Date: Mon, 11 Dec 2017 06:59:04 -0500
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Beaux Thibodaux 29

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.



*****

It would come as a shock to exactly one person on the planet (me) that I
cried myself to sleep that night for the first time in forever. I have
never been so ashamed of myself, so broken by something I had done that I
couldn't even face dreaming. I got up at least six times, twice making it
all the way to Beaux's door before chickening out. How do you apologize for
something like that? Sometime in the wee hours, I guess I finally
dozed. The alarm woke me at six, still dressed in my dinner clothes, still
smelling of Hans' cologne and still puff-eyed from the crying. I looked
accusingly at the wraithlike visage in the mirror and asked, "So,
smartass. How you gonna fix this shit?"

*****

Beaux Thibodaux 29: Parenting, Gay & Otherwise

Friday/Saturday

By Bear Pup

*****

As I floated upwards toward consciousness, I was suddenly awash in the
smell of heaven. Bacon, yeast, coffee and little sparkle-bits of happiness.
I took care of urgent morning needs and climbed the stairs to the kitchen.
Beaux didn't hear me over his cooking and I paused to admire the view.
Beaux was adding muscle daily, it seemed, but his lithe frame and amazing
ass were glories in which a master sculptor would revel. My own reverie was
cut short when my traitorous stomach let out a loud growl at the succulent
smells of breakfast.

He turned and graced me with a blinding if somewhat sheepish smile. "Good
morning, Oncle. Breakfast will be ready in about ten minutes." He kept
rolling the large skillet around, tilting it only a little but in almost
constant motion.

"It smells incredible, Beaux. What is it."

"Bacon pie. Something I, um, decided to try for you?"

I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat at the island. "Beaux, I'm really
sor--"

"No." Beaux didn't normally cut across me and I was a bit surprised. He
stopped fiddling with the pan and turned to me. "No, you don't get to
apologize. I broke the rule and then tried to get you to feel bad about it
and that's just not right. I'm really sorry, Oncle, and I'll try real hard
not to do that again. But Will..." He sighed deeply and turned back to the
stove, resuming the slow roll of the pan.

"Will got you so worked up that you weren't thinking straight?" He nodded
at the stove, not turning to me. "I'll tell you that Hans nearly had me at
the same point and I've got nearly 25 years on you. Beaux, it's why Dr
Silvers set me as a gatekeeper. He knows how difficult it is to keep to
your plan of going slow when the hormones are running fast. So, um, you're
not mad at me?"

"No. And I, uh..." he set the pan aside and put a lid on top as he blushed
and looked sideways at me. "...I got up twice in the night to come
apologize and I chickened out each time."

I laughed hard at that. "I did, too, Beaux. We both were a little sex-drunk
last night, and both overacted. Let's just forgive each other. But you can
be pretty sure we'll have a few repeats. Will looked damned near edible and
Hans..." I was my turn to sigh deeply.

Beaux reached down and popped a second skillet out of the oven and the room
exploded in the heady aroma of fresh bread. I almost swooned. "I found some
hard cheese I'd not seen the like of before. I used it in the bread and it
smells wonderful, doesn't it? I used it in the omelette as well." I had no
idea what cheese he might be talking about and honestly didn't care. There
were shards of rosemary and something darker green that I didn't recognize.
It turns out it was lavender leaves, something I didn't even know I owned!
He proceeded to brush the top of the bread over and over with melted
butter, letting it soften and soak into the crust before returning to the
same area. It was hypnotic and smelled like God's Kitchen.

When he was done, he decanted the wobbly egg dish onto a cutting board and
used a huge mezzaluna that I kept around for pizzas and made three fast,
hard cuts to create six wedges, then used a bread knife to cut the much
smaller pan bread into six wedges as well. He set the bread atop the larger
wedge of egg and bacon and set it in front of me with a flourish and a set
of silverware.

"My God, Beaux, how long have you been up?"

He blushed hard. "I couldn't sleep, me. I got up maybe a couple of hours
ago? I made the dough then did the Tala merde and showered while it
rose. The rest was easy." Easy my ass! He'd woven the streaky bacon into a
grid exactly like the lattice-top of a grandma-style apple pie and
evidently crisped it before adding the egg, cheese and cream.

"How did you keep the eggs from getting under the bacon? I've never seen
ANYONE do that!"

He blushed again. "I laid in some sort of sliced white cheese and let it
melt a little first. It got crunchy like the bacon, but I think you'll like
it."

"Likt? I lubbit!" I mumbled and moaned my way through the first succulent
bite. The "white cheese" was fontina that had not *quite* burned but
instead was that magical texture and flavor you got on the very edge of a
lasagna or a deep-dish pizza. Inside it was embedded in the latticework of
bacon perfection. As soon as he cut it, though, I knew precisely which
"hard cheese" he'd found. I had bought a phenomenal Caprino Romana from a
delightful new shop called The Better Cheddar. Absolutely magnificent, but
I hadn't found the perfect use for the sharp, pungent and wondrous cheese
yet. Beaux's addition to the bread and omelette was by far the best idea
I'd ever heard. He basked in my effulgent praise.

We were each walking on eggshells the rest of the day. Beaux called Will as
I did my morning torture routine devised by Tala, our fitness nightmare, I
mean, instructor. Beaux was blushing like a cinnamon red-hot when I entered
the office where he was pointedly *not* reading the same page of homework
over and over as he daydreamed, his enormous erection the same color as his
face. I called Hans and got his machine and tried my best (and failed) not
to sound like a schoolgirl with a crush. Wisely, Beaux didn't glance at me,
but I could see his smirk even from behind.

You can think of Kansas City metro as a giant circle with Interstate 435
acting as a ring-road and various other interstates and major highways
through at various angles and perpetually clogged with traffic during all
daylight hours. My house was roughly at the top of that circle and Leewood
was precisely at its bottom. Beaux opted to stay home and work instead of
riding with me on what would be a terminally-boring excursion. I told him
he was on his own for lunch, dressed in my "government business" drag and
left for my one o'clock appointment at noon.

Traffic was kind, so I grabbed a bite at the more-or-less-local answer to
Taco Bell called Taco Tico. It started out in Wichita and had made it to
the Kansas side of KCMO a few years earlier. Being in my somber
going-to-government clothes, I had to skip the deliciously-messy smothered
entrées and settled for a double-decker "Taco Rito" and a combo
burrito. This was back in the day when "burrito" (Spanish for "little
donkey") still lived up to its name, as opposed to modern ones where the
whole fucking donkey would fit inside, and you need a detachable jaw to eat
without a knife and fork.

The meeting went shockingly well. The recent elections in Leewood had put
some new blood into City Hall and much of the old guard had retired with a
huff; no one missed them much. They'd reorganized a number of departments
into Community Development, which made my life much easier. I met with
folks from code enforcement, building permits, engineering and inspections
around a single table and nearly wept for joy. I was so shocked that they
tossed questions from group to group until they actually agreed on a single
answer that I nearly walked outside to confirm I was in a City Hall. I left
with THREE approvals and one conditional sign-off (pending detailed
drawings) for the Hoffman place on Tomahawk Creek, something that would
have taken me a week under the old administration.

I decided to skip the cooking and surprise Beaux with a spread of Barbeque
from a very old, local place called Jo-Jo's. My elated mood withered when
Jo-Jo informed me over my ready-for-oven trays that he was retiring and had
decided to close instead of sell. I asked how come and he replied, "Have
sum-buddy cook undah mah name? You crazy, Mister Kevin?" He did, though,
shock me speechless when he slid me a card and said, "Don't tell nobody,
cuz I'm a'selling these recipes and ain't s'posed to give 'em out."

The card had one of his famous sauces, a smoky-sweet concoction that I knew
for a fact he'd refused all offers on for a decade at least. He leaned
forward and whispered, "It da fresh bay leaf dat make it." I treasure that
(now stained and smudged) card to this day, even though many American
families have a plastic bottle of something based on it in their pantry. I
won't tell you which company bought it, but it made them (and, I suspect,
Jo-Jo as well) an enormous amount of money. His slow-cooked version is
still better although incredibly time-consuming. And he's right; the bay
leaf is utterly undetectable until it's omitted, at which point you realize
it is the pivot on which all the other flavors spin.

I got home around four and snuck the trays into the oven downstairs in The
Bar to warm slowly per Jo-Jo's instructions. The little thing was
specifically built to hold slide-in full- or half-trays. I'd gotten a
half-tray of meat and a divided half-tray of sides from Jo-Jo. I joined a
completely-absorbed Beaux in the office a few minutes later. I'm not sure
he knew I was there until about five o'clock when I heard a loud rumbling
and he started to sniff the air. He turned and asked, "What's cooking,
Oncle?"

I smiled and teased, "You'll find out at 6:30 young man." The aroma slowly
built to unbearable levels and I ended up having to move downstairs due to
the frequency of Beaux's attempts to peek or, more likely, filch a taste or
two. The salvation was that it took him three tries to figure out it wasn't
in the kitchen. By six o'clock, Beaux was stationed in The Bar across from
me, nursing a root beer and glaring at the little oven. He literally
growled at me when I pulled the two trays and set them aside without
opening them, instead cranking the oven up its highest temp and putting a
small, lumpy parcel in for the final six minutes.

He almost wept when I uncovered the feast. The meat tray held a
sliced-pound each of brisket, pork, beef and turkey along with a half-pound
of burnt ends and a smoked chicken, quartered. The split tray had Jo-Jo
Beans (more a Texas style based on pinto beans that were cooked in the
smoker itself, a bit spicy with tons of pork and bacon) on one side and
Jo-Jo Taters (something like a hot potato salad with peppers and corn in a
vinegary but creamy sauce) on the other. I still kick myself that I was so
stunned to get the sauce recipe that I didn't push my luck and try for the
Taters as well.

As expected, it was the contents of the smallest package of tinfoil that
sent Beaux into moans of ecstasy. Unlike nearly every other barbeque eatery
in the area, Jo-Jo didn't serve white bread to sop up the juices and sauces
(a treasured part of the meal for most folks in that part of the
Midwest). Instead, he served "frittercakes". About the size of an English
muffin, they were packed with corn, corn meal and (again like an English
muffin) billions of tiny air pockets. With many more decades of food under
(and now bulging around) my belt, the closest I can come is to imagine an
absorbent falafel hush puppy studded with whole-kernel corn and angels'
sighs.

I sat back and watched in a mix of delight, awe and horror as my teenaged
charge decided to eat everything at once. Until Beaux ran upstairs to grab
some hot sauce, I didn't even *try* to get close to the trays for fear that
he might hack off one of my limbs in his absentminded assault on the meat.
I'd planned well, though, and even Beaux was defeated by the amazing
quality and sheer quantity of Jo-Jo's creations. Only the chicken, burnt
ends and brisket (the latter being Jo-Jo's all-time greatest hit) were
completely consumed. The other meats were badly depleted but still there
when Beaux loudly groaned to a halt.

I swear he looked drunk when he was done as he slightly slurred, "Oncle,
that may be the besht shupper I've done ever had, me." Beaux got unsteadily
to his feet and stumbled toward his room, belly visibly distended and
beautiful ass drooping slightly. Now, I loved Beaux to death, but I also
loved leftover barbeque. I packed a little meal of various meats and
containers of the sauce, beans and taters, wrapped it carefully in tinfoil
and labeled it "Brussel Sprout Casserole", Brussel sprouts being the one
and only thing I'd discovered that Beaux truly detested. I tucked it in the
back of the middle shelf behind an ancient jar of gherkins. The rest went
into obvious and easily-discovered decoy containers.

I went up to the library and began to read my book, a bit sleepy since
Jo-Jo's turkey was a favorite of mine. Beaux joined me, passing
imperceptibly between reading and dozing as the night progressed. Hans
called about nine, and I went to the office and chatted with him, well
aware that Beaux could hear me but -- and this was the crucial thing -- I
couldn't see his reactions as I blushed and stammered through the
conversation.

About halfway through, Will called (I had the new call waiting feature on
both of my phone lines). I told him to call the business line and gave him
the number, then hollered down the hall for Beaux to pick up in the front
room. The audible elephant stampede concluded with the shortest ring in
history as Beaux pounced before the little clapper had a chance to hit the
bell more than once.  I can only imagine how an impartial observer between
us would have felt as he was drowned in waves of schmaltzy cooing and
breathy sighs from both conversations.

We sheepishly glanced at each other as we wrapped up at about the same
time. "So, um," I stammered, "it looks like they both want to see us
again?" Beaux nodded, eyes wide. "I'm sure Will told you that he and Hans
are trying to coordinate schedules. I'm guessing maybe Monday night?" Beaux
smiled at the thought but looked down as well. I spared a glance in that
direction and noticed that he was as hard and leaking as I was. "So, I, um,
I'm off to bed. Get the lights and lock up when you're done, okay?"

Compared to the previous night's drama and emotional turmoil, the romantic
call and Beaux's blushes unlocked the door to the fantasies I should have
played out the night before. The pounding fuck I'd first fantasized about
in the hands of Hans had morphed into a long and passionate lovemaking, his
big arms wrapped around my body as he found and gently plundered (Hush!
it's a jack-off fantasy) my ass, tenderly mauled my tits (ditto) and softly
gnawed my earlobe (re-ditto). It was a highly... satisfactory way to end my
evening and I was off to dreamland quickly.

I woke to find Beaux is a state of absolute jitters. He explained as we
burned off the morning cobwebs with Tala's exercise regimen. In the dark of
the wee hours, he'd suddenly woken to realize that today was the birthday
party for Matt Lyons. Beaux stammered and stuttered through a remarkably
thorough explanation of everything that was certain to go wrong and thus
embarrass him to the point of imminent demise and then, in a coup de gras,
Matt's father would tell Will all about it at work and he, Beaux, would
simply fall stone dead. There were several points in there he was so worked
up that he lapsed in the bayou French for a bit, and he flat-out attacked
the machines with a determination that impressed me enough to try and match
him.

We got to the shower exhausted, but Beaux had burned off most of the
worries. I started to explain how important it was to be open and willing
to get pleasantly surprised. Yes, things could go wrong. They WOULD go
wrong. If they somehow went tragically wrong, it would be non-fatal, Will
wouldn't care and we just would hang out with that group of kids again. I'm
not sure whether it was my words or the luscious steam that relaxed Beaux
enough to get a smile from him, which I considered a victory.

Breakfast was a simple one that I called Iron Maiden Eggs. I cooked the
eggs sunny-side up and well-peppered, then flipped them yolk-down onto a
toasted English muffin half, topping it with some cheese. The yolks get
skewered by the "nooks and crannies" and turn the whole thing into a
succulent treat. Since English muffins (back then at least) only came in
6-packs, I knew that Beaux would freak that only a single dozen eggs were
on offer, so I cooked a thick slice of ham as well. He was hoovering for
crumbs as we finished and I suggested that we get dressed.

Since it was the early 80s, the swimsuit situation was simple: You could
have a pair of flat, square, two-inch-legged white trunks with red piping,
or a pair of flat, square, two-inch-legged blue trunks with white
piping. To the best of my recollection, nothing else was even sold in
stores unless you were near a coastline. I had white/red ones (because Sean
Connery had worn a pair like them in Never Say Never Again) so I'd bought
Beaux blue/white ones. We decided just to wear them under our shorts, but I
packed a small duffle with towels and sunscreen.

The pool party was scheduled to start at 11:00, so I made sure we got there
about 11:10. There was quite a collection of cars in the circular
drive. Since the home was on a corner, the designers had laid a tree-filled
oval and paved the rest into two parking pads, so six cars fit easily. The
house itself was clearly influenced by the linear style of Frank Lloyd
Wright, but the architect had done a surprisingly-good job; most Wright
mimics tended to make homes that looked and felt like short
warehouses. This one had made brilliant use of the natural site. The house
stepped down the steep bluff over the lake in a couple of layers.

We were met at the door by a girl who could only be Matt's younger
sister. She was willowy, blond and had a phenomenal smile. "Oh, MY! You
*must* be Beaux! I am so glad to meet you. And you're Beaux's, um, uncle
Kevin, correct?" I gave her a smile and nod, but her attention was
laser-focused on a blushing Beaux. I decided to let this play out even
though I could tell he was desperate for rescue. I carefully avoided
allowing any eye-contact. "I'm Shelly, Matt's sister." She held out her
hand and Beaux shook it more by reflex than anything.

"H-H-Hi. Yes, ma'am, I'm Beaux." He stammered, and her "predatory high
school vixen on the prowl" look redoubled.

"Well, Matty just didn't do you justice at all. Come on in Beaux. I'll show
you around." She'd never let go of Beaux's hand and now pulled him in and
spun to walk beside him... very closely beside him, twining her arm into
his. I managed not to bust out laughing as he looked everywhere for some
sort of escape.

"Shelly!" The girl teleported about three critical inches away from Beaux,
just enough to make a clear separation. The voice was that of a tall and
strikingly-gorgeous woman. I'd find out later that she had been a model,
occasionally for couture but mostly for cosmetics in the late sixties;
she'd lost none of her Nordic beauty.

"Mr Faolan, so nice to meet you." Her voice added a slight layer of frost
as she continued, "Shelly, why don't you take the bowl of sodas out to the
poolside. We will talk later." She turned back and beamed at Beaux. "We are
so pleased you could join us, Beaux. Matt was delighted when you agreed."
She returned her attention to me and held out her hand. "I'm Regina Lyons,
may I call you Kevin?"

"I'd be hurt if you didn't. May I call you Regina?" She smiled wider.

"You can, but I'd rather you call me Ginny. Frank will be down shortly. He
and Rob are talking shop in his office upstairs." The consummate hostess,
she had us moving effortlessly to the stairs. The home was delicately and
brilliantly set with modern lines and sleek, Scandinavian styles. I
recognized several pieces from Morgen-Stil (sadly, soon to die as "modern"
became "old"), a local studio I rarely used, but which fit the home
brilliantly. The windows were a surprise and should not have worked at all;
they were gothic-arch in shape and set off the home and the furnishings
perfectly. I made a mental note to try them in a future project. It was
clear that the level we'd entered on, while it had a beautiful entertaining
and reception space, was primarily bedrooms.

A circular staircase deposited us in a magnificent open space that
stretched the full length of the pool, including an open, modern kitchen, a
living/family area and a large dining space, all fronting on an
equal-length patio overlooking the pool and the sparkling lake. "Ginny, you
have a magnificent home."

She looked at me for a moment, still smiling enigmatically, before
replying, "I'd normally say something like, 'Oh, you're too kind.' But
having seen your own work, I prefer to be immensely flattered. Thank you,
Kevin."

A pair of French doors opened suddenly, and Matt came in and beamed like
the sun when he saw Beaux. "You came!" He rushed forward and gave Beaux a
side-hug. "Beaux, I'm so glad. Come out and meet some of my friends." I
smiled as the ebullient (and very gay) young man ushered a shell-shocked
Beaux out into the patio area where teens were draped over various items of
furniture, whether the piece in question happened to be designed for
sitting or not.

The adults, largely, were gathered in the conversation group inside and
Regina escorted me over and introduced me to a smattering of parents. She
handed me a glass of cool, white wine and installed me in a
steel-and-white-leather chair before making her apologies and returning to
door duty. A rather beady-eyed and flabby man stared at me unnervingly as
the conversation around the group bounced quickly and effortlessly. Perhaps
five minutes later, a lull came into the conversation and the man said, "So
you're Beaux's uncle, right? And he's your, what, your ward?" His voice
screamed of someone itching for an oh-so-very-polite fight.

I smiled and nodded. "Yes. He's an amazing kid who's had a really rough
upbringing."

"And you're bringing him up to be gay?" An icy silence engulfed the entire
group, glasses frozen halfway to lips.

"No, sir, I'm not."

"I was told you were a queer and thought you were raising him to be one,
too. So, you're raising him to be straight after all? You know, *normal*?"
He smirked at me as if he won some sort of point.

"No, I'm raising him to be Beaux Thibodaux." I never let my calm tone or
smile slip in the least. "I don't care who he decides to love, as long as
he ends up able to love himself and whomever he settles down with. So far,
he's turned out to be one of the nicest and *politest* people I've met in a
long time. And I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"I'm Hank Reynolds, and I don't think I like your tone."

I kept my smile and took a sip of whine. "I'm sorry you don't like it,
Hank, but it's the only tone I have when someone makes it sound like Beaux
is anything less than 'normal.' He is a very smart, very together young
man. In spite of the horrible life he led until recently, I believe he will
grow into one of the best men I've ever known. I'll be proud if I can avoid
getting in his way and will feel blessed if I can help him on that
journey. But, Hank, I also don't intend to let people who don't know either
of us throw hateful labels at him in some attempt to make him feel small or
'abnormal'." I was still smiling, but I knew there was a slightly-reptilian
glint to by this point. "Can I get you another beer, Hank?"

"No," the voice came from the woman at his left. "No, you cannot. I'm
afraid that my husband has obviously had plenty and we'll take our leave
now and pick our son John up later." Hank, beet red with fury, turned to
issue some sort of rebuke and was met with a glare that was sharper than a
scalpel and promised a long-term plan filled with unhappiness and sexual
frustration in store for her bigoted blowhard of a husband. Without a
glance to anyone, he strode off, followed by a woman for whom I sent a
silent prayer for long life as a happy divorcee.

"I'm so sorry about Hank. He--" A rather flushed woman started.

I held up my hand. "Please, don't apologize. I shouldn't have risen to the
bait. I am sorry to have dampened the mood of a delightful party."

"You didn't;" Ginny said firmly from the foot of the stairs, "you rather
dramatically improved it. I had no idea that Donna was bringing him." She
had a nice-looking teen boy on her arm whom she sent out to the pool, then
lassoed her daughter to be door-guard before grabbing her martini glass and
joining us.

"He's insufferable, really." One of the guys who was introduced as Frank
Marin or Marina or maybe Martin; I hated parties where there were two
Franks, frankly. "Hank had no trouble when his eldest announced that she
was a lesbian in college. But when he found out that his youngest son was
more than just the center for the Park Hill Trojans ball-kicker he went a
bit mental."

I couldn't help it. The offhand and slightly-comical way Frank had dropped
center, ball-kicker and Trojans into the same sentence sent me into a burst
of giggles. Thankfully, the rest of the room joined in. The woman in the
chair next to me reached over and put her hand on my arm conversationally
and continued where Frank had left off. "Poor Donna is beside
herself. Apparently, Hank is doing everything but buying hookers for their
middle son, Jason, who starts at Mizzou next week. Hank told my husband
that it would 'look terrible' if all three of his kids turned out 'that
way'." She finger-drove the air-quotes home and most of the people laughed.

I tried to find a socially-acceptable way to ask, but couldn't imagine what
it would be. "So, um, are a lot of the teens at Matt's party... um...?"

"Gay?" The woman who'd been speaking hooted a laugh. "God no! Don't tell
him, but I wish my Danny was! The girls he brings home? Oh. My. God." She
hurriedly added, "Not your Megan, of course!" she directed to a man across
from her who might have been Jim or Tim.

This set J'Tim into gales of laughter. "Mary, if you don't put Megan in
your Oh My God category, I shudder to think of who you do! I have seriously
considered locking her in her room until she's, like, 30."

This sent the group into the parental paradise of "my kid is worse than
yours." When it was clearly my turn, I used the Sunday at the park where
Beaux first encountered a manual transmission, complete with sound
effects. When I got to, "BORDEL DE MERDE! OH, GOD, ONCLE! I broke it, me!"
I had several of the parents clutching their bellies in mirth.

Two of the kids came in just as one guy (Tony?) was describing when his
son, Jeff, burnt off his eyebrows when he tried to put out a lighter-fluid
fire with a can of water. One of the kids was, inevitably, the
aforementioned Jeff. "Oh. My. God.  DaaAAaaAAd!!!" He grabbed his friend's
hand and erupted up the stairs at a speed that nearly left a Wily Coyote
contrail behind.

"Ahem. I guess I'm getting the DaaAAaaAAd lecture when I get home." That
set off a round of kids' freak-out stories. Two of the parents talked about
finding out The Big Secret. One mom discovered gay porn under her son's bed
and actually had to employ the verb 'he *slithered* into the room' and the
adjective 'he was shaking so bad that he looked *palsied*' in recounting
the subsequent reaction of her son confronted with the evidence. Another
mom found her daughter unexpectedly home early from school and VERY
unexpectedly in the highly-intimate embrace of another girl from the
volleyball team. That one involved a number of words that the mother,
Nancy, had to actually look up only to find that they weren't in the
dictionary. Now that she *knew* what they meant, she refused to repeat
them.

Frank, Matt's father, came down the staircase just then with a man who
looked familiar to me. Frank was, well, he was the sort of guy that you
looked at and immediately asked yourself whether the suit he wore every
weekday was brown or grey. The first word you thought, the very first,
would be Executive. The next thing to pop to mind would vary by your
background. For me, it was Class President. For others it would be Most
Likely to Succeed or, in non-sporting schools, Prom King. Regardless, it
would be a word from your senior year of secondary school. He was greying
gracefully around the temples and had precisely the required number of
crow's-feet around his eyes.

The second man was in a black t-shirt and jeans. I can't explain why, but
'clergy' leapt to mind. He had wide-set, kind eyes that twinkled behind
stylish glasses and a jaw that looked very much like it was made of Legos,
but with a little stubble added. Small ears and short-cropped, thick brown
hair in the back and a rear-guard battle against male pattern baldness in
the front made him look, frankly, adorable. His smile, though... his smile
made even the cynic in me want to believe in greater powers. He made me
want to be a better person and hadn't even spoken yet.

"Hello all. For those who don't know him, this is Robin Hines, Head of
Chaplaincy at St Luke. Most people call him Father Rob. Oh! Mr Faolan! A
pleasure to have you here. I'm Frank Lyons. Both of us met you briefly at
the party a while back." He advanced on me in typically-executive style and
wrung my hand in a way that made me check if my watch was still attached
and reassuring myself that I did not, in fact, need a barely-used car.

I looked outside and, to my complete shock, saw Beaux laughing heartily
with Matt at his side and a large, rather pudgy but handsome boy that I
recalled from the party next to him. Several other teens were pooled around
them. Suddenly, as a switch thrown, the entire assemblage of teens turned
as one to the windows and Matt stuck his head in and said, "We're taking
the boat out. Is that okay, Dad?" Beaux looked at me pleadingly and I
nodded as Frank considered, smiled and agreed with a nod as the whooping
teens boiled around the pool and toward the dock.

<eof>

Several people who beta-read stories deserve special thanks on this
chapter, including Daniel, Skip and Zach. These folks make it possible to
really read the stories that I write. Thank you!

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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Canvas Hell: 37 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/
Beaux Thibodaux: 29 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 30 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Culberhouse Rules: 15 chapters .../incest/culberhouse-rules/
Raven's Claw: 11 chapters .../authoritarian/ravens-claw/
Ashes & Dust: 8 chapters .../rural/ashes-and-dust/
Maybe Next Time: 8 chapters .../authoritarian/maybe-next-time/
Patriot UP!: 3 chapters .../authoritarian/patriot-up/