WARNING: This story – a fictional one - contains sex between a minor and an adult. Do not read the contents if it will offend you. If accessing this story causes you to break local laws (village, town, city, county, province, state, or country, etc.), please leave now.

 

Any characters portrayed in this story are fictional and not representative of anyone living or dead.

 

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Other stories on Nifty by John Teller/The Storyteller can be found here.

 

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Anthony Alboran's story – Crisp Buddies.

 

Written by John Teller.

 

(This one is dedicated to D & JJ the Redneck.)

 

And, for `es, all boys who wear pink.

  

Part one.

 

**Note to Yanks and ignoramuses: a potato crisp is a potato, sliced thinly and fried to a crisp until it's a golden-brown. They can be had in many flavours, and a famous manufacturer of these `delicacies' are the company Golden Wonder, who have been making crisps in the UK since 1947. You Yanks call them `chips' I believe, which is typical of how you mangle our beautiful language. *wink*

 

I'd just walked past a young man who was about seventeen who had caught my eye. I think I might have caught his too, because he did look into my eyes, but then he was gone and so was I. (Ships passing in the night? Who knows.) Then I saw a typical schoolboy walking home from school... dishevelled, two heavy school bags slung over his shoulders that had twisted his dark blue school blazer all over the place, blue and yellow tie askew at a strange angle, long trousers that had lost their crease at the knees as well as being crumpled and hanging lower than they should be over his scuffed black shoes, looking totally unconcerned about life in general as they do when Friday comes, and he was eating a bag of Golden Wonder Potato Crisps. That's why I smiled at him as we were passing each other on the pavement. And he smiled at me. I walked on twenty yards and then turned to look at him. He had done exactly the same, and we caught each other out looking at each other. I grinned at him, and he grinned at me. Then I walked on while I was thinking about him. And, despite him being much younger than boys who I usually found attractive, he was still in my mind later that evening when I was having a pint at the Dog and Duck.

 

Dark, short hair with no distinguishable style to it (how could it have had style after a rough day at school?) and lovely features. Well, to me they were lovely. That's why I smiled at him. Despite him being a young boy, he was my type. We all have a my type, don't we... that indefinable something about a person that attracts us to them. They're like holiday resorts... some we like and some we don't even though they're almost identical. Boys are like that to me. I can look at fifty and only one can turn my head unless I'm by the seaside and they're almost naked except for swimwear, and then I can just admire the beauty of the form of a boy or young man without actually being attracted to the person.

 

Yes, some have that indefinable attraction, and I'd met one that day. How old was he? Probably thirteen or thereabouts. Fourteen at the most? He wasn't tall. Probably less than the height of my shoulders, and I'm six feet tall. He didn't look overweight even though it was difficult to tell with his clothes all awry. Because it was a fleeting contact, I'd missed the colour of his eyes, but he'd got a nice shape to them, and a cute nose and a nice mouth. He was nice as in really nice. My kinda boy even though I would have preferred he was about four years older.

 

How come we'd passed on that particular street? I wouldn't have been there had the boss not put us all on short time because work was slack. Instead of knocking off at five-thirty, we were doing two hours less a day. I would have preferred him to have put us on a four day week so I could at least get a day out fishing, but he wouldn't have that.  No, he said two hours a day less... take it or leave it. Bastard. But in the recession of 2010, beggars couldn't be choosers, and even though I was a skilled toolmaker, it counted for nothing when manufacturing was on its arse. So that's why I was there on the street by the shops when I got off the bus, calling at the Co-op to get some food items before I went home, and Cute Boy had walked past me on that Friday afternoon.

 

And why was he there at that particular time of day? Schools usually finished at three, and it was quarter past four when we met. Perhaps he'd had a detention for being naughty? I'd been catching the same bus and passing those shops at the same time for three weeks and hadn't seen him before. Where did he live? About a quarter of a mile from us, in the direction he was heading was a new housing estate where all the houses looked like little boxes crammed up against each other, so maybe he lived there. They call them `detached', but a cat would have a job getting between them. Open plan front gardens... most of them lawned with a few shrubs to take away the monotony. Not my cup of tea. I preferred my terraced house. Half the price and just as comfortable... and I didn't have lawns to mow every week to keep up with the Jones's and where most of the cars parked in the tiny drives were all brand new or nearly new... washed off every Sunday by owners not much different than cock birds preening themselves to show off their manliness. What wasn't obvious was that most of the car-status-symbols were on hire purchase and the owners were up to their necks in debt. At least I didn't have that bother. Not that I could afford HP. I was skint most of the time. Well, skint as in I didn't have a lot of brass in the bank. How could I after I'd married Her!

 

***********************

 

Dad warned me about Her. "You're making a mistake there, Tony. Take a look at her family and then at her mother. She'll drag you down to their level, just you wait and see."

 

But I was headstrong at twenty-four, and she did give a good blowjob. That was the best part. When she had it down her throat I could imagine I was with a lad. But why did I get married when I was gay? That's easy. I married to be normal. Nobody is ever normal if they don't get married or are openly gay, and I was never the kind of guy who would be open about anything. Unless you're one of these people who don't care who knows about your sexuality, our type need to hide amongst the so-called normality of life and pretend we're normal. It's like hiding in the bushes, but bushes are other normal people. I'd done a good job of it up to the time I met Cute Boy, and even She had never sussed out what I was. Not that she had much time to find out. Dad was right. Two years was all it took. You know how it goes when you drop a massive bollock.

 

She moaned that we held the wedding reception in a Working Man's Club; she moaned that we rented a Victorian terraced house and that I wouldn't buy one of those little boxes until I'd saved up enough for a goodly deposit; she moaned because I insisted on wearing a condom because I wanted to be sure I had no kids until I could afford them. That's right... I. It was always I. She did keep her job in the Spar shop for six months after we got married, and then she complained that her feet were causing problems because she was on them all day. I know... you couldn't make it up, could you? People actually standing on their feet! It wasn't as if she was overweight, so she didn't have that excuse. In fact she wasn't as far through as a lath. I wouldn't have married her if she hadn't had a body similar to a boy. Even though she moaned that her tits were small, it never bothered me. There was nothing wrong with her body as far as I was concerned, and if it hadn't been for the way she was, then I would have managed an existence with her. But her constant moaning put paid to any longevity. It was the Ikea visit that was the final straw. Well, that and I found out she was shagging a bloke down the street.

 

Ikea. Every Sunday was the same. Shopping with her mother and me in tow.

 

(Saturdays I was always at football or off fishing. It was my day off... from everything. A few beers with the lads and a game of footy to watch, or a solitudinous day by calm waters. A man needs a day off... from everything. Especially from Ikea, and especially from Her!)

 

At Ikea.

Her: Oh... what a beautiful three piece suite! It will go perfectly in the lounge if you decorate it and change the colour.

Me: The suite we've got is only eighteen months old. And it isn't paid for yet. Won't be for another eighteen months.

Her: (Putting on that smarmy look that was meant to woo me out of anything.) But we can have a loan and pay off the old suite and buy this one.

Me: I'm taking out no more loans. The washer and the dryer aren't paid for yet. Neither is the bed, and you must have run up at least five hundred quid on that bloody catalogue. No chance. Let's go have a coffee.

Her. Silence. Links her mother's arm and walks on.

Me: Follows like the black sheep. No coffee. I've been sent to Coventry. (Sent to Coventry is a British idiom that means you've been been ostracised.)

 

Sent to Coventry. Three months that lasted, and you all know what I'm on about. Fucking Coventry! They should have named that place Purgatory! It's hell there. Not speaking; meals not cooked; at her mother's; absolute hell when I rang the catalogue and told them that no more money would be coming out of my bank account. We struck a deal. I told them that I would pay them on condition that she was blacklisted, not only by them, but by all catalogues. It actually worked, which surprised me. Not being able to get any more stuff from that one, she tried to join another. They told her she was blacklisted. Deeper into Purgatory. Even more so when I went and saw a solicitor and explained it all. So I put an advert in whatever it is they use to disclaim any further debts she would incur. Marital suicide when you're married to a shopaholic. Well, it is when you discover that the sex she's been missing out on (especially a dick down her throat), she actually was not missing out on. But don't feel sorry for me whatever you do. I don't think I've ever heard such beautiful words than the ones she spoke that day: I'm leaving you. I don't love you anymore. I'm going to live with Greg Tomkinson. We love each other, so don't try and talk me out of it. I'll be gone when you get home tomorrow.

 

Talk me out of it! ROFLMFAO.

 

I got pissed up that night and slept at dad's place. No, I wasn't drowning my sorrows... I was celebrating. In fact, at work the next day I couldn't stop singing Freddie Mercury's song, A Winter's Tale, and I just loved the final three words... Ooooo It's Blissss!!!! Well, it was five days before Christmas and I came home to a house minus most of the stuff she'd bought on the catalogue. But she'd left me all the other stuff that I'd got on hire purchase. LOL. And twelve months later it was all over. Divorced; bills settled by working as much overtime as I could, and I told her in no uncertain terms that she could fuck off if she tried to get alimony from me. That was quite a dirty battle, but even that was settled when she married poor Greg Tomkinson two months after the divorce. Ooooo It's Blissss!!!! ROFL!

 

*****************************

 

And all the shit was over when I first saw Cute Boy less than a year after I was divorced. Early July it was (the 2nd actually), and I was due a holiday three weeks later on the 23rd. Two weeks off, and then another week at the end of August. Nothing booked. I'd decided to stay at home and save some money so I could perhaps visit somewhere in Europe later in the year or early next year. I'd heard Poland was good, and the food was said to be real cheap. Kracow. That would be good. I might even get to meet a boy well away from my home town in the outer suburbs of Derby. And pigs might fly, eh?

 

************************

 

I almost started laughing when I saw him again. Despite him being only a kid, I'd been looking for him all week, but absolutely nothing, and when I went to work that Friday morning, I decided it was probably the last chance I'd have to meet him again if Friday was anything to do with us passing each other at the same time.

 

It was quite a hot day, and this time he was blazerless because it was slung over his shoulder underneath the handles of his two heavy bags. I liked that, because now I could assess him better. No fat on this boy. In fact he was a nice build... neither fat nor thin. And he was eating a bag of Golden Wonder Potato Crisps again.

 

Like me, as soon as he saw me walking towards him, he started grinning, and the closer we got, the more obvious it was that we were aware of each other. I'd only seen him the once, and he'd only seen me the once, but something was happening between us that was making us grin at each other. I knew exactly what it was with me: I was getting a crush on a boy who was a lot younger than my normal age of attraction. But why was he aware of me? I was twenty-seven and not at all in his peer group, so why?

 

We got closer; the grins were still on both of us even though I could see we were trying to disguise them, and when we were almost together, I gave him an even bigger grin, and said, "Gizza crisp."

 

He stopped and giggled and held out the bag. I took one from him and then looked into his eyes. Brown eyes. Sparkling brown eyes. Beautiful brown eyes. And they were looking right into me. I took a crisp from the bag and popped it into my mouth. Then I pulled a face, and said, "Yuck! Prawns!"

 

He laughed. A lovely almost-broken voice boy laugh that came from deep within and which was not a throw away one. "You don't like prawn cocktail flavor crisps?"

 

I shook my head and grinned at him. "No. I prefer cheese and onion flavour."

 

He grinned, and as he turned to walk away, he said, "I'll get cheese and onion next week. Seeya."

 

I grinned back at him. "Seeya."

 

Not once, but twice this time, us both looking back at each other at the same time. And then he was gone again.

 

************************

 

Isn't it strange what a boy can do to you? Well, that special boy that is. One like my Cute Boy with his lovely grin and who was not averse to giving me a crisp. We might be strangers, but we were Crisp Buddies no less. And I spent an entire week thinking about cheese and onion flavor potato crisps coming out of a bag held by my Crisp Buddy with his lovely slim fingers. Oh yes, I'd noticed those too. He would have made a good piano player with those slender fingers. I could think of a better place for them than on piano keys, and I did in my fantasies that week. In fact it wasn't just his fingers I fantasized about. I suppose I did just happen to notice that he had a cute bum when he was walking away from me. Have I mentioned that I like cute bums? Well I do. Mmmmm!

 

Friday. I was excited, but I was also dreading it. Suppose I missed him? That would be a disaster after I'd built up my hopes. But it was not a disaster. There he was, leaning against the corner of a shop, and when he saw me approaching, he began to walk towards me. Grinning of course... as was I. This time there was no need to ask. He stopped by me with a massive grin on his face and pushed the crisp bag towards me. I grinned back at him. "Cheese and onion flavour?"

 

He giggled. "Cheese and onion this time."

 

I took one from him and tasted it. Then I grinned at him and said, "Mmmm... that's better. Do you get a detention every Friday?"

 

Even though he was smiling, he looked puzzled when he asked, "Detention? What do you mean?"

 

I shrugged my shoulders. "I walk along here the same time every afternoon, but Friday is the only time I get a crisp."

 

He laughed. "No, I have after-school computer studies on Friday afternoon. That's why I'm always late on Fridays."

 

I nodded. He offered me the crisp bag again. I took one, and then asked him, "What's your name?"

 

He looked a bit apprehensive, and asked, "What do you want to know my name for?"

 

I shrugged my shoulders, and replied with a smile to disarm him, "I just wondered. It's not important. (What a stupid thing to say! Of course it was bloody important... I was mad about him!) Thanks for the crisps. Seeya."

 

I turned to walk away, and then he said, "Ashton. What's yours?"

 

I turned back to him. "Tony. Seeya."

 

He nodded. "Seeya Tony." He began to walk away backwards, and then he called to me, "No more crisps after next week."

 

That stopped me in my tracks. Although I was on holiday after the following Friday, I'd plotted to pretend I was still working and still meet him on a Friday afternoon. And then I realised. Of course! Stupid fool me! School holidays. That's why I said to him, "Oh yes... you break up for the six week holiday next week. That's a shame. I'm going to miss my crisps." I pretended to look sad. "I'm on holiday myself next Friday for two weeks, so I'll have to buy my own."

 

He grinned. "I'll buy you a whole bag of crisps next week to last you."

 

I nodded. "Do that. Seeya next week Ashton."

 

He turned and walked away. So did I, but this time on our second look back, I received a small wave from him without a grin, which I returned without a grin. It was a sad parting, and I was a bit puzzled why Ashton hadn't grinned. It was as if he enjoyed our fleeting meetings as much as I did, and would miss them too. Well, I couldn't think of any other reason why he looked so sad. But as sad as it was, there was also a nice feeling that he actually liked me enough to feel sad that it would be over for at least six weeks as far as he knew. But he didn't know what I knew. My boss had told us all that we would be going back on full time after the second holiday at the back end of August. So that meant no more Friday afternoon crisp-sharing with the boy I'd fallen for.

 

***********************

 

Unlike the previous week, I was miserable all week, and that was because my tête-à-tête with Ashton was coming to an end. Because I now had a massive crush on him, despite him being a kid and dangerous territory, more than anything I wanted to ask him if we could meet during the holidays, but I didn't dare do that. And what was even worse was that I was helpless to do anything about it. But I was in for a number of shocks, and the first one was that a miserable me saw Ashton on Thursday and not Friday.

 

I wasn't even looking for him, and the pleasure of seeing him must have shown in my face when I saw him walking towards me on Thursday afternoon. He grinned when I gave him a massive grin accompanied by a puzzled look and asked him, "You had proper detention today?"

 

He laughed. "No. We're knocking off school at lunchtime tomorrow so I thought I'd give you your crisps today." Then he handed me a packet of crisps and grinned again. "I've opened them. Don't eat everything that's in the packet! Gotta go. Seeya Tony." Then he looked a bit pensive and a frown formed on his forehead. "Well, I hope so."

 

And he was gone. Just like that. No wave as was walking away and I was left with an opened crisp packet. I was sort of stunned, and puzzled. It had all happened so quickly. I'd hoped we would have had time to have a talk and maybe I would be able to explain that because I was on full time again, I wouldn't be seeing him again. But he didn't give me time for that. Yes, I was in shock, but the shock was replaced with excitement when I looked in the crisp packet. Right at the top was a piece of folded paper. I took it out, unfolded it, and read the writing: If you're hungry and need another crisp, text me or ring me. And Ashton had put his mobile number on the piece of paper.

 

************************

 

I spent the whole of that evening deep in thought. Well, there was just so much to think about wasn't there? I'd met a boy who I'd fallen for who was too young to fall for, and he'd given me his mobile phone number with an invitation to phone or text him. No way could I phone him. I wouldn't know what to say. I know what I wanted to say: get your cute bum over here and let me love you. I would have settled for: tell me that you like me a lot. But men of twenty-seven don't go saying those things to thirteen or fourteen year old boys unless they're nutcases. I'd got myself into a bit of a pickle and I hadn't got a clue how I should handle it. The main reason for that was because I didn't really know what was in Ashton's mind. I'd read stories about men and young boys, and seen a few pics, but the stories were all fantasy and the pics were taken by men who had no respect for boys if they'd made them available on the internet. Or that's what I thought. Maybe boys like indecent pictures of themselves on the internet? How would I know what they like? That was my problem... I was a bloody ignoramus when it came to the practicalities of being a pederast, and now I was attracted to Ashton, even though I was usually attracted to men younger than me, no description other than Pederast could apply to me now I fancied an under-age boy. (I suppose the tag, `Paedophile' could be used, but I hate that word, and I only think paedophile when I think of men or women abusing proper children, or even boys Ashton's age if it's not a consensual thing.) Instead of writing fantasies, those writers should have written a book called Pederasty for Dummies. But I would bet even that book wouldn't have section about what to do if a boy gave you his mobile number in a cheese and onion crisp packet.

 

So I was left on my lonesome to sort it out. I had a mobile phone, but it was an ancient thing... one of the old Nokia brick phones on pay-as-you-go. I rarely used it, and if I ever texted anybody, it took me about five minutes to write ten words. What would Ashton think of me if ever we got to really know one another? I was a dummy when it came to boys; a dummy when it came to phones, and I'd never passed a driving test. In this modern world I was more akin to a sixty-seven year old than a twenty-seven year old. He'd laugh at me. I looked at the clock. Nine-thirty. A boy his age wouldn't be in bed yet. Dare I? I picked up my old phone and began fiddling with the text thing. What to say? What could I say except: Im hungry.

 

I hadn't expected a reply right away, and I was sort of shocked when a text came back almost immediately. LOL. Tht u'd fgot me. Wot u doin?

 

I was giggling as I translated Ashton's text into proper language: Laugh out loud. Thought you'd forgotten me. What are you doing? I pondered what to say, and eventually managed to text back: Not very good at texting so be patient. Am watching tv. What you doing?

 

Playing on xbox in my room. You want to ring me instead?

 

That was better. No need to decipher that. But I now had a problem. Pay-as-you-go is not cheap, and I wasn't sure how much money was left on my card. I would have to top-up if I was to ring him, but first I had to let him know, so I texted: Will top up phone card by phone. Can you wait five mins?

 

Then I had a shock as my phone rang, making me jump as if a gun had gone off in my hands, and I was in a real tizzy about what I would talk about to a boy who I only knew because he'd given me a packet of crisps, his phone number and his name. And my throat was dry and I was shaking with nerves when I pressed the answer button and said, "Hello. Is that you Ashton?"

 

I heard him giggle. "Of course it's me. Doesn't your phone show the number calling?"

 

I giggled myself. "Yes, but I don't use mobiles very often. I'm a proper old fart when it comes to mobiles. I use the land line when I phone anybody. I've got an old Nokia that takes me half an hour to text anybody."

 

Ashton giggled some more. "So it's no use me BBM'ing you then."

 

I laughed. "Not unless you want to send me into space. I haven't got a clue what you're on about."

 

Ashton could hardly answer for laughing. "BBM. Blackberry Messenger. Never mind, I'll just phone you in future. Where do you live?"

 

In future. I think my heart missed half a dozen beats when he said that. "Stanier Street. Where do you live?"

 

"Roland Street. Do you know where it is?"

 

I didn't, probably because it might be amongst the hive of little boxes with tidy little lawns and never dirty cars. "No. Lots of rats there?"

 

"What do you mean?"

 

I chuckled. "Roland. Roland Rat?"

 

More giggles from Ashton. "You're funny you are Tony. It's on the new estate. Are you on your own?"

 

"Yes. Now I am. Divorced about a year ago. And before you ask, no, I haven't got any kids and I haven't got a car because I can't drive, and I'm a toolmaker by trade and I'm twenty-seven and almost skint."

 

The chuckles were coming from deep within him when he asked, "Why are you almost skint?"

 

I chuckled back. "When the wife left she took most of the furniture and left me a load of bills that she'd run up. That's why I wanted a crisp off you. I hadn't eaten for six weeks, but I'll be okay now you gave me that packet of crisps. If I eke them out, then I won't starve for a week."

 

Ashton was laughing so much that it took him a while to answer, and then he said, "Don't worry, I'll feed you. What number do you live at?"

 

"Twenty-one. Bring some water with you if you come. They've cut that off."

 

"You're kidding me... right?"

 

I laughed. "Of course I am. I'm fine. I'm even better now I've found a friend who I can chat to if I get lonely." Where that came from I don't know, but it did, and because I was a bit embarrassed that I'd said it, I added, "That's if you don't mind. I'm not bothering you, am I?"

 

"No. Am I bothering you?"

 

(If only he knew how much he was not bothering me!) "Absolutely not, but I don't want you to think anything bad about me."

 

"Why should I do that?"

 

"I'm twenty-seven, and you're what? Thirteen? Fourteen?"

 

Ashton giggled. "You're not very good at guessing ages either. I'm fifteen and a half."

 

I was astounded, and it definitely showed in my voice when I exclaimed, "Never!"

 

A laugh this time. "I am. January 15th nineteen-ninety-five I was born. I go to sixth form college next year."

 

"Blimey! Sorry, Ashton. I'm not very good at guessing ages, am I?"

 

"S'okay. Does it bother you that I'm older than you thought?"

 

"Absolutely not! I'm quite pleased that you are."

 

"Why?"

 

Caught out!! Hearing that he was older than I thought had pleased me. Instead of dealing with a possible pre-pubescent boy, I was now dealing with a young man, and to someone like me... that is important. It means that you're dealing with a youngster two more years advanced, and fifteen and a half year old boys certainly know what they're doing in my book, even if, legally, they are out of bounds. So, I was pleased because it was now a whole new ball game. And that's why I said to Ashton, "I'm pleased because I feel a lot easier knowing you're the age you are. Not sure you can understand that, but let's just say that I am. Okay?"

 

"Okay. And I do understand. I'm not daft. And now you know how old I am, can I come round to your place and bring you some crisps to stop you starving?"

 

"Cheese and Onion?"

 

Ashton chuckled. "Cheese and onion."

 

"I don't live in a posh house like you."

 

Another chuckle. "Our house isn't posh. Mum's like you."

 

"Like me?"

 

"Divorced. I haven't seen my dad for years. Mum's a dental nurse. Just a minute..." I heard Ashton talking. It's okay mum, I'm talking to Tony. You know... the Tony who pinches crisps off me. Hold on, I'll ask him. Ashton spoke to me again. "Mum says she'd like a word. Do you mind Tony?"

 

I was taken aback. I thought this stuff was a secret thing, and it turned out that Ashton had already told his mother about me. What a strange situation I was in! What on earth could I say to her? I couldn't tell her that I fancied her son, and what the hell was she going to ask me? Whatever, I was about to find out because I couldn't say anything other than "No probs," to Ashton.

 

I heard a sweet and gentle voice on the phone. "Hello Tony."

 

"Hello. Sorry, I don't know your surname." I sort of giggled. "Me and Ashton have only got as far as me pinching crisps off him and exchanging first names."

 

I expected a blasting, but instead I got, "Trust him!!! I'm Wendy Johnson, Ashton's mum. And you are?"

 

"Tony Alboran. I live at twenty-one Stanier Street if you want to send the police after me."

 

Wendy chuckled. "And why would I want to send the police after you?"

 

"I'm twenty-seven!"

 

Another chuckle. "So? You don't know my boy. He wouldn't have given you his phone number if he didn't trust you. He's not daft, so don't worry about it. You seem to have made an impression on him. All I've heard this last three weeks is my crisp man. Call for a cup of tea some time. It will be nice to put a face to a name. Until you told me your proper name, I expected somebody named Golden Wonder."

 

I laughed. "No, it's Alboran, but I do look like a cheese and onion crisp... with vinegar on when I've got to go to work."

 

Wendy laughed. "Where do you work?"

 

"Brice's Engineer's in Derby. I'm a toolmaker. I've worked there since I left school."

 

"Sounds good. I told you Ashton was a good judge of people. Looks like he's chosen a Steady Eddy for a friend. Call for a cup of tea. You'll be welcome."

 

I was feeling twenty feet tall when she said that, and I was completely at ease when I answered, "I will. Thanks. Shall we let Ashton make the arrangements?"

 

"Are you working this weekend?"

 

"No. I finish tomorrow, and then I'm off for two weeks during the works holidays."

 

"Hold on Tony." I heard Wendy say to Ashton, Tony says he can call here. How about we invite him for dinner on Sunday? Can you wait that long? Then I heard Ashton reply, Great. Just tell him that he's coming on Sunday and I'll sort things. Six o'clock? Wendy came back on the phone to me. "Would you like to come to dinner on Sunday, Tony?"

 

"I'm not putting you out, am I?"

 

"Not at all. Six o'clock here and dinner at seven?"

 

"Fine. Thank you."

 

"No problems Tony. See you Sunday. I'll give you back to Ashton now. Goodnight."

 

Ashton came on the phone and said, "You okay with that, Tony?"

 

I chuckled. "I'm fine with it. Are you?"

 

Ashton chuckled. "Of course I am. Sorry, I should have told you that I'd told mum about you. You don't mind, do you?"

 

"No. Not at all. In fact I'm more than happy that you did now. I was worried about even texting you. You'll have to give me directions in case I get lost."

 

"I'll text the address and postcode to you so you don't lose it." Ashton giggled again. "Unless you lose your phone that is."

 

I chuckled at his joke. "Not lost it yet. It went through the wash once. On high-heat. But it's like me... a survivor."

 

Another giggle, and then Ashton said, "Hold on..." This time I didn't hear what was going on, but I knew Wendy had been speaking to him when he came back on the phone and said, "Mum's just asked if you mind that there will be four of us for dinner."

 

"No. Not at all."

 

I heard him tell his mum that it was okay, and then he said, "I've told mum. She's gone now."

 

"Who's the fourth person? What's his name?"

 

Ashton giggled. "It's not a he... it's a she."

 

I giggled. "You're not fixing me up with a blind date, are you?"

 

Ashton could hardly speak for laughing. "No. It's not like that. It's Olga. She's mum's partner."

 

"Mum's partner? At work?"

 

Ashton was serious when he said, "No, partner, as in partner. She lives here. It doesn't bother you, does it?"

 

I was taken aback. I'm not the cleverest of folk, but I was in little doubt that Ashton was telling me that his mother was a lesbian and she had a partner called Olga who lived with them. No wonder his dad had left them. This was becoming damned complicated, but strangely, it was less complicated. Lesbians would understand all about gay people, and it was quite possible that Wendy might understand that sometimes things happen between men of twenty-seven and beautiful boys of fifteen and a half who were crisp buddies. And I was left in little doubt that Wendy had worked me out. That's why I'd been invited for dinner. I was being given the once over. Pederasty for Dummies. No way could they have included this situation in their instructions unless it came under a sub-section of How to make a date with a lovely boy who gives you crisps and has a lesbian for a mother. And all this was running through my mind when I said to Ashton, "Not at all. Who am I to make judgments?"

 

Oh dear. Put my foot in it again! Who am I to make judgments? Ashton was obviously a bright boy, familiar with sexual deviations, and he would have worked out exactly what I meant, that I was actually saying Who am I, somebody who fancies an under-age boy, to make judgments?  And I knew he knew exactly what I meant when he said, "That's nice, Tony. Thanks. See you Sunday then?"

 

"Yes, see you Sunday. I'm looking forward to it."

 

Ashton's voice was soft when he said, "Me too. Seeya."

 

******************************

 

 

I lay in bed that night churning over everything that had happened since I first set eyes on Ashton. Never in a million years could I have predicted what had happened. Well... how could I? These things just don't happen, do they! Or do they? Perhaps there could be a section on this scenario in Pederasty for Dummies. And there was something else in my mind. Ashton was as normal a boy as you could ever meet, but he wasn't normal if you know what I mean.

 

(Let's work it out together, shall we. Imagine you were in my situation and it will help.)

 

For a starter, this was not a one-way thing, was it? Most boys would have ignored me from the word `go'. But Ashton didn't. The grin I gave him was fully reciprocated. It was as if he was as pleased to see me as I was to see him. And I must have made an impression on him because his mother said All I've heard this last three weeks is my crisp man. That was as unambiguous as you can get. It was Ashton who gave me his phone number. I wouldn't have dared do that... but he did. Given that I seemed to be common knowledge in their house, then maybe they would have discussed things and when Ashton said he wasn't going to see me for six weeks, maybe the Deadly Duo of him and his lesbian mother had worked it out that he should give me his phone number and see what happened. And Ashton had hinted in his first text that it had taken me long enough to contact him by saying he thought I'd forgotten him. Maybe his mum's partner, Olga, was in on all this, so that would make a Deadly Trio. Batman, Batwoman, and Robin? I wasn't sure which of the two women would be Batman, but Ashton was most certainly my Robin in all this. I'd have probably swooned if he was in tights and wearing only a cloak. All so strange, and so much to think about. But one thing really special that I was thinking about was how beautiful and delicious Ashton was. That's why, for the next fifteen minutes, my fantasies involved he and me doing all sorts of things, which left me a Happy-Chappy because my bodily needs had been taken care of, and only special emotions were present when I went to sleep with my crisp buddy's gorgeous little body snuggled up to me. Roll on Sunday. Or maybe not. Although I was excited, I was also crapping myself. I reckon you lot would have been the same if you were entering the Bat Cave. LOL.

 

To be continued... 

 

You can find my other stories on Nifty here. If you wish to comment on this or any of my other stories, just drop me a line to JTST449@gmail.com Genuine comments will be appreciated. All flames will be extinguished in the trash bin.