Date: Fri, 20 Dec 2019 18:10:40 -0500
From: MC VT <mcvt2017@gmail.com>
Subject: It Must Be Done Gay Adult-Youth (Revised)

Must Be Done
 ©MCVT2017 December 5, 2019

Certain duties bring a personal perspective on a lifetime of pleasure.

Pleasure Nifty with a donation:  http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

Adult Content:  MM, Mb, Mt, life.
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Comes a time in life, usually when health declines, a person must minimize
the clutter of life in anticipation of a herd of relatives scouring through
personal items.  This is where he stood, needing to leave a proper profile
of an honorable life led by a distinguished instructor.  That can be a
difficult chore for a man with certain proclivities and who has indulged
mightily in curiosa.  Previously, the not-quite-retired professor got rid
of the films, videos, and CDs to friends and collectors.  Still had stacks
of papers containing personal, favored fiction; photos, messages, copies of
stories he found particularly enjoyable.

"Must be done."  He thought to himself and with his cane, he brought the
paper shredder close to his lounger and began.  Gently, fingers took each
sheet, or stapled sheaf and he began reviewing.  So long he'd enjoyed the
stories of men -- not adventure stories but fantasies of incredible
sensitivity and depth.  Such sensitivity and depth that they caused somatic
responses from his groin.  How carefully he'd picked out the fruitful
passages and noted them with a gold pen he'd received from a graduate
student.

There was the story of two men and two boys written by a mysterious,
elusive and seldom-seen sailor.  Expansive, with the greatest breadth, and
most delicate detail of the character's joinings -- that was his writing
style.  One story in particular the professor didn't have to notate.  The
page was stained and held smatterings of a dried liquid.  Precious liquid
the slender, tired body produced at moments of the writer's expository
excellence.  How those words had manipulated his mind, his nervous system
and ignited his imagination, his remembrances.  Carefully, he brought the
page to his face and sniffed.  He started a stack of his favorites -- the
best stories.

Looking toward his bookshelf, then back to the stacks of paper, the
professor realized that he must have thirty or forty reams of paper to sort
through.  Would he have time to go through all of these?  "Bear forward, it
must be done."

...

Feeling horizontally comfortable came to him for a while.  When he woke, he
was again faced with his task and began anew.  Perhaps he should work on
the stack of personal correspondence.  It still carried the names,
addresses, and could cause a stink which the EPA would have to investigate
if it were found by a certain nephew.  Wait, that boy might keep and
contact after reading some of the endearing and highly intimate suggestions
-- oh, his nephew was a horny little devil.  The shredder buzzed as dinner
was prepared.

He came across several hand-written messages, cards containing words of a
non-genteel nature.  All forgiven, the boys couldn't speak English well and
pet names for anatomical surprises weren't always explained as such.  "Oh,
that one...  Loved my cooky, probably meant cock."  The man thought to
himself, recalling the gray-eyed, tan teen whose lips were full and
stretched around his cock that humid night near a lagoon in a garishly
appointed and over-priced bamboo hut.  What a glorious combination of
colors in the soft light of the evening, faint glow of the lanterns strung
across the patio.  The teacher's warm, pale fingers on the black eyebrows
as he traced them with the tips of his fingers.  Such a ruddy, red color of
the lips around a white cock streaked with pale blue veins pulsing under
the thin skin.  Then, there was the warmth of the teen's tongue, wet and
pulling his load forward, slowly.  "Yes.  That's it..."  Silently, he knew
he would be generous in only a few seconds as the dark eyes looked up at
him from under sinfully thick eyelashes.  Oddly, he remembered a detail of
that evening, a shaft of bamboo he'd grasped with his right hand while his
left hand stroked the boy's hair and moaned loudly.  The seeming perfection
of youth - he always cherished it.

Laying his head back, the hoarder of personal erotica took a deep breath
and he wondered where that boy was now.  Better shred those messages.  The
machine hummed until he noticed that though the stacks of papers in front
of the bookshelf hadn't diminished much, the basket holding shreds was
beginning to overflow.  Cane in hand, he brought in a larger receptacle --
a hamper, to streamline this process of destroying these intimate leavings.
Looking back at the stacks of paper, he took the hamper out and brought in
the recycling bin; the large one.

It must be done.

...

Grabbing a big stack of papers, he came to the Bearpup series.  He enjoyed
that writer.  Bold, masculine, clear and with a variety of thoughts he wove
together deftly to create an arousing and often touching profile of the
sexual exploits of his characters.  Entertaining, and how detailed the
physical descriptions and scenes; that one about a tearful red-head in
summer camp...  This writer obviously had mountains of worldly experience.
There was a story about a writer in a cabin.  "Oh, yes.  Here it is."  He
flipped through the pages to his notes, seeing his comments in the margins.
That delayed his organizing, so he set it aside to review at an easier
time.  The housekeeper hadn't left yet.  Glancing quickly, he made sure his
box of tissues was close.

Coming back to the personal correspondence, he pulled out a stack of
irregularly shaped papers and envelopes.  Steven, his
protégé.  These were the notes and cards he'd sent from
around the world.  Steven often referred to his pet spaniel, a code
alluding to the activities they enjoyed when their schedules allowed.
Well, the references to the collar and leash weren't coded.  Steven.  He
was talented beyond belief; only needed his mentor to nod occasionally at
him during his practice sessions.  After those sessions, the student left
with a striped rear in and well-filled rectum.  What blissful moments they
had in front of the harpsichord, only for two semesters then Steven flew
off like the shooting star he was.  With eyes that burned, the old man
shredded, no one would ever understand the spiritual link he had with that
one.

Around midnight he held a list of favorite stories by website and the
recycling bin was full. Stuffed a large trash bag full of heated memories
in thin strips and took it to the garage and began again.  Came to a spate
of stories from a variety of writers.  "Miscellaneous."  This was during a
period of heavy critiquing of each work.  Stars, comments, plus and minus
signs indicating favor or disapproval...  He was a tart criticizer to some
of the writers.  How had he assumed such an uppity role?  He chuckled to
himself.  "Surely they must see my wisdom between the words..."

Came to Bill's writing.  The man was a clean writer, wrote of what he knew
and was efficient with the details until it came to what the uncle hid
under his kilt. Those descriptions were explicit. Bill wrote of a slender
slip of a twink learning of his uncle and father's treasures and pleasures
in France one balmy summer.  The professor smiled, glancing through the
story and approved of that curriculum on becoming a man.  The avid reader
flipped through the pages until he found his favorite passages and set them
on the "goodie" stack.

With his cane, he got up and took his meds wondering why he needed to
monitor his cholesterol -- he'd given up the robust southern breakfasts of
bacon, eggs, red-eye gravy and heavily buttered yeast rolls years ago.
What good is health without the pleasure of traditional, highly-salted meal
with a cup of chicory coffee containing pure cane sugar and a snort?  Pills
on his tongue, he sipped a glass of spring water and grabbed a rye cracker.

With a perspective garnered from decades of enjoying all forms of
sexually-charged media, the sorting process became easier.  Came to the
stories from that guy Vic, tossed his stuff, but he'd watched the writer
begin awkwardly and move forward into some popularity.  "Could have applied
himself, he really could have..."  He thought as he kept stuffing papers in
the shredder until he smelled the motor heating.

He stopped and watched the news for a while.  "Impeachment?  Like it's
gonna do any good."  He flipped over to the racier channels, then decided
to watch an old amateur video.  It no longer held the fascination as it did
before, no longer was he aroused by it.  Put it back in the cabinet and
back to the sorting.  It must be done.

On the evening news, he came to a stopping point when he heard his
neighborhood mentioned.  A new ordinance regarding peacock droppings was
coming into effect soon.  "Ruining the aesthetics again."  He griped,
grabbed his goodies and went to bed promising he'd get up and finish
another third of the papers the next day.  Maybe he'd even get it all done.

...

Woke to find that he'd fallen asleep reading.  His pajama bottoms were
stuck to his last few pubic hairs but he couldn't remember which story he
was reading when it happened.  "Goodies" lay scattered around the floor
where they'd fallen and he tromped over them on his way to the bath.  As he
showered, he began organizing his day -- had to finish sorting as many
things as he could.

While the housekeeper whipped up an enticing breakfast of shredded wheat,
skim milk and ten raisins accompanied by four ounces of orange juice and a
hot, steamy cup of Postum, the gentleman reviewed his emails.  He dreaded
breakfast; it ruined his whole day.  Pitiful victuals.  He wondered why he
tortured himself following that diet when he should be the one meting out
the torture on someone else.  Grumbling, he took his pathetic repast on his
patio.  Then decided to stuff the corner of a paper towel in the center of
each bromeliad to destroy the mosquito nurseries.  He felt mean and in
command for a moment when he did that.

He ensconced himself in his lounger with a box on his lap and watched the
news while the housekeeper readied to go to the store.  Quickly, he emailed
a neighbor asking him to bring a BLT with an order of fries and a chocolate
shake.  No answer, then he remembered the friend was on vacation.  Shoot.

Setting the keyboard aside, he opened the box.  A gift box that once held
an atrociously green sweater, now filled with photos of young men.  Some
clothed, most not.  Some signed, some with notes on the back, mostly
thanks.  As his thin fingers picked up each one, he recalled their offering
smooth, white rumps to him, some offering him a kiss, some a dance and one
offered his favor in a crowded stall inside a market in Singapore.  Oh, he
held that photo and remembered the strange smells around him from the spice
vendors as his rod was being nursed by that short lad, what was his name?
"Toby, 1965" was on the back of the photo.  That one should have been
brought back.  Alas, the bureaucracy and laws weren't in their favor at the
time.

Then, he came a special photo.  The long-limbed boy with dark hair and eyes
and milky skin.  So pale.  Would have been a dancer in any other country
than where he was.  His limber body folded and opened to him like an
origami flower, ready to be pollinated.  The young hands had cupped his
face as the teacher entered him -- he remembered the boy's eyes widening
and filling with tears.  Recalling that split second reaction caused a
stirring in the aged groin.  Along with exotic enhancement, that one had
taken him to the moon and back several times through a heavy, sticky night
in a small room.  Stuffy air and almost dark, he remembered the boy
standing and leaning over the side of a single bed, wanting more.  Again
generous, he was always generous straining against the moist skin of a
taut, young body.  Pumped hard in the sticky mess he'd made only moments
before.  With little movement, the old man's hand slipped under the sweater
box and rubbed his thickening shaft.  "Heavenly."  The man's boxers were
dampening with pre as he trembled, mentally reliving the grasp of the boy's
ass around his dick.  "Heavenly."

Keys in the lock, and the housekeeper was back.  Quickly, the professor
tugged the box over his lap, "What's for lunch?"

"Cottage cheese, sliced chicken and lettuce with vinaigrette."

"Blech."  He thought, he hated that lunch.  That woman could slice chicken
as thin as a Japanese condom and only give him enough to depress him
profoundly.

He came to more photos, ones without names.  He could tell by the
hairstyles and sometimes the background where and when the photos were
taken.  My goodness, some of them were young and they were all smiling, so
what he couldn't remember must have been enjoyable...  Shred.  As the
photos of the boys disappeared into ribbons, a peculiar feeling of
satisfaction came to the septuagenarian.  A feeling of living a truly full
life.  Sure, the sex was great, to feel wanted, even coveted among groups
of young admirers and students.  Many times in his early life, he had
wanted and coveted, and he worked diligently till that situation turned to
his favor.  Yes, he was proud to have exchanged so much pleasure.

 At the bottom of the box were several pages of plastic-sleeved photos.
His students; the ones who enjoyed his specialized tutelage.  Picking them
out of the crowd, first by talent, then by interest, he courted them in his
fashion.  Suggestive interplay with the words, additional assignments,
difficult pieces to practice.  They'd need his additional help, "You should
have mastered that two years ago!"  That was his favorite strategy, then he
had the nineteen-year-old off-kilter, almost terrorized and entirely
malleable.  Slow strokes and kindnesses began, always on the edge of
arousing the student into a blushing, confused mess.  A glass of wine, then
another, and the personal instruction would begin.  First personal
instruction included keeping the body relaxed.  Hand on thigh.  Hand
nearing groin.  Smile, "You can do this, I know you can..."  Never, never
did he put them in a position to pronounce their acceptance or a disgusted
denial of his moves.  Too crass for this professor.  He teased and tempted
their young, hormone-filled bodies toward the pleasure the he offered.
Most came willingly, developing warm, close relationships.  Very satisfying
for both.  Some were troubled, dropped out and stayed in their professor's
orbit from the clubs and the strip.

Reminiscing didn't reduce the workload.  The old man looked at the stacks
of paper awaiting him and went back to work.  As he moved the box aside, a
distinct smell wafted.  Spunk.  He opened the jar of Tiger Balm and dabbed
a little on the back of his hand.  Ah! The smell of the aching filled the
room disguising his scrotal expressions.

"I'll dine in the nook today."  He called out.

Setting the box carefully aside, the old teacher made his way to the
breakfast nook where he brought his students after a night upstairs.  He'd
have to nudge some of them past their discomfort with good humor in the
mornings, and always kept plenty of pastries and gourmet coffees for them.
Treated his loves well, if they weren't loves, well, they were treated in
proportion to their talents.  All those memories stopped abruptly as a
small dish was placed in front of him.  Lunch looked as miserable as
breakfast.  He cut it up, put it in his mouth, chewed and swallowed.
"There is no such thing as diet vinaigrette, therefore it must be a
socialist plot," he decided and was relieved to leave his lunch table.

It must be done; he went back to the stacks of paper and the shredder.
Easier now that he'd found those precious photos.  Since most of those
photos were in black tie attire or in upscale bars, he tucked them
carefully aside.  Back to the stories and a few drawings.  Hmmm.  Some were
easy to ditch, Japan's advances in remote controlled devices changed the
world of sex -- that made it easy to toss the now obsolete stories and
sketches.  Worked his way through a good eight inches of paper, not feeling
one bit of guilt about rainforest depletion, and continued through dinner,
which he decided he would wait to consume.  Tomato Florentine soup with
chicken salad sandwich glopped with low-fat mayonnaise -- might well have
been library paste.  "I'll heat it up later."  The housekeeper left.

That night he shredded and sorted, drug two more bags to the garage and
felt very satisfied with himself.  He could actually see his genuine
linoleum floor again, though there were dark eight-and-a-half by eleven
rectangles where the printouts stood for so many years.  He took his box of
photos and the best of the stories to bed with him, picked up the papers on
the floor and got into bed.  Organizing the papers on top of the photos, he
held the best of the best in his hands.  Forgot the meds, so he got up and
passed the smaller piles of papers, paused and smiled.  Sorting wasn't as
bad as he thought it would be, felt like it focused him on the essence of
erotic expressions created among a proud brotherhood of scribes.

Back in bed he snuggled in and looked through the photos again.  One
smiling young face stood out.  He was a hesitant lover, always holding back
until pleasure pushed his need to ejaculate from the very core of the boy.
Always seemed to the instructor that the boy was experiencing something
like the first downhill drop on a rollercoaster.  The kid's face froze,
turning bright red, almost terrorized by the sudden loss of control.  The
novice gasped and convulsed as his spunk flew.  Sensing that the boy wanted
love more than a simple act of casual sex, he held the photo.  "I did love
him.  I loved all of them.  Whether it was from my heart or from lust,
there was love for each one."

...

Before he got out of bed the next morning, his phone rang.  Housekeeper
would be in later this morning.  "Yippee!"  the professor thought.  "See ya
later."  He hung up and started his day in a jovial mood which screeched to
a halt when he looked in his refrigerator.  No eggs, no bacon, not even a
frozen hash brown in the freezer.  It had been so many years, the pancake
mix had weevils.  Called the neighbor, his car was in his drive, "Bring
real food."

Shortly he was over with a tray of small Tupperware containers, "Sorry, my
wife says you're trying to sneak off your diet again."  In front of him
were neat tubs of shredded wheat, yoghurt, fruit cocktail and two slices of
some rugged, rough bread.  "C'mon, it's not so bad.  Think of something
else when you chew."  The neighbor smiled, reached into his pocket and
pulled out a baggie of real coffee grounds.

"Yeah, I'll do that."  The old teacher sneered and went to fill the coffee
pot.

A few moments of coffee and chatter and the neighbor left. The professor
was quick as he sorted and shredded, getting the last of the papers
disposed of or stored.  Looking back on the few things he kept, he realized
that in a world of offerings, only a few actually touched him deeply;
stirred him to heights of arousal, but they were only prompts for a gift he
was born with; passion.  Passion; strong feelings.  He had passion.  The
travails of his early life had taught him control -- he was a measured man,
well-educated and charming as a man in his position must be.  Powerful
combination -- passion and control and he used them cleverly in every part
of his life.

Bagged up the last of his shredded erotica, all the miscellany of
relationships he enjoyed and took it all to the garage.  Maybe he'd get his
neighbor to take him to the beach, they'd have a bonfire, send everything
back to the universe.  Nah, probably get fined for burning trash.  Let it
go to the recyclers to be made into something else.  Maybe it would carry
some of his love among those molecules.

...

The housekeeper came in and asked what he had for breakfast.  He recited
his puny menu.  She espied the coffee pot and sniffed it.  "Are you
palpitating?"

Grasping his chest, "Oh, god, it's the big one!"  He choked out, winked and
left the room, back to his bedroom where he gathered his most precious
reminders of his life.  The photo of that hesitant boy was on the top.  He
looked at it closely, remembering further back.  The boy stayed in his
classes throughout his four years on campus earning awards and honors.
Afterward, they kept in touch and one day he was surprised to see the heavy
paper of a formal invitation from that boy.  A wedding invitation.  The
professor didn't respond to the RSVP, he waited and slipped into the back
of the cathedral for the nuptial.  Standard fare, beautiful young woman,
excited and smiling, and there was the boy, young man now, ready to enter
into familial partnership.

At the reception, the professor was warmly greeted by the father of the
groom, they'd met several times before.  When the former student saw his
professor, he stepped away from his bride quickly and spontaneously kissed
the professor on his lips.  In front of the whole bridal party, the family
and friends, and it wasn't a short kiss, but a long, sincere moment of
thanks for both men.  Ever in control, the professor kissed, yes, then
hugged the young husband and wished him well; everyone went back to their
merrymaking on the joyful day.

No sting of loss for that young lover, none at all.  He recognized his same
passion in the student and knew his former student would do well in his
life.  That exuberant outburst came from the young man's passion, and it
was surprisingly honest. That moment replayed in the professor's head for
several hours.  For a man to be kissed so intimately in public by a groom
on his wedding day was certainly an honor beyond anything he could
imagine. Passion exchanged equally in that moment.  No finer acclaim or
greater honor with that gesture.

...

Arising before dawn, the professor went to his computer, checking his
email.  He began composing a message to that whiney Vic, the writer who
requested an idea earlier in the week.  With little explanation, he
forwarded his idea.  "Now you know if you apply yourself, you can really
turn out some excellent work..."

His message became this story.


Fin.