A vignette, as used here, is a short descriptive scene, less about plot and story than focusing on an impression, a moment in time. Meaning is evoked through imagery and the interaction of characters and setting. A vignette is NOT flash fiction.
Jeep Vignettes derive from three vignettes written by `Susan,' and submitted to the Nifty Archive in 2003. They chronicled `David' (me) and her son, `Kelly,' in surprisingly true-to-life situations. Susan's vignettes may be found here:
https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/vignette/.
As Susan wrote in 2003:
"... These vignettes are but glimpses, brief sketches that capture the spirit of their love. Each vignette is a little fuzzy on the edges because that's how I want it. And finally, they're not presented in sequential order for the same reason."
Jeep Vignettes record significant moments for Luke and me, his grandpa (aka G and Jeep, for GP), beginning when he starts to realize he's not like other boys. Unfortunately, Nifty's policy (Author's checklist #7: Story does not involve adults with infants, toddlers, children younger than 9) prohibits the publication of Jeep Vignettes 1-thru-135. Also, the Ship's Log entries are NOT written by Luke, because that would violate Author Checklist #6.
Jeep Vignettes are dedicated to a frustrated, yet discriminating reader of Susan's vignettes. After reading the first three vignettes, at great personal risk and expense, he sought continued satisfaction, even hiring a private investigator. Eventually, a fourth vignette appeared in the Nifty Archive in 2014. Six years later, the still-frustrated, yet discriminating reader imbibes homemade mango liqueur to excess, often in the company of cute Cuban salsa boys, and occasionally hot-blooded Cajun boys.
1. No kids allowed. There's Dr. Seuss for you.
2. It isn't cheap porn, it's literature. If you want the other, go somewhere else.
3. If you live in a backward, repressive state that doesn't allow you to read the things you want, pack up and leave.
4. It's copyrighted.
5. If we can't agree that love occurs regardless of age and gender, put this down and get a life.
6. Support Nifty. Give generously.
At the end of this vignette, I have included a recent fan letter. Please donate generously to Nifty; however, do not expect a request for an email contact to be successful. I am not at liberty to reveal how much was donated; however, it was exceedingly generous. Further, few emails proceed beyond the firewall, and of those, a very small number may be answered.
For interested readers, S/V Seawalker is a center-cockpit, retractable-keel, solent-rigged 2012 Southerly, LOA 42 ft 4in, beam 13 ft 1in, draft 2 ft 9 in to 8ft 11in, 26,000lbs displacement. A sister ship can be viewed here: link to video on youtube
June 13
G let me sleep in even though he knew I was faking it. It was exactly like last year, hearing him in the galley making coffee and checking the weather. He went upstairs and started the motor which maybe meant we were leaving soon. I went and peed and brushed my teeth because he always wants a wakeup cuddle :) Then, I took two gravol ginger losnges which he gets from Canada just for me. Then I got back into bed and waited but I fell asleep.
When I woke up it was getting rolly so I went upstairs only with nothing on, but I checked first and we were almost out of sight of land. G and me pretend steered for a while and then he let me be lookout. Only he rubbed Tropic on me while I was doing it so I got massaged and tanned. Mostly he rubbed my butt and just inside so it felt nice. We caught a mahimahi and I only put on shorts right before we stopped in West End. I had to stay on the boat while he checked us in. Then we motorsailed on the bank to Mangrove Island in the dark. G got naked and we ate ham and cheese rolls and drunk pineapple margarita on ice and cuddled lots. He got hard, even more than normal :)
I was good until dawn when I checked the weather forecast on my laptop. While I waited for the 7:00 am update, I checked my email. I took his mother's advice to use the marina's high-speed Internet to download a couple of movies. I emailed her—mostly reassurance, and `SHC.' Other than I sucked his cock until he fell asleep, there was no progress to report. Then, I ogled Luke. There is nothing more beautiful than a sleeping boy, or a boy pretending to be asleep, especially while stroking his back and upper thigh. Temptation never goes away, even asleep, or when an eye keeps peeking.
For an hour, I watched Luke sleep, belly-down, not sucking his thumb, not quite gnawing his knuckle. At one point, a tiny thumbnail scraped his nose, his eyelids fluttered, and he uttered a soft sigh; my quiet time was fast running out. Looking down with the sheet at his knees, he was already tanned from diving practice, not dark brown. A week in the Bahamas would fix that, and his lily-white butt. After last year's summer camp, he was bleached blond and nut-brown all over. Awesomely sexy at nine!
At not quite ten, we needed to get him ready if he wanted the inevitable to happen on schedule. June 18 was the big day. Just five days left to find the ideal idyllic spot, which meant leaving right away, or missing three days waiting for the next weather window.
I eased off the bed and let my sleeping boy lie, dressing in shorts and his Christmas gift to me, a `pirate' T-shirt; not hokey skull-and-crossed-bones, not Disney-themed, Guy Harvey spooky-bizarre with sharks. With my thermos cup filled, shortbread cookies, and an apple, I headed upstairs to dead calm. No one was about as I cranked the engine, fast idle to warm up, instruments uncovered and activated, VHF radio on Channel 16, AIS beeping endlessly with each new vessel received, depth sounder showing fish and 13 feet deep.
I hopped off the boat, disconnected power cords, cable, and water; untied the slack spring, bow, and stern lines, flung them over the lifeline; looped the last spring line on a cleat and climbed back onboard while keeping the tension, all without breaking a sweat. Slow reverse, swinging the stern to miss the mock-trawler docked behind; releasing the spring line by flicking it off the cleat, backing into the channel—single-handed departure was dead-easy from a face dock without wind and current.
Running on idle with the autopilot doing the steering, I barely had time for a gulp of coffee before stowing the power cords, fenders, and dock lines; and a quick check below. Prince Charming was still face down, alabaster butt up, the sheet now down at his ankles. Five seconds of ogling perfection before I grabbed Hawaiian Tropic and a beach towel, and hurried back to the cockpit.
Next on the agenda was Government Cut, staying on my side and keeping an eye on the navigation buoys, still steering by autopilot, changing course a degree at a time; veering to starboard to skirt an incoming cruise ship and dodging `G-7'. It appeared out of nowhere while I was sipping coffee and fantasizing about Gorgeous downstairs. After making the course change for the sea buoy, I began to relax, counting down green buoys, `5', `3', `1'.
With the autopilot tracking on 70 degrees, out to the Gulf Stream, I gulped the rest of the coffee, lowered the keel the rest of the way, unfurled the jib and mainsail, and started motor-sailing in near-nothing wind. The forecast called for light winds from the south, shifting east-south-east at ten knots, then back to south-east, increasing in strength in the afternoon. Expecting 15 knots on the nose, and seas of three-to-four feet, motoring 45 nautical miles across to Bimini was not out of the question, just ten boring-slow hours.
The alternative was West End. On a close reach, Seawalker would run at an average speed of nine knots, including the Gulf Stream current for part of the 82 miles. After a quick check-in with Bahamian Customs and Immigration, we'd be on the bank in ten hours, six pm easy.
A few minutes after eight am, the wind arrived; first, a faint `fresh' smell, darker patches of ripples, sails fluttering. Five minutes later, the sails were filling, the boat heeling, slicing through waves as the wind speed picked up; eight knots, then, 10, 12, 14. Sixteen knots by 9:00 am; so much for NOAA forecasts.
The deep dark blue of the Gulf Stream appeared about the same time as Luke's bed-head peeked above the companion way. I pretended dumb as he played games, ducking down with muted giggles, peeking every few seconds until he disappeared below. Still undecided, I was pondering a rhumb line course to West End of 47 degrees, or spending longer in the Gulf Stream, when I looked up from the chart plotter again. He was standing in the cockpit, naked except for sunglasses. He could be a gymnast, tight little body, naturally agile, and flexible. He wanted to dive for UCLA.
"'Well, whatta we got here?'"
Impossible not to sound wistful as I thought about him parading around South Beach, gay men ogling him e1very step of the way.
He came right back, the `cool' in Cool Hand Luke. Word-for-word Southern boy-drawl; he'd been practicing since Christmas.
"'Well, what are you doin' here?'"
"Looking at Li'l Lukey. Nice to see him all nakie."
As best I could see, nothing had changed since the Christmas holiday, other than Li'l Luke was no longer pinkened from too much time alone with Santa Claus. A lot of sucking candy cane over six days, him and me.
"You said you were keeping me awake last night, Jeep."
"What I said was, Boy, you better get some sleep and save your strength. 'Cause you're gonna need it.' I stayed awake for hours." I finished with a knowing leer at his pint-sized penis.
He stared me down from the safety of shades, or tried to, hands on his hips, shamelessly flaunting boy parts and a body to die for, not saying another word, not even good morning—Gorgeous could sense when I was into admiring him.
"You did things to my body, seriously?"
It sank in slowly; he'd been `Cool-quoted.' His reprise was expected, his raunchy voice burning my eardrums.
"'Go get shaved and cleaned up and get you some sleep. I reckon you need it...' old man."
Chuckling through his moment of glory as he held out his hand for a buck.
"If you're hungry, there's a cranberry muffin in the galley. A buck, take it or leave it."
"I ate it already." He glanced down. "It didn't get bigger, Jeep."
"It will, Babe; it will. Just give it some time..."
He pondered awhile, chewing his bottom lip as he stared at my middle. East to guess what was going through his head, that deep-down ache that western society makes shameful.
"You want sucky-sucky?" he blurted.
Impossible not to feel sorry for a little gay boy trying to break out. He was beyond the curious stage, needing, demanding. Now, after spending five months apart, he hungered for more.
"Whatever you want is okay by me. How about you steer until I finish my coffee?"
The port-side seat was his, low side, more exciting with extra wind and occasional salt spray, less chance of him slipping in the gusts. He rearranged the towel on the cushion, planted his butt, one hand light on the spokes, letting the autopilot do the work like I usually did.
He adjusted his sunglasses and grinned, no secret he enjoyed being behind the wheel.
"You think my shades are what Mom meant about you spoiling me?"
I shrugged. "Who cares when you look so awesome?"
The grin alone was worth every cent of $55, aviator style with metallic-blue frames, obsidian lenses, a Chinese ripoff of an Italian classic.
He licked his lips purposefully. "Hurry up and drink your coffee, old man."
Impatient, so I acted disinterested. "I reckon she wasn't happy about me paying $40 for a towel. You know what she's like about me buying you stuff."
"She wasn't talking about the towel, Jeep."
"What then?"
"`You don't have to do everything he wants.' Her exact words, Jeep. She meant sex stuff."
"She's your mom; she's got to say that. You remember the thumb rule; you can do whatever you want. Now, I've said it, so there's no need to ask."
Carte-blanche grin, always the same when he had unconditional permission to do anything, everything. Still, he pointed, his mouth making an `o'.
"You want to my suck dick, have at it."
For a few moments, I was certain he'd have at it, a sly little cock-sucker smile.
Happy face lasted seconds, no time at all. "She was talking about up there."
Of course, she was. She worried, as I worried, yet I shrugged it off, hoping he'd drop it. It was one of those `he knew, she knew' things, an open secret. I wanted to spoil him with love; as much `up there' as he wanted, whenever he wanted it.
"If you want to be a bottom, Lukey, what's the problem?"
No matter how often we talked about it, he was nervous. Losing his virginity was a big step, a rite of passage for a gay boy, inevitable, life-changing, unforgettable.
He fiddled with his sunglasses. "You think I should'a got neon pink, Jeep; make me look gay."
I looked him up and down, avoiding Li'l Luke. "You already look gay."
"Mom thinks I should look the part... really gay," he added, deliberately avoiding my gaze.
We'd talked about Luke expressing himself, about how far he'd go. His mom was a realist, gently prodding. I intended to stick to the plan, wait and see.
"You want to look gayer, start on your all-over tan while I take a nap."
"What about..." He licked his lips again, anxious, hopeful, needing grownup cock more than ever.
"In a while. Right now, you're on watch, Skywalker."
Happy boy was back with a grin like that could last until 2020.
"Aye, Cap'n." He saluted, too.
I settled into the sunny seat, starboard-side, head tilted back to avoid the glare. Mostly to look beyond the steering console. Upside down, he beamed, relishing the attention. He was slender enough to have skin ripples at his tummy when he leaned to look at the chart plotter. He was still pale enough that...
"I ought to put lotion on L'il Luke. I want him browned, not burned."
"We're taking advantage of the Gulf Stream, right?"
Impressive! Diverting and showing he hadn't forgotten last year's navigation lessons. He was too bright for L.A.'s public schools.
"Until we get to 26 degrees north. We'll go another ten miles if the wind's shifted south."
"My birthday's in few days," he announced after a while, mostly a reminder about `up there.'
It was tempting to surprise him right away; take his mind of the inevitable with a scuba tank, kid-sized BCD and the rest, plus scuba lessons.
"I could go up there, right now, I suppose... You want to lose your cherry here, on the cockpit seat?"
"Be serious, Jeep."
"I'm thinking I'll buy you a Razor."
"Um, Mom? No way!" She was protective about some things.
Watching him pretend-steering, he hadn't forgotten a thing, constantly looking around, watching telltales on the genoa luff, dark patches on the water. Tomorrow, the real thing—it was safe on the bank; 12 feet of water, a straight shot for 25 miles from Mangrove to Great Sale. After that, it got dicey going into the cays, channels without markers, sandbars, coral heads.
Breathing deep, savoring salt-laden air and gorgeous boy, life couldn't be better.
"If you could have anything, what would it be?"
"I already got what I want. Gay sex camp all summer with you." He hesitated, shy with a smile, not the sly kind that hinted at sexy. "Maybe catch a fish?"
I got up, got out both game-fishing rods, rigged green and yellow lures for mahimahi, and let out the lines; second wave back, lures popping like flying fish out of white foam. We were still too close to Florida to catch anything worth keeping. Maybe in the center of the Stream, if seaweed was around.
I stayed in the cockpit until addiction overpowered predilection. Making coffee underway was my job, dangerous even with the gimballed stove staying horizontal as Seawalker rolled through the waves. Keeping an eye on the cockpit from down below, I went from bow to stern, securing anything that might come lose, put a handful of cherries in a bowl, grabbed SPF 60 kid's lotion, and headed upstairs.
"We're flying, Jeep. Ten knots and up."
He grinned up at me, wavy hair mussed up in the wind. I adored tousled boat brat. I also loved impeccably styled Hollywood brat; beguilingly out. The bad news, the balance subtly shifted every summer. In a year,`effeminate' would be cruel, and accurate.
"Tropic or kid's lotion?"
My rugged ragamuffin looked up at the bimini—he didn't need lotion if he stayed in the shade. Thermos cup secure in a holder, I flipped the top off the Hawaiian Tropic and he held out his nearest arm after hitting the cherry bowl. I sprayed sun-warmed Tropic up to his shoulder and down his chest, switching silky smooth skin to glistening slick. No wonder he was ogling the gay body builders in South Beach.
I smeared excess Tropic over his flat firm belly, started rubbing it in leisurely, trying not to laugh as he sucked a dark-red cherry, symbolism so blatant that I chuckled. Pleased with himself, he raised an eyebrow, chewed off a chunk of cherry, masticated it to mush, scarlet juice on his lips. He dangled the rest in front of me, half a cherry, seed, and stalk.
"With cherries, it's all or nothing; so behave yourself."
He got it, of course. "My cherry wants to be friends with your banana."
"They will be on your birthday."
He checked the course on the chart plotter, smirking when he thought I couldn't see him.
"When you put your cum in me... up there... where does it go?"
Yet another of the many what if, how come, what happens questions a gay boy had.
"Remember the special place that feels so good?" I seduced myself with every greasy stroke over sleek shiny skin.
He nodded and pointed lower. I squirted extra oil on the important stuff, a few errant drips falling on the beach towel. He sighed, dreamy, relaxing as my fingers fondled, tiny testicles like peanuts plucked out of the shell, oily heat turning his scant scrotum to gossamer silk, tugging ever so gently, minute coiling tubes within.
"Okay, well, when I shoot, way up there, in your special spot..."
He'd known the proper terms since his first summer camp; `special spot' was more romantic, appealing and descriptive.
I pinched the tubular core of his penis, squeezing the root behind his scrotum, following it down until it disappeared inside him.
"There's a tiny hole in the other end of your dick, like the one you pee through...."
He looked serious. "So it goes in there?"
"It does if I push against it real hard."
He nodded wisely. "So you force your cum into my bladder and I pee it out?"
"Only a little bit goes into your bladder... Some goes into your balls..."
He was wide-eyed as I thumb-rubbed the core; bony-hard like the rest of his penis. A finger either side, I applied pressure to his tiny testicles, thankfully still immature.
"You'll know when it does. You'll feel weird, sort of light-headed."
"What about the rest, Jeep?"
"That's the important part, what they call insemination. My semen goes in your special place."
"So like making a baby, huh?"
"Well, in a way. You can't get pregnant, of course."
"Because I'm not a girl. Duh!"
I was moments from laughing. "You remember how addictive my cum was last year?"
"Kinda like pot, but without getting stoned." Suddenly, he sounded maudlin, mesmerized, too.
"When it goes in your special place, instead of your tummy, you'll get extra good feelings. If you think having it in your tummy is nice, wait until you've been inseminated."
"So when you put it up there, some of it goes in my special place, and it feels extra nice. That's it?"
He was thinking about it, twitching as I switched from fondling gonads to mauling his penis.
"Well, the thing about insemination is once I put some in you, you enjoy butt-sex even more."
"Seriously?"
"It starts a cycle. The more you want my cum up there, the more I put there, so the more you want me to do it again."
"So going up there is addictive, huh Jeep?"
Making a flesh-tube inside my fist, I pulled on his squat little dick, squeezing and jerking up and down until he groaned, shuddered, trying to pull away, surging back. Fucking my oily hand with his little buttocks clenching with every thrust, still a ways from frantic.
"There's more. If I put enough cum up there, your balls will get bigger. Once that happens, your dick will grow, and you get hair all over your body, and pimples."
"You're so full of shit, Jeep! We just studied puberty in Health class."
"Okay, but the addictive part is true. By the end of summer, you'll be begging for insemination."
He grinned. "Be honest; it comes out my ass, right; after you pull him out."
I made him stand up, holding onto the teak-trimmed console as I slathered Tropic on his thighs and legs.
"Usually. Sometimes it takes a while. If you knew, why'd you ask?"
He shrugged, fully erect before I slapped on boy-butt.
"Looks to me like Grandpa's Summer Camp has officially started," I declared, eyeing Li'l Luke.
Luke groaned, pretending boredom. "I came for Gay Sex Camp. Should'a stayed home!"
"'You oughta be glad you got somebody...' To take care of you... and that tiny thing." I pointed, fighting a smile.
My `Cool Hand' Luke loved being teased; I could see it in his eyes.
"He really wants you to play with him," he murmured.
"What about your `Little ol' eggs, pigeon eggs, that's all, fish eggs practically.'"
It took him a few seconds to realize I'd Cool-quoted again. "Good one, Jeep."
After four squirts in my hand, I was dribbling Tropic. Cupping little-boy-parts again, my fingers scooped supple skin, groping both clingy balls, his slippery dick doing pushups into my palm. Li'l Luke was a mite over two inches long, and thick, especially given his svelte little body. Catching his stubby stiffy between my thumb and two fingers, not along, around; it got me thinking, all the way back to his first prepubescent climax—working him up to the peak, near-delirious with delight.
Now, he tensed, trembling as I tugged up, pushed down. Slow, steady stimulation until his buttocks clenched, the fat flared helmet swelling, turning darker like a little cherry plopped on the end. Hard to jack off a boy when his penis was that short.
"So good," he murmured, eyes nearly slits, already mouth breathing.
He trembled with every prehensile pluck. A lot of loose skin on the shaft, almost too much—maybe he'd grow into it one day, hopefully not. His gonads were pulled up underneath, so tight they were nearly invisible.
"Enjoy it, Baby Boy. 'Just shakin' it down, that's all, settlin' them eggs down...'"
"So good... Don't stop... You did a Cool Hand again!" Giggling kid, already twitching, thinking. "'All right now: get mad at them eggs.'"
As quotes went, it was good, not great. Like me, his mind was elsewhere.
"'I ain't crazy about it myself.'"
No sooner than the words left my mouth, the sex-crazed kid pushed his crotch into my hand, hard. Much longer and we'd have to sit down, finish him off properly.
"Li'l Lukey missed his grandpa, huh?"
He nodded recklessly, flinching as nice feelings flowed through him. With Tropic in hand, I reached behind him, liberally squirting. Hot skin, hot oil, melting my marauding hand with every caress, arousing lust in a still-nine-year-old boy. I sat, pulling him down. The wanton look was unequivocal, no resistance, allowing me to position him. Face down, butt up, his groin above mine, fingering his cheeks and the gap between. More oil in the chasm, focusing my forefinger on his little dimple. My other hand strayed, sprayed more Tropic on his thighs and legs, his feet, too.
"Go inside, Jeep."
"It's too nice a day to be in the cabin."
He thumped my thigh, probably a good thing he had a submissive side; his mother wanted me to `wise him up'. She made it clear she expected me to turn him into a bottom-boy over the summer.
"You know what to do, Babe."
Luke reached behind, both hands, parting his buttocks. I squirted more Tropic, circling, inserting slightly, feeling his instinctive quiver, gradual loosening the knot. A boy was elastic at Luke's age, no pain, no complaint. He was quietly compliant. It was all about giving, and taking what he wanted taken. He lay, snoozing as naughty miles sloshed past, absorbing familiar sensations as I stretched tiny wrinkles into ribbons. No resistance, no violation, pleasuring.
Was it Luke's shout of `Jeep', or the scream of 80-pound line being ripped off my big Penn Senator reel that brought me out of my fantasy? We scrambled up and around the wheel, enough time for hundreds of yards of line to run. Another hundred yards before Luke had the harness on, and I had the rod out of the holder. Snap off the ratchet, slowly engage the drag, taking the strain even as Luke was clamoring to bring it in by himself.
"Remember how to ease out the sails?" I said.
Luke nodded, hungry to help. "I keep two wraps on the winch, let out the sheet a bit at a time."
He scampered to let out the main first. As soon as he was done, I backed up, bracing myself, one hand holding the rod, leaning across to the genoa winch, making sure he had control at all times. Seawalker slowed, less pitching, less rolling, flapping sails when the gusts passed.
`Mahi' means `strong' in Hawaiian; the big forked tail gave tremendous power. Bull-headed aggressive, great-tasting, iridescent green and yellow, and being depleted by overfishing—over 40 pounds was unusual. This mahi turned and closed the gap as I reeled in frantically, trying to keep the spool even. About 200 yards away, it broke the surface and went deep. I hauled it back up a few feet at a time. Then, it zigzagged. Erratic was par for the course with the species. Heavy tackle took away the sport, but guaranteed we ate fish for dinner.
When `strong' started to tire, I wedged myself against the console, positioned Luke in front of me, and levered the rod into his rod-holder harness. At near half of his weight, he had his hands full, even with me clasping his middle, and a hand on the rod. All he had to do was reel it in. Foot by foot, cranking with all his kid-strength.
"How we gonna land the fucker, Jeep?"
The fish was off the stern, breaking the wave behind, still frenzied. Better to have a stark-naked boy holding the rod than hanging over the stern, trying to hook a frenzied fish. We did it the safe way.
Back on course, with blood and guts flushed, Luke gorged on peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. He couldn't stop babbling about his fish. I sat on the port-side seat, cuddling and trying to control my urge, wondering what his mother would think if she knew that he'd started dropping the F-bomb.
Leaving the Gulf Stream cost three-plus knots; however, the wind compensated with decent gusts on the beam, enabling Seawalker to maintain nearly nine knots all the way to West End. We docked in Old Bahamas Bay Marina, a few minutes behind schedule. I grabbed wallet, passports, and preprinted filled-in forms, and quick-walked to Customs and Immigration. Thirty minutes later I was back onboard, contemplating whether to stay overnight at the dock. It was crowded with sport fishing boats, fat Floridian owners with babes in bikinis, lounging and drinking.
"Anchor out, Jeep!" Luke was adamant.
With the sun still well above the horizon, we headed out of the harbor. The sails went up as soon as we passed the breakwater. We skirted Indian Cay Rock, and across Church Bank. Within minutes of sunset, he was naked again and the wind started to fade. Using the engine, we'd reach Mangrove in three hours. His belly full of ham and cheese on a day-old bread roll, Luke snuggled up on the seat beside me, looking up at the stars with his head on my thigh.
"`You think he's up there watching us?'" His faux accent wavered to a whisper, nervous, with more on his mind after I murmured `maybe'. "What if He's like you? What if He did his Son."
"'Knock it off, Luke! You cain't talk about Him that way.'" I softened my tone—my quote wasn't me. "Gay or straight, why would it matter? We're all created by the same god... He made gay dolphins, too, you know."
Endless heavens stretched from the horizon, more stars than most people ever saw. And for every star there was another galaxy! The infinite and the insignificant. Maybe we were both tipsy after boy-margaritas—pineapple, lime, rum and tequila, blended with ice. I was ready to suck dick for as long as it took for him to pass out.
I whispered. "Little gay boys are so cool."
He reached, not for the stars. A quiver raced through him when he rubbed my lips with his thumbnail. Anything goes; he was as anxious as I was, ready to play after six months apart.
"Get naked, Jeep," he whispered in the dark.
He scooted back, feeling around for Hawaiian Tropic, watching me strip in the light from the compass. Shirt, shorts, briefs, tossed on the opposite seat; his eyes went wide. Gaping as only a young gay boy can, envious and admiring, instinctively passive, increasingly captivated. The longer he stared, the harder I became.
"Put on the cockpit lights..."
He switched on the floor lights, resumed his favorite position, curled up with his head on my thigh. This time, experienced fingers explored familiar territory, bringing the knob to his already moistened lips, unbelievably soft.
"You want me to kiss him?"
"Butterflies," I murmured.
More like lizard kisses—he flicked with the tip of his tongue.
"'You jus' keep flicking your tongue and one of these times, you and me gonna make a little cum.'"
He swatted my cock, almost too hard. "That's NOT how it goes, Grandpa."
I didn't give him a chance to correct the quote. "Keep going, Lukey-baby. I'll shoot in your mouth."
He grinned and kept going, every half-dozen flicks, slipping his lips over my helmet. Baby sucks to savor pre-cum.
"Remember the first time you swallowed it all?" I teased.
He nodded. It was a big step for a nine-year-old, so hard to forget. Luckily, the puke bowl had been handy. Not that he'd puked, but after the first spurt, he had emptied his mouth--it felt strange going down.
Not missing a beat, he went back to flicking, squeezing the shaft to assist my excretion. He soon switched to just sucking it out. Satisfied, he grinned up at me, slowly descending.
"Show off," I sighed. There was no feeling like being deliberately gulped by a nine-year-old cock sucker.
Hot, succulent, gay self-esteem flourishing as he tripled my pleasure. That far inside, there was no turning back, no need to move. His nostrils flared slightly, nearly invisible eyebrows raising in expectation. Simply seeing him with my cock surely reaching to the back of his mouth was enough. He could tell from my straining, on the verge yet holding back, treasuring the moment.
He pulled off, hurriedly spraying Tropic between giggles. With obvious glee, he began rubbing briskly, yawning every few seconds. A final frantic flurry. At the last moment, he leaned closer, wanting to get at least a splatter or two on his face...
He rested his head on my thigh, dead-tired, yet looking up at me, little fingers caressing my fading erection, occasionally sampling the slimy mess on my belly.
"I wanted to watch it spurt out," he murmured.
I smeared my semen over his cheek, a dab on his pert little nose, never closer.
"Little gay boys, they're all the same. `They don't know iff'n to smile, spit or swallow.'"
"This one knows," he snickered. "Next time I'll swallow every drop, Jeep; I promise."
I finished rubbing it in and carried him to our cabin the fireman's way. Before he passed out, he held up his thumb. Our thumb rule went a step beyond `everything's okay.' There were no limits, open season; anything and everything.
To: xxxxxfirewall@protonmail.com <xxxxxfirewall@protonmail.com>
Size: 1.3 KB
Dearest Ganymede,
Upon making a substantial donation to the Nifty Archive, they were kind enough to provide this address. I hope you don't mind.
For many years, I have lived in hope that we might meet one day, perhaps a chance encounter on a marina dock :) I appreciate that you have gone to great lengths to protect your true identity. If rumors are to be believed, it began over 20 years ago when several young boys reached out to you about your man-boy love stories. One boy sent you photos and wanted to meet you. If true, no wonder you disappeared. Our kind are the Jews of Nazi Germany.
Am I correct in thinking it was around the same time that a woman (Susan) contacted you, offering you her son, Kelly. Perhaps offering is the wrong word. She understood what knowing a man like you could do for him. Later, she memorialized your relationship with Kelly in a series of vignettes. I remember reading them in 2003, and the impact they had on me. Beyond the realism of what appeared to be very factual descriptions, I was struck by the sheer naturalness and poignant charm of your relationship. It had to be true, or a careful camouflage. How I prayed to know which one it was, and where exactly were you?
And now, OMG, you have incited and inspired me with the first of your own vignettes. Of course, you are Jeep; you say as much in the introduction. Susan's David had a boat, just like Jeep has! And Kelly and David headed off on a Florida trip just like Luke is with Jeep.
I know Luke is your real grandson! It could not be anything else. My mind boggles. I am so envious of you. He's at the perfect age to discover his homosexuality. I was nine when I became aware. My parents were close-minded; Catholic, and corporate lawyers. I was extremely fortunate that my neighbor's college age son, Adam, was my babysitter on the weekends. Only I knew he gay until he finally came out.
To the point of why I am writing to you. Your new Jeep Vignettes will surely become the most powerful love story of this century. I pray a time will come when your vignettes will be required reading for young homosexuals. You convey the wondrous joy, the fun, the intense happiness, and yes, the insatiable urge to be taken. A young gay boy needs to understand that what he feels is entirely natural, that the frequency of being loved is part and parcel. All this virtuous b-l stuff on chat sites makes me sick. I have yet to meet a boy who doesn't like it `up there' the second time. In fact, gay boys thrive on it, far more so than mature men.
The other reason why I am writing is I dream that you might be able to put me in touch with the Mom of that wondrous boy, Luke. His Mom, like Susan, registers real resonance with me because of her trust in him and you. How much must she love him, and you, to actually enable? How special is it for a Mom to care that her son be truly happy with a man who he so obviously loves and needs? How she must worry, despite knowing Luke wants to be with you, and at the same time she's excited! Little Luke is always in her thoughts, especially if he's sore from what he and you enjoy. I think she must be jealous of Luke having such a lover at his age. I bet it makes her hot! I want her to feel, if not jealousy (like Susan's), then pride in her son. I want to tell her what happiness lies ahead for him if he lives with you fulltime.
I eagerly await you next vignette. Luke's ready for the inevitable, I just know. And it is inevitable. For me, it was easy. Finally, I was complete with Adam up there--truly delightful and so real. I was always hanging out with him. He drove a Triumph TR7. So many fond memories. Your first vignette made me hot unlike anything else. I read #164 eight times and pulled on myself so hard I had blisters. Now, I use Tropic :)
I hope this reaches you. And please, please continue to write your vignettes.
Sincerely,
Your greatest fan.
(name withheld)