Date: Fri, 02 Apr 2010 19:21:16 +0100 From: paxos@hushmail.com Subject: Boy in the supermarket (gay/adult/youth) Disclaimer: do not read this if you are hungry. Do not read this if you are under-age or if it is illegal for you to use your imagination. This story may contain nuts. Happy Easter. ---- "Have another." "I can't." "Go on, one more for the road." "I'd like to but..." "Go on then. Fuck the shopping. I'm buying." "It closes at nine. If I don't go, I've got nothing in the fridge." He slurs the last word. "One more!" "No, your a bad man, and we've already had four pints." "We're just getting started." "No. No, no no no. No." He waves as he stands. "Next time." Outside the pub he gulps in the chill air and steadies himself, holding the handrail as he descends the steps onto the pavement. He feels lightheaded. Wary of the cars at the lights. It is raining. The cars hiss by. Someone knocks his shoulder. "Sorry. Oh...." He looks more closely. A lamp-post. He wipes rain from his face and moves purposefully in the direction of the supermarket. Leaning on a wall here. Breaking into a half run there. Coming to a halt. Setting off again. The bright frontage of the supermarket silhouettes a snake of trolleys. He looks at the trolleys. There is a stack of baskets by the automatic door. He looks at the baskets, then back at the trolleys. Someone passes him and picks a basket and walks into the store. He extracts a trolley and feels immediately more confident. He rests on it heavily and allows it to propel him in through the doors and into the bright lights. Past the cigarette counter. Towards the fruit. There is a lot of fruit. A bank of fruit sweeps away on three levels. Three aisles of it. It looks good. All of it. Bright, but good. He is looking down at the plums. Round. Deep purple. Almost black. Like fat cock-heads, he thinks. But plums. Small fingers appear on one of the cock-heads. Slender, perfect fingers. Perfectly cut nails. Perfect fingers. Not his fingers, he realises. They connect to an arm and then to a waxen haired boy of about twelve. A boy's fingers pressing the purple strained skin of the plum. He watches the plum swell minutely under the pressure. He can taste the succulent, sweet moisture. The splitting softness. The dribbling pleasure. The boy's gentle fingers cup the plum. Weigh it. Press it. The boy lets the plum return to the pile. He tears a plastic bag and fills it with plums. And turns to see the boy at the melons. The cheeks of the boy are downy soft, he is sure he can smell them. The melons are hoary hard. Veined. He looks between the green lined fruit and flawless skin. The boy is pressing with his thumb bent. Bringing it to his nose. Leaning on his trolley he can smell what the boy smells. Far off sweetness. Summer by the sea. Raspberries. No. He has a tub of raspberries somehow in his hand. He studies the soft fruit then looks back at the boy. The boy's nose is against the melon, button fresh. Long eyelashes flick. He is staring. He catches himself and scoots the trolley away past the lemons. The oranges and tangerines. Fruit with a defensive shield, a peel, a pith, with pips. He feels better. He circles the central island but the boy is at the bananas. He stops the trolley alongside. The boy is pointing, moving his finger as if counting the dense green bunches. Some yellowing. Some hard green. The boy's hand is around the ribbed thick skin. He is lifting a bunch, his fingers curled around one. One fat one. Staring at the boy's fingers, he feels the banana slide. He can smell the rush of unripe, cloying, plantain. His head spins. He grips the trolley tightly and stares at gooseberries. A green so light it seems to be lit from behind. Translucent jade. The green of snowcaps or dappled forests. The gooseberries blink. He starts. Refocusses. Looking into the boy's green eyes. "Oh I'm so sorry." He feels himself blushing. The boy flashes a grin and tears a plastic bag to slide over his bananas. He swings his trolley around in an abrupt circle to the apples. He picks blushing Braeburn and drops the bouncy tight, skin tight, firm, sweet, juicy fruit, ripe for splitting - into another bag. He keeps his eyes down, studying the wire mesh of the trolley as he rattles past the salads and the stack of milk chocolate boxes. He pulls sausages towards him. Presses cold milk against his forehead. Claps two packs of butter together. He smells bread, and somehow a swollen french stick ends up riding shotgun in his trolley. Amid detergents he sees the shining boy again. In hooded top and sweatpants, and bright laced canvas pumps. Alive inside his loose clothes. Running after his mother. He puts beer carefully into the trolley alongside the bread and eggs, being careful not to crush the beer. He has lost the boy. He makes for the centre aisle and barrels down it, looking left and right. The boy's mother is leaning into a freezer cabinet. She has a pack of garish something or other. She is opening it. She is handing something to the boy who is unwrapping it. They are moving to the check-out. He notices an empty till, but is happy to stand in line. Behind the mother. The boy leans against the opposite check-out. Rests his bum on it. He has an ice stick that he is sucking into a perfect "O". A blue one. His gooseberry eyes are fixed on the man with the trolley. He is sucking. Sliding the ice between slippery, chilled lips. Staring. Gripping his trolley he stares back. He can taste the ice in the boy's mouth. The tongue that licks. The sliding stick against the tongue. Can hear the pop and slurp. The check-out beeps and weighs and shuffles. The boy sucks and slurps and sticks out his tongue. Deep blue of the chemical ocean. The boy opens his mouth. The blue has coated the back of his throat. Where the ice slides. All the way back. The boy licks around the dissolving head. "Sir." "Sir!" He hears the checkout girl through the fog. "Sir!" He turns. "Yes?" "One of your items must be leaking sir." He looks down. A wet patch blooms on the front of his trousers. The mother has gathered her bags and they leave. The boy skips backwards, keeping his eyes on the man, bright teeth showing in a heaven-blue smile. --- comments? paxos@hushmail.com