Date: Fri, 31 May 2013 19:30:46 -0700
From: D_M <mcleodwrite@gmail.com>
Subject: Alex & Timmy, Ch 1 (adult/youth)

I've been a juvenile probation officer for the county in which I live for
ten years. I got the job just after I finished grad school. I'm 32. My name
is Alex Bryce. I'm of Scottish extraction. Ironically, the coat of arms for
my family's surname carries the motto, Fiat justitia, or, let justice be
done. I fought and defied my way through the first 18 years of my life and
became a supervisee of the juvenile justice system at 14. I very nearly
graduated into the adult criminal justice system but for the blessed,
dogged, amazing presence of two men: my probation officer and later, the
dean of students in the community college where I finally managed to enroll
at 19. This is not a story about my troubled youth. Maybe I'll tell that
story some day.

This is a more complicated story, at least for me. This is the story –
unfolding still as I write – about my love for one of the young men I
supervise. I should say that I'm queer. Gay. I bat for my own team. My
queerness really makes no difference – loving a 14 year old boy or a 14
year old girl are both actionable offenses, and each would cause me to lose
my job at the very least. Queerness just adds a dimension of complexity in
the minds of many. I have never lusted for someone young before. Caring in
an inappropriate manner for a minor  is a new experience for me. The fact
that he is 14, the same age I was when I really hit the skids, is not lost
on me. I just don't know whether his age has anything to do with why I fell
for him. It certainly makes for some scary challenges.

The object of my affection is Timothy. He hates being called Timmy, but I
can't help but call him that anyway when we're alone. He doesn't know that
I'm in love with him. I don't even know whether he's gay. He's never said
so, but every now and then I just get a visceral sense that he's chewing on
something – and then, there's a look, a subtle blush. But, where Tim is
concerned, I trust neither my instincts nor my reactions.

Tim comes from a family situation that is not really remarkable even though
it's horrible. Dad is a serious alcoholic, abusive, but not to the point of
putting anybody in the hospital so far. He's a master at psychological
abuse, very powerful, used to getting his own way. Always. Mom is in
denial, suffers from low self-esteem and a lack of a sense of independence
despite having grown up with every advantage, great education, more money
that she could possibly need. She reminds me that anyone can be abused.
And, worse, both of Tim's parents are HEAVILY invested in keeping up a
façade of absolutely rosy wonderfulness.

Timmy's parents drip with money. Like his mom, his father comes from a
family of means, and he made another fortune in real estate speculation in
the past twenty or so years. Tim's a trust fund baby. Every time I see him,
the phrase "poor little rich kid" echoes in my mind. The kid wants nothing
more than his parents' attention. He's not a bad kid—just a really sad kid.
His antics are more ridiculous than dangerous. He is only trying to get his
mother and father to notice him. The only reason he HAS a probation officer
and hasn't been able to avoid the system is that one of his crimes took
place in a shopping mall owned by a former business partner of his father.
He saw Timothy's crime as a great reason to stick it to the old man.

Some of Tim's exploits include getting caught shoplifting (with his own
AMEX black card in his wallet, there for his convenience) skateboards (at
the heretofore mentioned mall); being kicked out of school for giving away
pot to kids; and most recently, he "liberated" half a dozen horses at an
elite riding club owned in part by his father, sending six very spoiled
young ladies into histrionics of epic proportions on the very day of a big,
fancy horse show. I have to hand it to Timothy, he makes interesting
choices about when and where to create havoc.

His IQ is 140 and he's flunking out of 9th grade. Every time I've seen him
in the past six months, he's been sadder and more dispirited than the time
before. Not sulky asshole kid kind of sad, but really deeply sad to his
core. Today, I'm taking a new approach to Tim's supervision. I've got a
friend who runs a no-kill shelter for dogs. I figure dogs are as good as
anything to help fill up the hole this kid has in his heart. May as well
use the copious powers of my position to give Tim the chance to feel what
it's like to give back something positive. Maybe that will help him turn a
corner. If he starts getting noticed by others, maybe not being noticed by
his dad and mom will matter less. Since I can only really hope to help the
kid change, I'll work on what it is I can control.

Every time I see Timmy, it's more difficult for me to hide how I feel about
him. At this point, I'm grasping at straws. If I'm not able to see some
results, to help get Timmy off his sad destructive path, I will need to
reassign him for both our sakes. Devin is my friend who runs the shelter.
 He's the only person who knows how I feel. He's been my friend since we
were six. He grew up not all the way queer. He likes women, too. He's
probably the world's most loving, cool human being. I'm just praying that
Timmy and Devin will make some kind of connection so that I can keep the
kid safe and we can stay in one another's lives.

I have two vehicles, an old Ford F150 that is as old as I am, and requires
a LOT of my time to keep running. My friends tell me I'm crazy to keep it,
but it's a point of pride for me to keep the old rig on the road. My other
ride is a 2004 midnight blue Jag XJ. This car was bequeathed to me by the
man I mentioned earlier, my probation office, Ken Riley, when he died a
year ago in a plane crash. I had no idea I was in his will, so imagine my
surprise when I was his sole beneficiary. I now live in the incredible
Craftsman house where he lived for thirty years, and I drive the car that,
until recently, still smelled like him. I miss the man every day of my
life, but I know in my heart that he's got prime real estate there, so I
will never lose him. I talk a lot to him when I drive the Jag. Ah, hell, I
talk to him a lot when I drive the truck, too, just louder so he'll hear me
over the rattles.

My life definitely took a hard left turn when Ken died. He was my mentor,
my boss, and my best friend. Just before he died was when he called me in
to his office one day and handed me Tim's file. Ken said, "Alex, my gut
tells me that this kid needs you. And, I think that you need him, too. Not
sure why. You'll have to figure that out." A week later, just after I met
Tim for the first time, Ken was killed. If Ken had lived, I'd have sucked
it up and confessed what I was feeling just as soon as I knew that I was
getting my heart in hot water over this kid. He would have listened to me,
grinning and groaning, and then he would have offered me not a single bit
of advice. He'd have said what he always told me: "Trust your gut, follow
your heart, and keep your integrity, Alex. Keep your rudder true and steer
your ship. Didn't I tell you that I thought you two would be important for
one another?" Ken was like that. He had a spooky side to him that I learned
to trust over time. With my life.

I am driving the Jag today to pick Timmy up from school. Instead of going
inside, I just pull up in the parking lot and wait for him. It's spring,
the weather is decent, and I'm early on purpose. I figure I will catch up
on some work as I wait for him. Discharge reports and intake files threaten
to take over my life at any moment, so I really have to work a discipline
to keep on top of them. A lot of stuff these days is only on the computer,
but the juvenile probation system in my state is still not paper free by
any stretch. So, I haul files with me always.

One of the things I really love about the Jag is that I can move the
electric seat way the hell back and stretch out my 39" inseam legs. When
you're 6'6" tall, being able to stretch out anywhere is a big deal.

I'm relaxing and seriously into my paperwork when a voice rips through my
consciousness, "Hey, JagMan!" I am jolted from my files and see Timmy
advancing. My breath catches at the sight of him. He is growing so fast and
ambles to the car with a heavy backpack slung over his shoulder.

He's wearing a black sleeveless t-shirt and jeans that are barely long
enough, but well worn and snug so they show his lean legs and small waist.
He's got a green bandana on his head that covers his auburn brown hair,
except the four inches of waves that hang out from under the scarf.  He
dives into the passenger seat and his eyes flash at me, taking my breath
away. His face is covered with a light sprinkle of freckles, which he
abhors. He's wearing an eyebrow ring in his left eyebrow and a tongue stud.
I am not a big fan of metal on faces, but I will say that the eyebrow ring
looks great on him. His nose is straight, his cheekbones high, his slate
gray eyes wide set, his chin and jaw strong, and his face bears the
patrician structure of his family. The worry lines on his brow already show.

I hold the bandana out the driver side window on just the tip of my finger
and say, "What did you call me again? I don't think I quite heard you..."

"GEEZ! OKAY! I meant, `HELLO, ALEX, how is your royal pain in the a---self
today? You're looking quite well!'"

"Well, hello to you, too, Timothy Henner. I'm quite well, thanks. Now, what
HAS put you in such a good mood?"

I hand him back the bandana and said, "Leave that off, okay?"

He looks at me quizzically and asks "Why, is a bandana against the rules?"

Realizing that I've just blurted out the request that I thought I only said
in my head because I love seeing his hair curling around his face, I blush
and then really feel myself losing it.

"Just better to keep anything that might be gang-related far away from
yourself, okay, bud?" I glance at him to see if he buys my blather.

"Whatever," he says and shoves the bandana in his pocket.

"Thanks, man. So, really, twerp, why the good mood?"

Tim sighs and said, "Hey, the weather's nice, school is nearly over. Summer
is coming. That means that my folks will be traveling and I will not be
with them. Nothing special. I'm just not majorly depressed at this moment.
Be glad for me!"

I study his face, look for prevarication, see none. "Hey, man, I am glad
for you. I just need to know if you're telling the truth." I try to keep my
voice light. "And, as to that you being not with your folks? We'll have to
talk about that. You can't just be unsupervised all summer, kiddo."

His eyes blaze and I see fear on his beautiful face. "You can't make me
travel with them, Alex. They don't want me along," he rasps, chin quivering.

"Hey, buddy I'm sorry, I know that's how it feels, I get it. I just mean
that we'll need to figure out how to get you some supervision this summer,
that's all. It's okay. We'll handle it." I reach behind him and give his
neck a squeeze.

"Mmm, that feels good," Timmy says and leans his head back against my hand.

Shit! What the hell am I doing?

In a moment of unaccustomed self-disclosure, Tim continues, "My folks never
touch me. They threaten to hit me, but then never touch me." Then, he
pauses. I don't know what to do with my hand. If I move it, that might seem
a repudiation. I keep it on his neck.

"Wow, Tim, that's tough. It's weird how we can really go a long time
without feeling warmth from someone and then that simple act gets to be a
pretty big deal, doesn't it?"

He reaches up to my hand and takes it in his. My heart is suddenly working
overtime, pounding away in my chest. Worse, my dick is alert and growing. I
feel my face start to sweat.

My cell phone squawks and we are jolted out of the moment. I need my hand
to fish my phone from my pocket. "Sorry," I say and dig out my phone. "Hey,
Dev, we're just getting ready to head your way."

"Yea, about that, Alex, we've got an outbreak of kennel cough, and I've got
the vet and our volunteers all hands on deck. I don't want Tim to get here
and feel in the way. Can I get this handled and we can reschedule for next
week?"

"No problem, Dev, that sucks. Tim and I are both pulling for you all. Take
care and I'll talk with you when you come up for air."

Tim's eyes bore into me as I look at him. "They've got an outbreak of
kennel cough at the shelter and this is a lousy day for us to get you
started. Want to go play the front 9 at Lakemont?"

Tim says, dryly, "Yea, sure, they'd take one look at the way I'm dressed
and send us packin'."

"Child, one of these days, you're going to accrue enough positive
experiences that your first instinct will be something other than an
assumption that things will not work. How about we run by your house and
you can grab a clothes change and pick up your sticks? Then we can jet to
my place and get changed. It's warm enough out and we have enough daylight
to just make nine. Besides, I'll have the opportunity to have you all alone
in that cart and I can lecture you on all manner of things. Mwahahaaaaa," I
manically grumble and give him another knuckle noogie on the top of his
head.

I know I need to quit making physical contact, my brain screams to me to
get a grip. I feel as though some giant hand is controlling my body. I
really feel powerless. That's ridiculous. I am making choices here.

"Ouch!! C'mon, Alex, you're going to hurt my beautiful skull!" Timmy pulls
my hand away and with both hands, holds my right hand as far against the
passenger's door as he can. I'm leaning over into him and begin pushing him
against the seat. Pretty soon, we are wrestling in my car in the parking
lot as students are leaving. Hands are flying everywhere. Timmy is pinching
my nipples and he's crawling into my lap and pushing me against the seat. I
push him off me and he jumps into the back seat then begins to attack me
from the back. I keep trying to say, "Okay, stop! We've gotta go. We're
being ridiculous!"

I'm trying to start the Jag and Tim bats the keys away. He stuffs my keys
in his front jeans pocket and sits quietly, grinning.

"Okay, I'm ready. Let's go!"

I calmly reach into my wallet and grab my extra key and raise my eyebrow
and say, "Absolutely. Capital idea. Let's."

Not one to concede, Tim reaches his hand behind my neck and massages me. I
stiffen and he says softly, "You're pretty tense, Alex. You really need to
learn to take life less seriously. Love yourself, Alex, trust yourself.
You're really awesome. Just allow yourself to believe it."

My words to him, of course, meant a bit as a parody, but more, with the
sincerity in his voice, I can feel Timmy trying to—what? I'm afraid to even
think what I'm beginning to think.

"You're right, Timmy," I say, as neutrally as possible.

"Of course I am. About what?" he smiles as he asks.

"Your hand. On my neck. It feels good. Thanks."

I notice him adjusting his jeans with his right hand. He says nothing. His
hand rests on my neck and his fingers lazily pet my skin, play with my
hair. I know that we will talk about this physical contact but I'm going to
wait until we get to the golf course and have time. I am working all my
discipline to keep from popping a major stiffy as I drive us to Tim's
family home.

He runs in to get clothes and gear as I wait in the circular drive. His
parents are not at home, which is a relief, just Isabella, the cook, as
evidenced by her old Subaru near her apartment, which is separate from the
house. While Tim is inside, I talk to Ken. "What the hell do I do, Ken? I
feel as though I'm sliding down a slippery slope destined for disaster.
But, I don't want to slow anything down. Today's the first day I've started
to believe that maybe what I feel for Tim may be returned. Damnit, why
aren't you here to help me figure this out?" I swear that I can hear his
soft chuckle as Tim comes back out and with my keys, pops the trunk on the
Jag.

"Ah, yes, keys...I appreciate your handing those back to me now, youngster,"
I say and hold my hand out as I settle his golf back next to mine in the
trunk.

He hands me the keys and grabs my hand. "Alex..." he starts.

"What, buddy?" I stop dead, frozen in my tracks. "What is it, Tim?"

He can't look me in the eye now and drops my hand. "Uh, nevermind. I'm
ready, let's go!"

We zip out of the driveway. I'm worrying about the stop at my house. Tim
has never been there. I don't want him to come inside. Feels really
dangerous just now.

I navigate down the hill, through town and just on the way out, pull into
my neighborhood. I park in the driveway and start to get out. Tim has that
look, the one that says, "You're going to exclude me." I can't do that.

Instead, I say, "Welcome to Chez Riley. Please join me." A big smile
replaces that awful tentative look and I know it's right to invite him
inside.

Walking up the drive, I sling my arm around his neck. He tucks himself
under my arm and I unlock the door. He grabs the mail from the box and we
head in.

One of the things I love about my house is the scale. It's large and open.
The beams are large, the columns are wide. The fireplace is long. The
ceilings are high. It's a house for people who are tall and who need to
feel as though we are in open spaces. Still, there are these incredible
nooks and crannies. There's a tiny room off the dining room that is just a
little reading room. It feels like a womb. It's where Ken used to read and
I'd do my homework.

Ken collected contemporary art, and I continue to do so. I'm drawn to art
that makes me laugh and smile. I do not have a sophisticated sense of art,
and don't begin to understand the blah blah they talk about in galleries.
When I see work that makes me grin, or makes my brain explode with its
creativity, I am drawn to it. Tim begins looking at the work. Among
paintings, acrylic, gesso, oil, mixed media, there's a fair bit of black
and white photography, nudes, men, women, couples of every flavor. My
favorite is a photograph, sepia toned, of two male hands entwined. It takes
my breath away. I watch as Tim notices the photo. He stands immediately
still as he regards it over the fireplace.

I stand near. "What do you think?" I ask softly.

"It's two dudes?"

"Yea."

"It's beautiful."

"Yea."

"Wow."

"Hey, Timmy, I'm going to run upstairs and change. I'll be back in a sec,
okay? Grab yourself something to drink from the fridge if you want."

He nods and continues to look at the photograph.

I take the stairs three at a time, rip my clothes off and change, locate my
favorite ball markers and golf cap and walk back down. I stop in the
kitchen, no Tim. Not in the living room, either. I check the reading room
and there he is in my chair, snuggled in.

I hesitate for a second and then reach my hand down to him. He takes it and
I pull him up. He stands very near me, our hands still clasped. He meets my
eyes for a few seconds then looks away.

"The photograph, are they, I mean, what does that picture mean, Alex?"

Looking into his eyes, standing impossibly close to one another, I feel the
heat between us. I step back a bit. "I dunno, buddy, what does it mean to
you?"

Tim holds my hand and pulls me back into the living room to look at the
photo again over the mantel. He lets my hand go and wraps his arms tightly
around his belly as though protecting himself. Pretty soon he bends over
still holding his stomach as though in great pain.

I watch for a couple of seconds and then squat to get closer. He is sobbing
silently, trying in vain to contain himself. My heart is ripping open
watching his pain, so I sit on the rug and pull him into my lap, holding
him fast. "Timmy, whatever this is that is getting you, don't hold it in.
Let it out. You are safe, you hear me? You are safe to feel anything you're
feeling. I swear to you that is the truth. Let it happen, buddy, it's okay.
Just relax and let it come."

He still holds his belly as I cradle him and I begin rocking gently,
hunching my shoulder round as if to keep the wind off of him. "It's okay,
honey, really. I've got you," I murmur.

He lets go a huge wild-eyed sob and yells, "But YOU'RE the problem!" The
flood gates open and he weeps as though he's suffered an excruciating loss.
I hold him still and say, "Whatever this is, Timmy, I promise you, we'll
get through it. Just tell me when you can."

I pet his head and kiss his forehead, knowing I am so far over any sort of
appropriate line, I am very likely already beyond fucked. None of that
matters, all I want is to help this beautiful boy heal. I still can't
accept what I think he is saying. I wait.

"Shh, it's okay," I say, lips to his forehead. "You're safe, safe here with
me. Nothing can hurt you, Tim. It's okay."

In one quick move, Tim shifts his face upward. His arms come around my neck
and he kisses me full on my mouth. I groan and it's my turn to shake. I'm
guessing this is the first time Tim has ever kissed anyone. He's got his
lips pressed firmly against mine, smashing himself against me. I hold his
head and begin to return his kiss, moaning into him. He yields a little and
lets me show him. He's a quick study as I soften my lips and use my tongue
to open his mouth. I stop myself there, realizing that we are on the floor
in my living room with a large picture window a few feet away on a corner
lot with way too much foot traffic to be remotely safe where we are. I
stand, pick him up and carry him up the stairs to the third floor where my
master suite is a huge space with great light and no windows for the public
to view us.

I sit down in a chair much like the one in the reading room. It's wide
enough that we fit perfectly. I drape him over my lap and hold him against
me.

"Now, can you explain what just happened first and then we'll talk about
all of this? I think it's time, eh?"

"Am I dreaming?" he muzzily inquires.

"I think we may both be."

"Can we keep dreaming then, please?"

"Yea, I think so, for a little while. But only if you will talk in your
sleep for me."

He smiles sweetly and says, "I will talk better if we don't have our shirts
on."

Chuckling, I say, "First you talk, then we'll talk about that."

He snuggles down against me. I kiss the tip of his nose, his eyes, I want
to devour him.

"I have a huge crush on you, Alex. I mean, I am in love with you. I've been
trying so long to figure out if you're gay. I thought so but until I saw
the art in your house and that picture, I didn't know. And then, I got so
scared because I realized that picture could be you and your boyfriend,
that made me so sad, I couldn't stand it."

"Wow, Tim, thank you for saying all of that. That's huge, and a lot to hold
on to. We've both been struggling, it seems, along the same lines. I've got
a whopper of a crush on you, too, Timmy. And, about the picture? It's just
a beautiful photograph, it's not anybody I know."

Having made our respective confessions, we sit, holding one another. I can
feel my heart slamming in my chest. Curiously, I'm not sexually aroused at
the moment, I'm so overwhelmed with love and protectiveness for Timmy I am
just—speechless.

I hold up his hand and interlace our fingers. My hand is very large, long,
thickish fingers, a good bit of dark hair on my arms, a light dusting on my
hands. His hand is softer, his fingers are long and fine, his wrists not as
stout. His bone structure is leaner than mine. These two hands together—we
stare silently, transfixed, trying to take in the sight.

"You are so beautiful, baby. I need you to know something," I say.

At the serious tone in my voice, Tim stiffens and in a small voice, asks,
"What?"

"Whoa, baby, it's okay. It's a good thing. I just need to say this to you,
finally. Tim, I love you. I have loved you from the first day I met you. I
can't explain my feelings for you to myself, or to you. I only know that
they exist. I have no idea how we will handle any of this, but I do want
you to know that is how I feel."

Tim continues to gaze at our interlaced hands. I let the silence stretch
until my curiosity breaks through. I kiss his forehead and ask, "Whatcha
thinkin', baby?"

He snuggles against me and says, "It was so hard, Alex, all this time. I've
had a non-stop boner every time we've met. I was afraid you'd notice and
hoped you would and that you'd ask me about it, but then I couldn't have
told you anyway. It's just been...hard. But now..."

He sighed deeply and started to cry again. Just silent tears as his thin
body trembled. My phone rang again. Tim jumped and I fished my phone from
my pocket. "It's your mom," I whispered.

"Hi, Mrs. Henner, what's up?"

"Alex, my husband's father has had a stroke. We are leaving to fly to
London right now. I wonder whether we might prevail upon you to make sure
that Tim is supervised while we're away? I don't know what else to do with
no time to plan."

"Sure, Mrs. Henner, I can do that," I said, hair up on my arms with the
suddenness of my being able to spend a lot of time with Tim. "Would you
like to speak with him?" Tim is furiously shaking his head no as his mom
says, "No, thank you. I've got to go pack and get to the airport. My
husband has gone ahead to meet the pilot. Tell my son to behave and to not
embarrass us while we are away."

She rings off leaving me disgusted by her seeming lack of caring.

"What?" was all Tim asked, his voice flat.

"Hey, buddy, your granddad—on the Henner side—had a stroke. Your folks are
off to London to see him. Your mom asked if I'd mind seeing to your care
while they are away. So, it looks as though you're stuck with me for
awhile."