Date: Sat, 24 Jun 2017 08:37:32 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Beaux Thibodaux 22

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.

*****

"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

*****

Beaux Thibodaux 22: Coming Out Party

Saturday

By Bear Pup

*****

At some point during the night, KCP&L (Kansas City Power & Light, more
commonly referred to as, 'Keep Candles, Propane & Lanterns') got the power
running again. I got Beaux up at the normal 6:30 and we discussed inventive
ways to murder Tala as we worked out. Both of us were on the machine today,
just in different parts. Tala was brilliant, understanding the intricacies
of the machine (even though it wasn't a preferred brand) so he knew what
worked separately and what might conflict. Basic morning: Exercise, limp to
steam-shower, scream in agony, have breakfast.

We spent the next hour in the Ritual of Time. In other words, finding every
fucking thing in the house with a clock and resetting it. God, I hated
this. It used to be simple. Power outage? So what? The wind-each-week alarm
clock didn't care; the grandfather clock didn't care; the cuckoo clock
Gramps brought back from The War didn't care. Now, there was the microwave
and the VCR and the digital clocks and the fuck-only-knows-what. The
goddamned *stove* had a clock! Everything with a cord now had a fucking
clock, and every single one was wrong. GAH! I hated the 80s! Sorry. I
digress.

We spent the morning going over the schoolwork together, taking each point
as it came up. Beaux was still having immense trouble with societal things,
and I considered asking Dr Perez about it the next week.

That brought us close enough to lunchtime to make a reasonable break. It
was an easy one, Greek Salad. I'd set two of the grilled chicken breasts
aside before glazing them the night before. I had Beaux diced them roughly
into a bowl of lettuce. I diced banana peppers and a tomato, sliced a
cucumber and half a red onion, then added all that to the bowl, along with
a briny, crumbly Greek cheese called feta and a bunch of luscious black
olives. I had Beaux start tossing that while I whipped up (literally) the
dressing.

My food processor came with what had to be the single most-useless feature
ever conceived. It was a little itsy-bitsy bowl with a miniature
blade. What the fuck would you use a 2" wide food processor for?? I called
it the Barbie Blender... until the first time I thought about a salad
dressing. So, to the tiny little thing, I added a couple cloves of garlic,
lemon juice, salt, Grey Poupon, red wine vinegar, some of the feta, a
little yoghurt, fresh basil and dried oregano. Beaux was looking at me as
if I'd lost my mind, "Don't you want to, you know, chop that garlic,
Oncle?"

I chuckled like a mad scientist and put the Lilliputian contraption on the
massive food processor base. I hit the button and the teensy little blades
went insane. Beaux jumped, wide-eyed, at the tooth-grating noise. After a
moment, I started drizzling in the olive oil through the hole in the
top. When it got to a consistency I liked, I stopped it and poured the
creamy, slightly-chunky dressing over the salad and had Beaux toss it
again.

To say it was well-received would be a tragic understatement. Beaux
insisted on starting a list called, "Beaux Loves This". Today's salad
topped the list, followed by Lasagna, Balsamic Pork Chops and BBQ Ribs.

The party loomed over the afternoon, so I dove into the ideas he would need
to face. First and foremost was dealing with a number of people and how to
create personal space when you needed it. How to find the edge of a couch,
a chair or a corner where, without being at all rude, you could lean or
turn into a space free of people.

How to let people know that you were approachable was an interesting one,
as was how to tell others you were really focused on someone you were
already talking to. I didn't go into how to approach others; we decided
that was a later lesson since the odds were insanely high that Beaux would
have no such inclinations. I did talk about how to disengage if someone was
bothering him, giving him several great options. The default was to get my
attention and give me a, 'Save me, Oncle,' look. I laughed and told him one
should always got to a party with someone that could be trusted to rescue
you from a drunken idiot.

That brought us to drinking. "It's common for people to get you drinks at
parties," I noted, but I was adamant that Beaux could have no more than
wine with dinner (and only with me there), *ever*, until he was eighteen
and could have beer or twenty-one and have whatever he
wanted. Coincidentally, this was just about a month and a half after the
'beer' part of that was made moot. By the time Beaux reached eighteen, he'd
have to be twenty-one to drink anything at all. Shockingly, he not only
agreed, he welcomed the rule!

"But how do I know what's in the drink, Oncle. Would someone, you know, try
to give me something I don't want?"

Thinking back on it now, my answer was contemptibly-naïve. "Oh, not on
purpose. But most people *do* drink alcohol at parties, and people might be
surprised that you don't." This was decades before ruffies and other
date-rape drugs made headlines. I went to the liquor cabinet and poured a
number of quick cocktails so he could smell the difference. I had no
concern at all that Beaux's incredible palate would know instantly, and he
did. Things mixed with ginger ale were the exception; there he had to take
a sip to tell the cocktail from the straight soda-pop.

"If someone asks if you want a drink, be specific. You like juice, and
orange juice is almost always available as it's the base on a very popular
cocktail called a screwdriver. Otherwise, ask for 7-Up. It's instantly
obvious by either color or smell if anything has been added, like if they
forgot which drink was which."

We role-played a bit, with me in the role of love-struck stranger, lusty
lover, campy queen, garrulous drunk, leather stud, chicken-hawk (I had to
explain the reference of older men seeking a sexual conquest of a
much-younger man) and any of a number of other species of gay party
critter. I also gave him a few quick hints of use how someone dressed to
understand a little about them, but gave that up as a bad job when I
realized just how stupidly-complex gay dress codes were. Anyone remember
hanky color codes and key-clips? Kill me now.

We had a light and insanely-tense dinner of steaks and mashed potatoes,
neither of us eating with our usual fervor. I had leftover steak for the
next day's lunch, in fact. Beaux had dressed twice and I talked him out of
a third. He was in the beautiful jeans that the NOLA salesqueen had picked
out and that deep, rich blue polo. He looked simply stunning... as if you
could make Beaux look bad in sackcloth and ashes!

Beaux was ready to head out the door at 6:15. He went back and forth
between excitement and a desperate desire to get it over with. He nearly
mutinied when I calmly told him it was inconceivably-rude to arrive before
7:15. To avoid having to clean blood off the walls, I finally agreed to
leave at 7:05. As we went to the car, I stopped him.

"Breathe, Beaux. Just like we talked about. I'll remind you again when we
get there. Also, if you look up and see me looking back taking a deep
breath, you do, too. It means I can tell you're overstressed. If I'm
worried, I'll come over and ask if you need a drink. If you're fine, tell
me you don't need one, okay? We will be at the party at least one hour. If
I think you are getting too stressed -- or too anything else -- you will
leave when I tell you, agreed?"

"Oui, uh, yes, Oncle. Oh, I hate this me!"

We got there and parked. It was a nice, relatively-new row of townhomes. I
practically had to pry Beaux out of the car. We had to walk between
detached garages to get to what Brits would call a front garden. Before we
approached the door, I stopped Beaux again. "Breathe."

"I don't think I can do this, me."

"You can, Beaux. You'll be fine."

"I gonna be sick, Oncle."

I decided heavy artillery was required. "Do you really want to puke in
front of Hans? Is that how you want him to remember your very first party?"
The incoherent growl I got in response, followed but a
near-hyperventilating string of deep breaths, told me I'd struck home.

I went up and knocked and a lovely man, perhaps thirty or so and
ever-so-slightly-affected, answered the door, smiling. "You must be Kevin
and Beaux! I'm Charles. Welcome to my home. Bar in the kitchen, hors
d'oeuvres on the sideboard. Make yourselves at home. Simply *everyone*
wants to meet you both; you have Hans in quiet a state." He smiled and
moved forward, drawing us in his wake.

His home was, indeed, lovely. Much like the host. He, like the house, was
dressed in a range of shades from sand to rust, colors of the
southwest. Lamps and a few other items were in turquoise or that unique
dusky-purple only found in New Mexico sunsets and Georgia O'Keefe
paintings. The man had exquisite tastes.

Hans rushed up to greet us and make Beaux feel welcome and comfortable. He
very subtly and brilliantly installed Beaux exactly where I'd have chosen
for the young man. Against one arm of the L-shaped sectional with a table
and lamp to his right and a large, leafy plant in the corner behind the
table. At most, three people could accost him at once; one on the sofa next
to him, one in the overstuffed chair and, if really pushy, one standing in
front.

For the next half hour, Hans and I sat side-by side on other end the
sectional, making sure that Beaux was, if not happy, at least not
panicked. One or the other of us would gracefully intervene when needed,
which only happened a handful of time.

When Beaux finally realized that he was not about to be eaten by wolves, he
became the charming and beautiful boy we knew. His willingness to talk, his
shy innocence and his occasionally-biting responses to anything that went a
little too far made him an instant star. His breathtaking looks helped,
too. By accident, the deep, rich blue of his shirt and soft, lighter blue
of the jeans made him fit the color scheme to the point it looked
staged. The light of the lamp next to him gave his raven,
beautifully-styled hair a sort of radiant halo.

A lot of the guys worked at St Luke's. Hans has been right; two guys were
within a couple years of Beaux's age. In both cases, Hans told me that the
fathers (he pointed them out) worked at the hospital and knew their sons
were gay. They were shockingly-supportive for the time, just insisting that
they be present at any party and have veto power of any liaison. There
were, perhaps, twenty guys at the peak of the party. They ranged from a
delightfully-chubby ball of fluff to a very small, thin man who looked like
he had never sat still in his life. To a man, they were all nice, polite
and very, very interested in Beaux... and, I was shocked to find, me as
well.

I noticed after a while that not quite everyone had approached Beaux. A
sultry and gorgeous man, he was a little shorter than either Beaux or me
and his body was wonderfully-developed. He had immensely-wide shoulders and
a thick, corded neck. His arms were crossed and I couldn't' tell if he was
flexing for effect or he simply had pythons for muscles. Trim waist and an
ass, when he turned, that was what I'd always wanted myself. Big and meaty
and delicious. His look, overall, I could only describe as... smoldering.

I leaned over and nudged Hans. "Who is the little pocket Hercules over
there?"

Hans, in perfect style, let his gaze sweep across the room without making
it obvious. He smiled warmly. "The one in the white tee and painted-on
jeans?" I nodded. "Will Jones. He's a pharmacist at St Luke's. Incredibly
nice guy, young, but terminally shy. Why, Kevin, you interested?"

"No, actually. I just can't help noticing how he watches Beaux. He looks, I
dunno, hungry but almost... afraid?"

"Well, he probably is. Beaux is incredibly intimidating to people. Most of
the guys would never have even tried talking to him if I hadn't told them
how nice he is. I mean, seriously, would YOU have risked talking to someone
who looked," he directed my attention to Beaux, "like *that* at a party." I
smiled widely. Hans was so very, very right.

"Um, is he wearing, well, a *harness* under that tee?"

Hans' voice got a bit snippy. "Yes. He showed up in the harness and nothing
else above the waist. He didn't have time to go change, so I got him into
the tee which, you're right, does nothing to hide it." Hans sighed, "I
never could do a thing with that boy." He saw me reaction and smiled. "Yes,
we have history. We dated for nearly a year. We're still really close,
we're just not right for each other."

A slightly-wicked tone entered Hans' voice, "But I'll be happy to introduce
you. He's really amazing at, well, you know," Hans' voice dropped to a
seductive whisper, "and Will's got an incredible and extremely-talented
ass."

I nearly snorted my drink across the room but recovered quickly. "Ah, uh,
no. I don't tend to, you know, um, focus on the ass part."

Hans looked like it was Christmas. "Really? Ooooh. Um, Kevin, are you,
well, you know, seeing anyone? Oh, GOD! I can't believe I said that! Like
I'm suddenly a blushing teen. I just don't--"

I cut him off, "No, Hans. I'm not seeing anyone. Other than the person who
is... right in front of me." I smiled at what that news did. Hans was
glowing.

"Would you like to, you know, like to be seeing someone?" He blushed in
that stunning round-red-patch way Nordic Gods tend to have.

"Only if I'd be seeing that person who is... right in front of me," I
purred.

"Holy fuck. I've never been so nervous. You, Kevin, you're as bad as
Beaux. I can't believe I had the guts to say that! Oh, I'm all aflutt--
Oh. My. God. I did not just say that. Kevin, please, just kill me?"

I smiled and purred into his ear, "Not. Quite. Yet. Of course, what do the
French call, you know, completion? Le Petit... what?"

"Um, *La* Petite Mort," he gasped. It meant 'the little death' and was one
of the few phrases that stuck with me for some reason. La petite mort, the
little death, referred to the complete cessation of consciousness during
the throes of orgasm.

"So, no, Hans, I have no intention of cause your death... big or little,
right... now."

I left him gaping and went over to stand near the little stud by the faux
mantelpiece. Close up, he was even more amazing. He was a model of physical
perfection, hard and soft in all the right places. He had a long, tapered
jaw softened by a Miami Vice layer of spiky fuzz. I loathed it on Don
Johnson but on this guy, it made him look... ready for anything, sexy,
mysterious, intriguing. His eyes rocked me. They were blue... ish. They
were some sort of blue that 'smoky' had been invented to describe, like a
campfire on warm summer's night. His hair was uniformly-trimmed, close but
not like shaved. It just barely covered his close-to-the-skull ears.

He watched me curiously until I spoke. "You know, Beaux is a really good
kid. Perhaps a bit too... assertive. Too... dominating, but a great
guy. You should talk to him."

He looked at me like I'd grown a second head. "Who the fuck are *you*?":

"The person who knows Beaux better than any other. And, um, I think he
likes you."

He looked at me. "Really?"

"I'm getting that a lot tonight. Just, well, talk to him for a bit. Just
say hello. I guarantee that you will be in the grave before he ever has the
nerve to talk to you. But..." I had his full and undivided attention, "he
keeps looking at you..."

I went to the bar and got a beer and a crown-and-coke, then returned to
Hans. I handed him the cocktail as he watched me like a hare watching a
snake. His looks kept switching from wolf-watching-rabbit to
rabbit-watching-wolf. Like I was gonna help him!

I, in turn, watched as the Will guy moved in slowly-tightening arcs toward
Beaux and smiled as Beaux's eyes seem to track him in between interactions
with the two guys on either side. He got to the penumbra of Beaux's orbit
and the guy in the chair noticed that Beaux had completely forgotten he
existed. Will sank into the seat.

I could reconstruction the dialog from where I sat even though I couldn't
hear a word. 'Hi.' 'Hello.' I'm Will.' 'I'm Beaux.' 'Very nice to meet you,
Will.' 'Thanks.' 'so, uh...?' 'Yeah...?' They looked at each other trying
to invent a way to make the train wreck of a conversation work. The cute
guy who'd been talking on the sofa finally got an extremely miffed look and
huffed off to the bar. I moved, not exactly the spot he'd vacated, but to a
spot close enough no one would try to sit on that side of Beaux. Hans
followed like a puppy.

A long, awkward non-conversation ensued and I smiled inside. Beaux finally
asked, a bit of frustration in his voice, "What you got under that shirt,
you? I can't tell what it is."

Will blushed, ears first, and said, "Well, it's a, um, leather, well, um,
harness. I... oh, God. You'll laugh."

"You ain't laughed at me yet. Why would I laugh at you? And what is a
harness?"

Will fidgeted in embarrassment. "Oh, my. Okay, a harness is... hmmm. It's a
set of leather straps. I uh, often wear it to let other guys, um, know what
I, well, what I like. Oh, Lord. I know you might not know what I mean and
I'm about to die saying it, but, I, uh, I like guys to take... control?"

Beaux cocked his head to the side. "Wellllllll, I've not done that,
ever. You thinking you want *me* to take control? And then what, Will? What
would we do after I take control." Will sort of whimpered and looked
longingly at Beaux, but didn't answer. "So, what's your whole name?"

"Will J-J-Jones. N-Not very existing, really?"

"I never met anyone named Will, or named Jones, me. So why aren't you
interesting, Will Jones?"

The man just looked at Beaux like the cobra charming him. I leant over and
asked, "Beaux, do you need a drink?"

Beaux never even looked at me and answered as distractedly as I'd ever seen
him. "No, Oncle, I'm fine. Real fine. Really... fine."

I smiled at Hans. I went and got us each a drink and we returned to the
original end of the couch. We settled back and cuddled, Hans tentatively
exploring and me setting limits with a slapped hand or quick look. For the
rest of the evening, a number of guys came back up to Beaux to strike up a
conversation, Beaux was unfailingly polite, then each was utterly ignored.

The party began to wind down around 9:00, with about half the guys heading
out to the bars. One of Will's friends came up and remined him that they
were supposed to meet 'the guys' at The Roost. Will looked like about to
say something like, 'Are you out of your fucking mind?' before I leaned in
and said, "Beaux and I need to be heading out as well." That earned me a
glittering glare from my ward. I leaned across and handed Will one of my
'personal' cards, a habit I'd gotten into years before at social
gatherings. "No reason the conversation has to end, though. Beaux's number
is the same as mine."

"Uh, Beaux? Would it, um, really be okay for me to call you?" Will
literally held his breath as Beaux smiled.

"I'd like that very much, me." Will let his friend tug him floatingly
toward the door. There was only one visual image I could think of for
Beaux's look: the gaze of a tomcat just introduced to the canary upon
noticing the cage-door was ajar.

A shiver ran through my body as I felt a purr at my own ear, "So do I get
one of those little cards, too?" I was nearly hyperventilating as I handed
Hans about three, utterly lost in those eyes.

"Ahem," I heard Beaux fake-cough and whisper low, "Breathe, Oncle. Long,
deep breaths."

<eof>

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