideas:
those not strong enough to make the climb on their own."

                  Was there an allegory on the floor?  He was a bit young
to be hacking away at the cliffs of Everest, but was a substitute boldness
in the offing?  Was the symbolic mountain, in actuality, the sum of one's
reading and experience?  Would walking two-hundred yards through a probably
empty school building, naked, hand-in-hand with his handsome teacher,
amount to an experience?  Well, if it was going to keep him from his book,
it had better.

                  Francisco swiveled in his chair, holding out both hands.
Liff moved to him and sat nervously, facing the tall athlete.  "When you
get home," the young man said, "hint to your mother that a teacher is
pursuing you.  Unless I miss my guess, that will act as a catalyst for you
and Josh.  Jump-start an active relationship..."

                  "And make my dreams come true?" the boy couldn't help
interrupting.  Nice thing with a familiar teacher, one always had something
to talk about.  But what would he have to say to his uncle, to date only a
bit player in his life?  Maybe something interesting would happen so he
could fill in any nervous silence by telling a story.  The nascent writer
in him nodded, and, even at eleven years of age, captive of his muse, his
handsome young head moved along with that of his artistic alter ego.
                  "Asked and answered," Francisco said, responding to Liff
and glad any issues seemed to be melting away like ice in the trade winds.
"You start on my buttons, if you want," he whispered.
                  It wasn't real foreplay, because they didn't touch each
other, nor was it changing out of work clothes for dinner.  Shirts off,
they gazed at each other for a long minute, then Liff got to his feet and,
by accord, back-to-back, they stepped out of their shoes, socks, trousers,
boxers and white underpants, leaving their clothes piled neatly on a corner
of the desk.

                  Shyly they turned to look at each other.
                  "I heard rumors you were the most mature boy in school,"
Francisco whispered.  "It doesn't matter, not to anybody you'd want to
know, ever, but it is nice."
                  "I could start some about you," Liff replied, blushing.
It might be good for a writer to experiment a little with being bold, but
it took getting used to.  "They'd be true enough," he added in a whisper,
gazing down at the young man's jutting eight-inch penis, causing him to
blush in his turn.
                  "One way to put some life in study hall," Francisco
replied.

                  What had started in his mind as an empty joke took deeper
root.  Modern schools were prison camps of rank, raw boredom.  Politically
correct numbskulls who tried to entertain as they taught; tried to be
popular -- those were the teachers.  If television, a
multi-billion-dollar institution, almost never amused, how could a "C"
teacher certified by Left Field U.?  If this was the case, wouldn't a
little teacher/student spice give the kids a reason to climb on the bus,
after all?  Make the place just that much less a leftist wasteland?  If the
talk got hot enough and heavy enough, who knew, maybe some teachers would
spend a few days with their minds off their dental plans, pensions,
seniority, tenure, and the onion of issues that were fodder for trade-union
militancy.  Whether this would amount to a permanent change from their
state of cookie-cutter zombyism, or not, any relief would be worth any
risk.  (Too bad there wasn't a basketball game going on.)

                  "Pretty jungle, eh?" Francisco whispered as they left
their room and turned down the hall.
                  "It's nice having everything safe, but you," the boy
said.  "I mean, I'd hate it if a lion appeared about now."
                  "That would make us the hunted," Francisco agreed,
nodding his head, "but how about if we become the lions.  Do a little
hunting of our own before we get to the infirmary?"
                  "I don't have to be home until seven," the boy replied;
"later, as long as I call."
                  "If it's a good jungle," the teacher said, "we should be
able to find something in three hours."

                  More?  Just doing what they were doing, wasn't that more,
enough?  Or was there always more, when it came to this kind of thing?  Was
that what the thrills and chills were about; why doing special things
together, whatever they were, dominated?  Because there was always the next
one, and the next one, like an escalator of partners and experiences?  Or,
was he lucky to have this one?  He pondered.  Who else in the school would
he want to be walking naked with?  The result of his survey was reassuring.
Out of the near one thousand, perhaps four or five male teachers, two boys
that were nice and pretty cute, and Cheryl Knight.  Not much of a Roman
orgy in that crowd.  Just good luck, a little good writing, and a little
bad spelling, that he was with his second favorite.

                  "If it ever comes to it," Francisco said, as they made
their way toward the gym, "I can lend you and your uncle my master key.
Retrace your first steps, so to speak."
                  "It would be more exciting if I got caught with a
stranger," the boy admitted, to his partner's laugh.
                  "I'll pretend I don't know him, either," Francisco
embellished, "that way it will make it above the fold."
                  "That way, it will make a fold-out," came the reply.  The
non-sequitor was mild enough to let slide, even for a writer to be.
Besides, the boy was obviously excited and nervous, so allowances were
doubly in order.

                  The duo stalked the halls, their bare-foot prints clear
against the general haze left by sneakers and shoes.  Size eleven for the
rangy athlete, and a generous size seven for the coltish stripling.  At one
point they stopped and looked back.  The slanting light from the high
windows showed a man had walked here with a boy, no other interpretation
was likely.  "It will make people go all spiritual," Francisco, the more
experienced writer, mused, "and they'll kneel at our tracks, praying we'll
be back."

                  They weren't in the Philippines, but it was an
out-of-breath march, nonetheless.  The no-foreplay pact eliminated the
partial relief they might have obtained by kissing and fondling each other;
overlaid the psychological with the physical.  But now it was all
psychological.  Just holding hands, enormously erect, walking up this
staircase and down that hallway, was taking its toll.  For relief, they
began choosing windows to peer in.  They'd lean against a door, peering
through the slit window, the child in front, and the man over him, trying
to control their panting, trying to converse in voices that didn't sound
like the last gasp of Casanova.  They were like a pair of terminal drunks,
guiding each other nowhere.  "Drunk, and aware enough to realize our tracks
along the side of the hall won't be buffed away?" Francisco said to
himself, "I hardly think so."  For sure, it was the first day in the rest
of the life of Middlemarch Middle School, and, literary onions being
limited by the number of electrons in the universe, we'll leave it at that.

                  They moved silently, trying to stay close without
touching, which invariably appealed to the psychological side of their
relationship by stimulating a bout of breathless panting far in excess of
that which would normally result from incidental contact, while walking
slowly along a school hallway.

                  This is going to be hard to write.  So predictable.  Such
a cliché.  A down-home groaner, and that's the truth.  Francisco and
Liff found their way to the gymnasium, peered through the safety class on
the doors, and entered.  They circled the floor and approached the boy's
locker room like cats, listening and wary.  Still.  Silent.  They dared
breathe and dropped to explore on their hands and knees.  (Childish, but
stimulating when accompanied by a child.)  Empty.  On to the showers.
Still.  Silent.  "If you could be in here, alone, with any boy in school,
who would it be?" Francisco whispered.

                  "Crave Ustanic," the eleven year old replied.
                  "I thought you were pretty smart for your age," the
teacher responded.
                  "Yeah, he's pretty neat," Liff concurred, "but next to my
uncle, you're my first choice, and that includes more than just this dumb
school."

                  They whispered a few moments more, than crawled, trying
not to touch, which made them grunt and stop, side-by-side back to the gym,
pushing the swinging doors open with their heads.  Liff glanced up to the
broadcast cab at the top of the bleachers.  Again like cats the two young
males stalked up the rows of bleachers, who knows what evil thoughts
lurking in their minds?  They crept to the top row, then along it,
flattening themselves as part of their little game, silent as fog.

                  Liff was first to the door of the booth, his teacher at
his left flank.  The boy paused, caught the older male's eye, received a
nod, and slowly began rising to peer through the window.  Inches more, he
was there...
                  "Wow!" he yelped, dropping back down beside Francisco.

                  That should have been it.  The game should have been up.
No rumors, no innuendo, no double-looks, just boilerplate fact, repeated
the same from every tongue.  The boy had blown it with a single unguarded
utterance.  It echoed through the vacant hall, or, that is, it would have
but for the very stereotypical plot device common to all middle-school
legends, sagas, tales, and yarns.  They were saved by the bell.  Its
mindless timer rang it with enough gusto to be heard at the same instant by
a thousand catatonic students.  It masked the boy's yelp of surprise.  It
echoed for ten merciful seconds, then died away.

                  Did Liff spring away?  Use the miraculous intervention to
drag his naked partner from the scene.  He wasn't that kind of boy.
                  "They won't see us," he said, and dragged his teacher up
the side of the booth with his left hand.  They both peered through the
double glazing of the sound-resistant booth.

                  Remember that literary onion?  This one's passing some
ungodly word count; over three-hundred single-spaced pages.  Am I setting
you up for another cliché cop-out?  Take it to the bank.  You are not,
repeat, not, getting a play-by-play.  Quick work with a sharp knife, that's
the ticket.  I'll make a writer of myself, yet.

                  They watched for ten minutes, then slowly sank back to
the bleachers, and, catlike, disappeared from the arena.  Too shaken to
stand, the pair crawled the two short hallways to the infirmary, leaving
yet more distinct tracks on the polished vinyl school flooring.  Francisco
had palmed the key and now rose to his knees to work the lock.  Liff knelt
at his teacher's right flank, and, past endurance, reached across in front
of his slim, pre-teen belly to Francisco's swollen penis.  "Now the we're
here, it can't be foreplay," he whispered, manhandling the young teacher in
just the way the teacher was probing at the door lock.  When Francisco
fount the slot for the key, he inserted the tip.  He was shocked to feel
his young student emulate is move, so he experimented.  Slowly, in ragged
fits and starts, the inserted the slim steel blade into the cylinder.
Slowly, in ragged fits and starts, the child at his flank peeled back his
foreskin and began masturbating him.
                  In seconds, they had not only invented, but perfected,
the world's newest and most erotic game for two players.
"Strokey-Strokey", Liff named it, showing why he'd win a Noble Prize for
literature when he was nineteen.  The player with the key could precisely
control the hand gripping his penis, and if their eyes glazed and their
heads spun, the slight clicking of the tumblers was enough to maintain any
rhythm, intensity, and length of stroke the keyholder wished.

                  Of course, the game could only be carried so far.  In the
first place, it was frivolous, and thus not likely to be a significant part
of making love, and, in the second, place, when a key is seated, one twists
it.

                  "I liked not having foreplay," Liff said, mimicking Rusty
Griswold saying, "I'm glad we're not going to Hawaii," as they entered the
clinic.  (Rusty, Audrey, Vicky and Dale, heads-up, you're in for a story of
your own, never fear. (And, no, daddy won't do it best, because, wouldn't
you know it, the plate in his head's too small.))
                  "It would have been inappropriate," Francisco agreed.
                  "This way, it will be like a biology lesson, with no
romantic overtones."
                  "Perish the thought," the older male whispered, then
resumed in his best classroom voice.  "There's a technical thing I have to
go over with you," he said, "that's about as romantic as it gets between
males."
                  "What?" the child asked.
                  "Something very special you can do the first time you're
with Josh," the young man replied.  "Sort of the ultimate love gift."
                  "I think the key game will get me in the door," the boy
responded, deadpan.
                  "It's not only how the key is used," quoth the teacher,
"but how often.  What I'm talking about will bring many return engagements,
to use the politest terminology I can think of."
                  "Pretend I'm a brat, then," the eleven year old
suggested.
                  "Just out and tell you?" Francisco said, "well, I guess
after what we saw happening in the booth, I probably can."
                  "I'm listening," the boy said.
                  "Okay," the man said in a thick voice, "remember how it
was between Mr. Samuels and Petey Finch?"
                  "Yes," Liff said, tentatively.
                  "They did it a certain way," Francisco explained, gently.
"Do you know what I mean?  In a certain sequence.  Understand?"
                  "They were sort of taking turns doing what I was doing
with you outside the door," Liff replied, hoping he didn't sound like a
confused dork.
                  "That's true," Francisco allowed, "but think of what
happened later.  More toward the end."
                  "Was that cumming?" the boy asked, pretty sure, but,
writer that he was, not wishing to assume.
                  "Yes," Francisco said.  "They both cummed off."
                  "And Mr. Samuels let it happen before he made it happen
with Petey," the boy guessed.
                  "That's what I was getting at," the teacher said.
"That's the way it will be with us, if you want to go that far with me, and
that's the way it usually is between a man and a younger boy.  The adult
lets the boy watch, while he, the boy, is still excited.  Then he makes his
younger partner cum.
                  "If you really love your uncle Josh," the teacher
continued, "you'll reverse it.  You'll cum, first, while he's excited, get
him wet, like Mr. Samuels got Petey wet, then stand at his right hip, with
your left arms tight around his waist, and masturbate him with your
slippery hand.
                  "Part of the story," Francisco went on, "is that there is
a big letdown after you ejaculate.  If the preliminary friendship is
superficial, this can lead to feelings of guilt, anger and disgust in a
boy, lasting several minutes, or more.  I don't think it's a danger with
you or me, or you and Josh, but the basic fact remains, that males cool off
after they cum.  Most of the time your uncle will want to be the one to be
on the downslope, if you want to call it that, so you don't have to put up
with his sexual activity after yours is over, for the moment.  Same with
me.  But if you're mature enough, and love your partner, there is much less
of a letdown after your orgasm, or, perhaps, none at all.  That's why it
would be safe to reverse, especially the first time, and from time to time
after that.  I know you don't like math applied to English, but here it
might come in handy."

                  They both froze for a moment in the entendre-laden
minefield.  Nah.  They were outgrowing that.  Let them go.  Yes, maturity,
never can tell when it, too, will come in handy.

                  "So, like every three times, I could be first with him?"
Liff asked, to his friend's nod.
                  "How often with you?" he asked.
                  "Every ten times, if you insist," the young man said.  "A
man has a much shallower downslope than a boy, so it's not raw altruism."
                  "I like the `every ten times' part," the boy replied,
"but I'll make my own decisions on how much I love you and what special
gifts I might want to bestow."
                  "Just give them to the right people, in the right order,"
Francisco suggested, reminding the boy he was already first with him, in
other ways.

                  This ended their conversation.  Francisco retrieved a
tube of gel and led his student to the door mirror at the far end of the
dispensary.  He gave the KY to Liff, and the boy squeezed a strip onto his
right hand, retaining the tube, "In case you want more."  Gently the young
adult encircled the boy's slim chest with his left arm, and found him with
his wet right hand.  "This is why some people don't like foreplay," he
whispered as he began to firmly masturbate the child.  Liff's grunted
response, "Uh, uh, uh," seemed disconnected to the lesson, but no grades
were in the offing -- showing up was more than eighty percent of success
-- so Francisco let the lapse pass.

                  The boy began shaking almost immediately.  His breathing
became a hard panting, and he spread his legs wide and thrust himself
wantonly against his teacher's powerful, rhythmic stroking.
                  "We've got to stop," the teacher whispered as he felt the
lithe, coltish body in his embrace beginning to cord with tension.  "Sorry,
I know, babe, sorry, it won't be long, easy, easy," the man cooed to the
boy, bringing him slowly down to a gentle fondling as he kissed his neck
and coaxed.
                  "Are you okay?" he asked the panting child.
                  "That was so close," Liff whispered, in awe.
                  "You had me close for ten minutes with the key," the
older male replied.
                  "It feels like it will hurt if the rest doesn't happen,"
Liff said.
                  "It will," Francisco assured him, "but the rest will
happen barring fire or flood, so don't worry.
                  "At the same time," the teacher added, "you might keep
the feeling in mind, and remember to find times and places where you won't
be interrupted.  Less suffering."
                  The boy handed the young man the gel and held out his
right hand.  Francisco spread the lube, and moved back to rest against the
exam table in the middle of the room.  He spread his legs widely, as the
eleven year old moved in close under his right arm.  The boy's arm went
around his waist, and his tiny, childish hand found the swollen tip of
Francisco's penis. He wet the mature male, and started masturbating him
fully and hard.
                  "That's perfect," the teacher whispered after a few
moments, "just don't stop when I cum.  It will be very messy, like in the
booth, but still, don't stop or slow down."
                  "I won't," the panting boy assured his partner, "but tell
me when it's going to happen so I can get in front of you like Petey did."
                  "I may not be able to," the man whispered, raggedly, "but
you'll probably be able to tell, and I have more sperm than Mr. Samuels, so
you'll have plenty of time to get more in front and hold me against me
while you keep moving your hand."

                  The young man was right.  Liff could feel him with his
left arm and hand, the powerful body closing like a slowly-turned vice;
tensing, clamping, shuddering, panting, sweating, gasping, rising hotly,
then, all at once, and he move in front, his hand never faltering.  The
sperm gushed on him again and again, thick, white, and smearing and
spurting on his belly, his panting chest, his shoulders, neck, and
schoolboy face.
                  Even as he was still ejaculating, the mature male
manhandled the youth in front of him, wet the palm of his right hand on his
belly, and fully masturbated the trembling child.  "I'm cumming," the boy
whimpered after some few minutes, and Francisco held him rigidly as he was,
stroking him hard to his hilt, freezing his hand in place and squeezing
firmly while the boy's hot, watery spray wet the floor almost three feet in
front of his shaking, coltish hips.

                  Back in Mr. LaJolla's class, fully dressed, the new
lovers relaxed over cokes.  "I thought of a name for our story," Liff said.
                  "What?" his teacher asked.
                  "Well," the boy replied, "seeing as how the tradeunion
socialists are ruining the schools, I thought I might call it "Footprints
in the Halls of Crime."  Full stop.

                  END OF BOOK VII

Posted by Thomas C. Emerson, Dangriga 2002

xxx