Date: Sun, 18 Jun 2017 12:48:42 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Beaux Thibodaux 21

Please see original story
(www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/) for warnings and
copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex
between adult and young-adult men, some of them related to one another. Go
away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my
characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of
future stories. Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html
to keep the cum coming.

*****

I smiled suddenly and Beaux asked why. "Because I just realized that I'm
getting a better understanding of all this by explaining it to you than I
ever really did when I was supposed to be learning it in school." I saw a
slow, sly smile form "And before you say it, yeah, that applies to the sex
stuff too. You... you're really good for me Beaux."

"Maybe it's just we're good for each other, Oncle."

*****

Beaux Thibodaux 21: Being a Dad

Friday

By Bear Pup

*****

Friday dawned hot and still again. I had set an alarm for 6:30 to give time
us both some extra time. I checked the weather and saw a line of
thunderstorms was due today in the late afternoon, and rain was expected
most of the following day. I glumly got Beaux up and reminded him of our
daily homework for Tala.

"Oncle, I gotta a society question." He said sleepily as we headed to the
utility room. "That whole 'society is for the protection of the members'
and 'self-policing' thing?"

"Yeah Beaux?"

"That mean I can't kill that fucking salaud, Tala, me?" I looked to see a
cheeky and less-than-completely-kidding grin on his not-happy-to-be-awake
face.

"Yes, Beaux. Sadly even... what was the word?"

"Salaud, Oncle. Guess it means, well, dirty stinker, bastard, swine. Just
none a those seemed vulgar and rude enough for that Tala."

"I can't fault your logic or your vocabulary, Beaux. But, yes, even
removing a 'fucking salaud' like Tala is still murder." I adjusted the
settings according to the sheet Tala had scribbled on. Beaux would be
working a machine routine and was already in a blue-stitched jock, cooing
at how perfectly it fit.

I successfully avoided any indication that the comment irked me at all, and
tried to actually not care, but Barry + Beaux was still a sore point for
me. I decided to skip the jock as I'd be running on the treadmill at a
fairly-steep angle prescribed by Tala to tone my calves and 'help burn off
some of that middle.' You can imagine how that part thrilled me. The
bouncing and giggling of my cock would be at least some compensation.

I used the excuse of helping Beaux move to new exercises to take a couple
quick breaks and Beaux, the little bastard, called me on it and threatened
to tell Tala. Hmph. See if I ever cook HIM lasagna again! I finished my
30-minute run just as he clanked his way to the last rep. Every muscle that
Barry's amazing massage had loosened for him was complaining again, and my
own back and calves were screaming.

Thus began another daily ritual. Tala Torture first, then steam-shower,
then breakfast. We let the hot water and steam bring us back to life
slowly. We dried and headed to the kitchen where I let Beaux make me some
magical egg concoction that he "toned way down, Oncle," so it only tasted
like it was stripping the flesh from my throat. I had to admit, though, it
was damned good and when I suggested something Beaux hadn't used, sour
cream, he got the most-blissful look on his face. That brought us to
roughly 8:30 and both of us hit the books.

Louisa called about nine and said the first draft of the contract had
arrived from Darrel Chambers. She read me a few of the important parts. I
told her to fax it over to Walsh, Kindred and Matthews for review which
reminded me that Evan Walsh had never returned my call about the Beaux
situation. I called them and asked for an appointment, and they made room
for me Wednesday morning.

That brought me back to my mental List of Needful Things. Blinking at the
top like a neon beacon was the dreaded word, Dentist. I shuddered then
sighed, dialing the number for Dr Olivia Fenders. She was the least-hideous
dentist I'd met. She had an (unfortunate) opening that Wednesday just
before lunch. Oh, yay, they had *two*. Fuck. The fact that Dr Fenders was a
female doctor brought back my promise to Dr Silver and I looked up and
found the number to Dr Julia Baskin. The expert on heterosexual sex had an
opening for, wait for it, Wednesday afternoon. Oh, wow. A trifecta of
horrors.

At first, I decided *not* mention anything, but that hadn't worked very
well with Tala. When Beaux next swam out of his study trance, I waited long
enough for his eyes to focus then said, "I've made some appointments for
next Wednesday. Hit the restroom then we'll talk."

He came back refreshed and with a juice drink. This was a bizarre favorite
of Barry's and it was like it was made for Beaux. It was a
foil... thing. No can or box, just this... pouch? A tiny, sharp-pointed
straw was glued to each one that you stabbed through the foil and suddenly
you had a great sippy-thing. Called Capri Sonne, it came in some odd and
utterly teen-friendly colors and flavors.

Barry had found them in a German market called Mr Dunderbak's years back
and had been surprised that I was unimpressed. I made the mistake of
calling German Astronaut Kool-Aid and he huffily stopped bringing it. They
now were apparently in grocery stores and called the English equivalent,
Capri Sun. Beaux couldn't get enough of them. At least it wasn't
pop. Thankfully, Beaux found the overly sweet bubbly crap unpleasant and
I'd cleared out all but those I or Barry might use as mixers for guests.

"What appointments, Oncle?"

"Well the first is with my lawyer, to make all of this yours as much of
mine, legally." Beaux got very serious.

"Why? I mean both why make anything mine and why make it legal?"

I looked at him in surprise. "Did you really think I've been lying all this
time? Jesus, Beaux, absolutely everything I have is already equally yours
in my mind. It has been since," I swallowed hard several times, fighting
not to get all teary-eyed, "Since you stood there in that horrible place
and looked at me with a thousand years of sadness and asked, {sniff} 'Can
you take me someplace that's not here?' I, Beaux, I..." I reached up and
wiped my eyes, took a deep shuddering breath and continued, "I meant every
word, Beaux. This is yours." He watched, silently, but I could tell he was
rocked by this display.

"As for why make it legal? People die, Beaux. You saw it first hand, twice
in just about a week. I'll be damned if I am going to let you be tossed
into the world with nothing again. I'm not rich, but have everything I and
you will need to live long and happy lives."

I stopped, as much to get my own emotions under control as anything
else. Beaux watched me with bright eyes for the longest time, then unfolded
that frame from the chair and came around my desk. For the first time since
I'd met this man-child, his voice trembled and shook with uncertainty. He
reached out and took my unresisting hand in his.

"I don't know if this is the right thing to say, me. I'm not even sure what
it means. Before this moment, these were words in books. But I'll be
maudit, damned, if it doesn't seem to mean what I think. I love you
Oncle. I love you more than I understand how to say." He bent down and
kissed me, not in the sexual way I'd taught him. Not in a way anyone had
taught him. He kissed me on the cheek, then the lips, then the other
cheek. I pulled him to me, perhaps too forcefully, and wrapped him in arms
as I cried, kissing him softly on his hair and forehead.

"B-B-Beaux, you just made me happier than I ever remember being. I love
you, too, and I can never, ever show you how much. You have made my life
mean something more than a few houses, Beaux." I held him tightly until he
started to squirm.

"Um, Oncle, I love you and all, but can I, you know, maybe... breathe?" I
laughed and let him go. He put one last kiss on my flushed cheek and pulled
away. He turned away and I could tell he was working hard to put back on
the mask of aplomb that kept sim sane all those years. I understood that,
more than he could know, and kept silent.

He finally returned to his Capri Sun and asked in a newly-steady voice,
"You said more than one appointment, Oncle?"

I shook myself into shape, utterly in awe of Beaux's iron control. I
suddenly saddened, though, recognizing just what horrors he had endured to
attain that control. "Well, the next one more to torture me than you. I
made the appointment for the Dentist. Damn, I hate even saying the word!
The lawyer should take 30 minutes, max, so we'll have an hour or so between
the appointments."

He smiled wickedly. "So, Oncle, how *many* appointments did you make with
the dentist?"

"Two," I grumped, "and you can be a real bastard sometimes, you know that,
right?"

"AY-uh, Oncle. AY-uh." Beaux just smiled. For about eleven seconds.

"And lastly, same day, we have Dr Julia Baskin." His brow furrowed for a
moment before the penny dropped and his eyebrows went so far up they got
lost in his bangs,

"Oh, no-no-no. That's the girl-sex doctor. I'm not going, me. You go talk
to her and then you can tell me what she says in our normal
sessions. No. Non. Cela n'arriva pas. Not happening, that. Va au
diable. Non."

Legs crossed, arms clenched across his chest, neck completely gone, lips a
tight down-curved line -- Beaux looked like a modern version of a Normal
Rockwell stubborn kid. I burst out laughing which, shockingly, did not make
Beaux happier.

"Yes, Beaux, you WILL be going."

"No, Oncle, I will NOT be going."

This was becoming less amusing by the moment. I put every bit of calm,
simple logic into my voice that I could. "Beaux, we all have to do things
we don't like. This is one of them. For both of us. You can't possibly
imagine I'm looking forward to it either?"

"Exactement! Neither of us want to go. I don't want to find out about
girl-sex. So, we're not going. Tout a fait!"

"Beaux, I am not putting up with this." Fuck, did I really just say that?
When did I become my dad? Oh, right, about two weeks ago that day,
actually. "I will be taking you with me to see Doctor Julia Baskin. You
will be civil, you will be polite, and by God you will be THERE. Am I
clear?"

"You can be 'clear' all you want, *Mr Faolan*." That rocked me back, but
not nearly as much as when he simply stood up and stalked off.

"Beaux! BEAUX! Get your ass back here this instant. Beaux? BEAUX THIBODAUX!
YOU HEAR ME?" I knew the answer to the last part was 'no' because I heard
his door slam solidly. In something of a foul temper myself, I stalked
downstairs and grabbed a beer from The Bar and settled into a chair in
order to seethe better. About forty minutes passed before Beaux opened his
door, both of us in high dudgeon.

"Where do you think you're going, young man?" I stood in his path.

"I'm making lunch, me."

"The hell you are. You get lunch when you apologize." His face was red with
indignation, but I bet I matched him shade for shade. "I will NOT be talked
to like that, Beaux. Just get back in that room until you are ready to be a
civil human being again."

He spun on his heel and again slammed the door. Now, most 'dads' would be
enraged with the whole door-slamming thing. I build this house and knew for
a fact that it could be slammed by a fucking gorilla and not do so much as
nick the frame. Slam away, boy. I settled smiling in Fatherly triumph. And,
BAM, just like that it hit me. I was a dad now. No changing it and no going
back, I was a father.

My hand started to shake and my pulse quickened. It had crept up on me any
number of times, but not like this. Being a dad SUCKS.

I grumped my way up to the kitchen and grabbed two bags from the freezer
labeled 'Tips' and dropped them into cold water to thaw a bit. I found the
mushrooms, washing them off with a paper towel. I left most of them whole,
cutting big ones in half and huge ones in quarters. I diced an onion and a
shallot and got out my cast iron skillet and let it get hot. I grabbed two
big sandwich rolls and split them about two-thirds of the way through. Oven
to 200. Ready.

Tips were just that. I tended to buy tenderloins whole. The 'big' end
became a chateaubriand and the middle I cut into thick filet mignons. The
long, narrow end, the tip of the tenderloin, I cut into one-inch cubes of
succulent goodness. I pulled the filet tips out of the water. Perfect. The
outside was thawed and the inside would take care of itself. I tossed them
in a bowl with Worcestershire, salt and pepper, tossing to coat and also
using a heavy spoon to break apart any of the tips that were still frozen
together.

Into the blazing hot pan they went, and there they sat, sizzling and
hissing. I shook the pan occasionally until I found most were no longer
stuck (and thus were wonderfully-caramelized on the bottom). I stirred then
and dropped in the mushrooms, onions and shallot. From that point, it was
nothing more than a quick stir-fry. When the onions started to soften, I
decanted the juicy mixture into the rolls. One I wrapped in foil and stuck
in the oven. The other I took to the kitchen-island. I pulled out jars of
horseradish and mayo. I had just stared to apply a little of each when I
saw Beaux peek his head over the top stair.

He approached slowly, obviously both reluctant and still mad -- and
starving. I took a large, dripping bite of my really superb
sandwich. "Oncle? I'm, well. It was wrong to talk to you like that, me. I
was mad. I'm sorry." He was eyeing the sandwich like owls watch field
mice. I swallowed and turned to him.

"Do you mean that, or are you just hungry?"

He smiled tentatively, "Can it be both?"

"And you're not going to do that again, right? We treat each other with
respect, right?"

"Yes, Oncle."

"Fine. Look in the oven."

"Oh, Oncle," he moaned in delight as he unwrapped the packet and the juicy
steam erupted.

We were both wary of each other, exaggeratedly-polite and careful, for the
rest of the day. I kept dinner simple, grilled chicken breasts with
honey-and-lemon glaze. One of my prior lovers complained it tasted too much
like what his mother made him drink when he had a sore throat, but I'd
always loved. I paired that with a quick veggie medley. Anything looking
like it might be headed downhill got cut in chunks and sautéed together
with an herb, white wine and lemon sauce that I mounted with butter at the
very end.

When Beaux saw that plan laid out by the ingredients, he took on the second
side, what he called dirty rice. Somewhere between a risotto, Spanish
yellow rice and a box of Rice-a-Roni, the smells were intoxicating. He was
right; it was the perfect foil for the bright acidity of the other parts of
the meal. I literally moaned when I got my first taste, and Beaux really
smiled for the first time since our row.

We had literally just swallowed the first bites when a series of brilliant
flashes went off. Some were close enough that the house shuddered from the
concussion wave, created an analogue thunder within the normally-placid
home.  The predicted storm had arrived, and had apparently held its banked
power to especially for KC Metro. Bolts sizzled as the lights dimmed,
became incredibly bright, then vanished.

Considering his last encounter with a Kansas storm, I expected Beaux to be
far more freaked out than he was. He watched my stop-motion progress in the
dim afternoon light punctuated by dazzling flashes of lightning as I pulled
the candles from the dining table to the kitchen and lit them. Beaux
smiled.

"I actually like this much better, me. The bright lights don't
seem... right when there's a storm. Candles and hurricane lamps just fit a
storm, I think." We quietly enjoyed the meal and the pyrotechnic show put
on for us by the capricious god of nature. When we got up to wash the
dishes, I frowned at the reduced water pressure. City pumps must be out. I
had two high-capacity tanks in the attic space, so we'd not be without
water completely, but it did mean that the outage was more severe than I'd
thought.

I grabbed a hurricane glass (a bulged tube) and slid it over one of the
pillar candles and asked Beaux to snuff the others. I was delighted when he
didn't blow them out. He licked his fingers, quickly pinched the wick and
pulled back instantly. Other than things like triple-wick lantern candles
and oil lamps, it was the right way to do it; blowing wasted wick and wax,
and often splattered molten drops onto whomever might be on the other side.

I went to the bottom of my china hutch and pulled out the four 'lanterns'
that I'd bought so many years ago, ironically in New Orleans. They looked
very much like a small glass house with iron bottom, beams and roof, the
big ring at the top ruining the vision. All four already had thick,
pale-amber pillar candles. I got them from the hippies at Sage & Spirit;
their honey supplier's daughter was now into candle-making with the pure,
natural beeswax from their hives. They were expensive, but burned so clean
and smooth and bright that I'd fallen in love with then. They were, of
course, free from, well, everything. There were precisely three
ingredients: a thick cotton wick, sunflower oil (from a different hippie
farm) and the rendered beeswax.

I lit all four. One each went on the pillar-posts along the rail
overlooking the family room, one went on the pillar-post at the bottom of
the stair and the last hung from a long hook above and a few feet out from
the front door. I showed Beaux where the reacher-hook was to place and
retrieve the lantern there, and how to slide them onto the
pillar-posts. Together, they gave just enough light not to kill yourself in
the dark. You still needed to carry a candle or lantern when you went
anyplace in the house.

We settled in the Library which we normally lit with candles
anyway. "Oncle, um, I really am sorry. And that last bit, 'Mr Faolan'? That
was real cruel and I am so sorry if that hurt you."

"It did Beaux. Words can hurt. I'll get over it, though. You need to know,
words can make wounds that can sometimes never heal. You can't let yourself
go when you're angry or upset, Beaux. You really can, and probably will,
say something you may regret for years."

"I know that, Kevin. I am so, so sorry."

"In know you are, Beaux. I know. You are forgiven. I understand. I really
do. The world turned upside down for me at your age, and I was born into
this society. I can't begin to imagine what you're going through, Beaux,
and I will never, never forget how incredibly well you've done. You might
be able to hurt me, Beaux, with things you say, but know this: You can
never, ever chase me away."

I saw his lip tremble before he bent his face far enough down toward his
book that I could no longer see it. I knew, though, that any comment I made
at that moment would actually hurt him more, not less. I just had to sit
here and see him suffer. Fuck, this whole dad thing is whacked.

Perhaps an hour later, right as true-night fell and the storm flashed
lazily to our south-east, Beaux popped up like a champagne cork when the
phone next to him rang. It was clearly the last thing on Earth he ever
expected. He looked at me he got even more anxious when I just smiled and
said, "Well, are you going to answer that?"

He picked it up like one would a scorpion and brought to his
head. "H-H-Hello? S-Salut? This is Beaux?"

He was holding it far enough from his ear that I could hear the other end
of the conversation, "Salut, mon charmant garcon bayou!" Beaux's eyes flew
open and he gasped. I caught enough to hear 'charming bayou boy'. Beaux
smiled and blushed, squeaking, "Hans? Est-ce vous?" He coughed and forced
himself to return to English, and in a less-breathless and lower
register. "Hans. I am happy to hear your voice!" He overdid it, amusingly
sounding more like he was an actor laying on the profundo too thick.

"Beaux, you are absolutely precious. May I speak with Kevin, please?"

"Of course!" Beaux handed me the phone and I held it so Beaux could listen
as well.

"Hello, Hans. So nice to hear from you."

"I, uh, was wondering if you and Beaux would like to go to a small party a
friend is hosting tomorrow night. Nothing big or fancy, maybe a dozen
people, and a couple are close to Beaux's age? All assuming that the power
is back by then."

"Wow." I thought furiously and watched Beaux for any sign of anxiety. He
seemed flushed and happy. "I, um, yeah, sure. When and where? How should we
dress?"

"Oh, lord, wear anything. I'll be in jeans and a t-shirt, probably. It's
just south of the Hospital." He gave me the address to a townhome on Revere
and directions. He was right, whoever lived there could easily walk to St
Luke... if they survived crossing Barry Road on foot. "Get there any time
between seven and eight, and don't worry, it's won't be a late night or a
wild crowd. It's a pretty tame lot. And, um, it'll be all guys." I could
hear the blush and smile in his voice.

"It sounds perfect. We'll meet you there. Bye. Here's Beaux."

"Hans! It sounds great. Thank you!"

"You're a doll, Beaux. I think you might really like some of the guys. I
hope you do. Well, see you tomorrow. Au revoir, garcon bayou."

"Au revoir, belle infirmiere" I smiled, 'goodbye, handsome nurse'.

He hung up awkwardly when he heard Hans disconnect, checking twice to be
sure it was really back on the hook. He turned to me in amazement. "That
near killed me, that ringing! How it do that with the power gone?"

I smiled. "I never really thought to tell you, phone lines have their own
power. If a storm brings down a pole, we'll lose both, but if the power
problem is widespread, we usually still have phone throughout. So, Beaux,
what do you think about your first party?"

His eyes got huge. "Oh, oh my. I was so thinking about Hans, but what am I
going to do around a bunch of strangers, me? Oncle, what do I say and what
do it do?"

"Shh, Beaux, calm down. You'll be fine. Although it's not an 'official'
talk night, let use the power outage to talk that through, okay?" He nodded
frantically, hanging on every word. "First rule: Calm. The hell. Down. It's
just some friends getting together, and it how people meet new friends;
well, one of the ways. Breathe for a minute, because you'll have to do that
just before you get there. You're going to be nervous -- I always am --
when you first get there, so let's practice that. Breath in deep, hold it
for a second, then push it out." He followed me and his eyes got wide.

"Hey! That worked. Why did that work?"

"When your body is under stress, it changes how you breathe. When you take
a few slow, deep, breaths, you force the body to reconsider whether the
threat is real. When stressed, you breathe quicker and smaller so you're
getting a lot more oxygen very quickly so you can fight off or run away
from whatever giant critter is about to eat you. We're animals, Beaux, and
all this comes down through millions of years of trying to eat but not get
eaten. It can also help a lot to close your eyes as you do the breathing
for the same reason."

"Okay, but what if I get stressed in there with these people?"

"Same answer, take slower, deeper breaths. Try and make your neck muscles
relax a little and flex your fingers -- another stress response is to make
a fist or tense the fingers. But, yeah, you're going to get stressed. It's
an unfamiliar place with strangers. Since Hans said it was 'all guys' he
probably meant gays. Which is the next part of the stress response."

"Um... why?"

I smiled, "Because you are gorgeous and sexy and completely
unknown. Parties are also a great chance to meet people you might want
to... well, see more of in private? So, Beaux, the big lesson tonight is
casual flirting. What we talked about with, um, well, Andy was
different. It was more serious and more immediate. This is about finding
out about who might be interested in you and whether you might be
interested in them, all without ever coming out and asking anything."

"Oh, Lord, I'm not ready for this, me! I can't do that, me!"

"You don't have to go, Beaux, I can call Hans back... actually, I can't. I
didn't ask for his number. We could just not go and let him feel like we
don't care about him or don't want to be around him anymore or don't want
to meet his friends. Good plan or bad plan."

Beaux glared at me. "Go on."

I chuckled. "There are as many ways to flirt as there are people. You've
got three basic parts. How you use your eyes, how you use your body and how
you speak. Looking someone in the eye, whether flirting or doing anything
else, signals that you really want to communicate with them. Looking away
means you don't, or that you're not being honest. Like whenever I get on a
subject you're praying I'll drop, you look at the floor or your hands?" He
looked up from his hands and scowled at me.

"Merci, Oncle, for the example there."

"Body language is important, and eye contact is part of that. How you look
at someone, for instance how you move your eyes over them when you meet,
tells the other person a lot. Obviously, if you spend time on their crotch
or ass you're saying you are thinking about them sexually. Other things,
like chest, shoulders and legs a little less so. Scanning their face
quickly tends to mean you're trying to figure out what they think about
you."

"Oh, God, this is too complicated!"

"We'll practice tomorrow when we go shopping."

They guttural moan of disgust told me that I had not made bonus points with
the whole 'shopping' thing.

"How you hold your body says a lot as well. If you tense up, you're
unhappy. Folded arms, tightly-crossed legs, shoulders up -- like you right
now -- are all ways to say, 'I don't like what's happening'. The more you
turn towards someone, the more interested you are (good or bad), and
turning away or to the side says you're more interested in something
else. Smiling and frowning are pretty obvious as well.

"How you talk is important. Emotions are easy to read in your voice and
tone. People can hear reluctance and enthusiasm and unhappiness and fear
and, oh, anything by how a person talks. For instance, the faster you
speak, the more important you think what you have to say should be or how
confident you are in something. And then there's what they say. What words
they use.

"And before you ask, yes; the biggest problem is mixed signals. Someone
turned toward you smiling, meeting your eyes, saying 'you're really nice',
relaxed and with enthusiasm in their voice is pretty clear. But smiling,
relaxed and looking over your shoulder at someone else? Or body turned away
with their head turned over their shoulder to look at you saying the same
words?"

"So what do those mean?"

"Absolutely anything, Beaux!"

"Oh, come on, Oncle. Give me something!" he wailed.

"To me, I think that nothing is as important as the eyes. Where and how
someone looks tells you so much more than the rest. Body language I'd say
is second; others say first. What they say is dead last. People lie to get
close to people or to seduce them. It doesn't mean that I ignore it, just
that if the words don't match something else, I doubt the words more than
the rest."

"Oh, God, Oncle. I am gonna hate this, me!"

"Probably. And I am going to be there a complete wreck of nerves worried
about whether your happy, upset or bored! But it is what humans do, and you
have to learn how to do it. Every single person from Dr Silver to Barry
have said the same thing, Beaux. This party is going to be a big step, for
both of us. One things it important: Very, very few people actually die
from a social gathering, Beaux. You may wish you had, but parties are
rarely fatal in and of themselves." This did not go very far to reassure my
ward as he scowled himself off to bed. Yepper, being a dad SUUUUUUUCKS

<eof>

PS: Yes, I know that isn't how you spell things in French. ANSI encoding
keeps stripping out accented characters. Sorry.

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