Date: Sat, 9 Nov 2019 18:19:50 -0500
From: MC VT <mcvt2017@gmail.com>
Subject: Jid, Jidded, Jidding Gay Adult-Youth

Jid, Jidding, Jidded
 ©MCVT2017 29 October 2019

Migrants leave their homes by choice; refugees are forced out.  A tale of
traveling home.

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Adult Content:  100% fiction, Mb, MM, Mt, MMt, inc, rom, slow.
=========================================================================

Fava beans?  Heck no.  Grapes!  Fine wine is a major export and a necessity
at every meal in this part of the world.  I grew up in Privas, France, a
conservative agricultural community specializing in grapes, the pride of
our nation.  Mom was a civil servant.  Dad worked for a vintner.  We had
plenty of wine around the house.  Burgundy and Pinot Noir mostly -- my
family were connoisseurs.

My connoisseur parents must have had too much wine one night.  I came along
ten years after my brother when my parents were at the zenith of their
careers.  They called my grandmother for help.  Nana moved into our house
and raised me.  It was good, I got all her attention because I was her
darling.

Our school was small, few kids around to play with.  Occasionally Nana came
along with me biking and hiking over the hillsides.  At home, my
grandmother didn't use the computer, she liked to break codes and got books
in the mail every month with crosswords and cryptos.  I got all the logic
and math puzzles.  Always, our house was filled with Bach, Beethoven -
classical music.  Dead composers became my friends along with opera stars
of the time between the newscasts spouting about drug problems, corruption
and deviant escapades in the big cities.  I had no interest in that.  Open,
blue skies above and verdant green fields around me, I soaked it in and
enjoyed my peaceful life filled with love and a few of the finer arts.

Like all grandparents, Nana told me about our past.  Told me of going to
the island every summer.  Her family had a very small vacation home in
Greece; primitive "hovel," she called it.  The land around the cabin was
rocky and dry with only an old olive tree for shade.  With bright eyes and
a big smile, she reminisced about a secret grotto fashioned into public
baths by stone carvers centuries ago.  She showed me old black and white
photos of her and her mother swimming in front of the grotto where the
water lapped a few steps into the ocean.  She said everyone learned to swim
there.  "Absolutely heaven staying there..."

...

I went to a two-year college to my parent's dismay.  Took classes in
Business Administration, figuring I'd follow Mom into a cushy job with the
government.  I also excelled in languages, I knew several and honed my
skills writing articles for the student newspaper.  That's where I met a
couple of recruiters looking for people to work with the international
relief forces.  Similar to the army, their flyer read.  The relief
contingent worked behind the lines helping repair the damage and get the
people and country back to a place where they could help themselves.  Being
a hopeful guy, I signed on figuring it would look great on my resume.  Easy
work handing out energy bars and bottles of water.

Dad showed apprehension, Mom blanched but Nana was smiling when I told them
I was leaving in a month for basic training in Dusseldorf.  "Signed up for
two years, I'll come back with referrals and experience, I might like it
and stay on."  Showing them the brochure of the forces helping families and
different people around the world, "You can visit."

After I got into bed that night, Dad came in.  He explained that this might
not be what I expect, "Serge, my boy, the time when a kid graduates
determines much of his life.  If the economy is poor, he'll never earn as
much because he starts out at lower pay, and if he starts out during a war,
it can get really bad.  The East and Middle East have been heating up.
Have you thought you might be wounded, killed or stuck in a military job
for years?"

"That guy said we work behind the lines with the civilians.  The forces
always win -- we got bigger guns."

"Look, that recruiter had a quota; he would have told you you'd be working
in a gelato plant if he thought that would get your signature.  I'll
support you, but promise me you'll let me know what's going on where you're
stationed.  I'll talked to Esteban at work, maybe he can get you into a
safe place.  Move over."

"Dad, go take a shower."

"What?  Take the icing off your cake?"  He chuckled and took me in his
arms.

...

A few weeks later, Nana took me to the airport and kissed me, "It's going
to be okay, do your best my darling."  She smiled.

My knees were jelly.

Dad was right.

I sat in the terminal watching war footage as I waited to leave.

...

Two months in basic training, not as demanding as the military -- our
ragtag relief group jogged and worked out with weights, most were in good
shape.  Easy classes in inventory control, pest management, basic first aid
filled our afternoons.  Cultures and languages, religion and different
beliefs - we were told to remain neutral and calm as we took information,
most would welcome the relief we brought.  Drug and alcohol abuse classes
and working with the mentally ill, those courses were interesting, and we
learned the basic vocabulary of the military in case the battle lines
changed.  Drones, helicopters, landmines, all that was taught by a huge man
in a tight blue uniform.  I noticed that through the weeks we went from
general information into the specifics.  One of our last classes was one
talking about PTSD, but not much.  Then we were all sent to the `Stans
behind the 58th Infantry.

The `Stans are an area of the world with a lot of nations ending in
"-stan."  I'm sure you're thinking of several now.  Well, "Stan" means
"place of," and most of the regions were places of a family centuries ago,
formalized into nations now.  It was also an area that grew high-grade dope
and had for as long as the families had lived there.  Trafficking of all
sorts in the nations was part of the national economy with only cursory
punishment if someone got too greedy.  Different culture; I wasn't there to
judge.

Thought I was well-trained and sophisticated about the world to handle all
that and when we got off the plane in a dry, barren land under a blazing
sun.  Suddenly, I wasn't sure.  Then, as we drove through town, I was
appalled to see the horrific living conditions of the people I would work
with.  Others in my relief brigade were quiet, they weren't any better
prepared than I was.  We looked at each other wondering who would desert
first.  Stoically, we took our bunks in a large tent and packed away our
gear.  From that point on, no one smiled.  Military and supervisors didn't
smile, and a new smell permeated my life behind the sweat, dust and
petroleum; hashish.

...

Three other guys who were trained with me were paired with several locals
to set up tents and latrines outside the makeshift base.  As we worked with
the measuring rods and string, I asked one of the locals how many tents
he'd set up, he was an expert with the fiberglass rods and nylon.  "Since
when?"  That was all he said and made me shiver as we stepped around
craters and kicked aside trash that blew through constantly.

Within hours a throng of refugees hit our relief center.  They came on
military transport, a rusty bus or van, most came on foot.  We could see
dots on the horizons in the foothills, streams of humanity coming toward
us.  Weary, sick and weak, we fed them and the lines began forming to get
everyone registered.  Stopped several times a day for prayers, then back at
it, "Name?" then all the questions about where they were from, did they
have family elsewhere, who was missing...  The sun-burned, dusty faces came
one after the other.  The opium harvest was in transit.  Gangs of thugs
tried to intercept the trucks; armed forces tried to stop the slaughter on
the roadways, then gang warfare broke out against the military.  Annual
events, only the size of the explosives and the death counts changed from
one harvest to the next, they said.

I stayed in my bunk and smoked dope the days I was off.  Nothing else to
do.  Head phones, Mozart and a bowl.  I sent a few photos and texts to
Nana.  Called Dad on the first of every month, kept a brave voice when I
spoke with him.  Didn't talk to Mom, she'd figure out how bad I was doing
by the way I spoke.  Sleep was the only real way to escape the thoughts of
the refugees in their bare tents on the ground as the wind howled -- how
did they continue?  Maybe they didn't know any better.  That wasn't true,
they once had homes.  They were resting and grateful to be alive.  Sleep
was the only time they weren't worrying about their children and their
futures.  We were all trying to manage incredible life changes; hundreds of
thousands of us.  Unsettling task when all of us knew the presidents and UN
reps were dining on wild salmon in five-star hotels.

International relief agencies came through, sent supplies -- they weren't
allowed behind the brigade with us.  They took a number of orphans and the
wounded away from the front other day.  The 58th brigade moved often,
taking all the families with us.  I asked my supervisor if we could get
some moving vans in to help.

"The big trucks are hauling drugs now, we have to use what we've got."
Unreal but honest answer; greed superseded life when the dope was shipped.
I accepted that as normal and moved on with my hand cart.  We lost several
families; the situation was impossible.

Day after day, shift after shift, the futility of my work drilled a hole in
me.  My humanity drained out that hole and I became entirely apathetic;
worked my shifts on autopilot.  My life was nothing but a painful dream.
Barely remember stumbling through for the next several weeks until I was
thrown out of my bunk by a bomb blast during the night.  It deafened me and
I wasn't sure I was dead or not.  The next moments were a blur.  Death,
destruction, bits of hair, clothes, a child's toy -- everything seemed to
be ripped apart and scattered everywhere.  Smells of chemicals, gasoline,
explosives and bodies, blood; couldn't spit it out.  Through the screams,
the helicopters, the whipping sand and noise, I walked into the darkness
toward a crescent moon rising over the distant hills.  It seemed to call me
into a quiet, cool place as the ground shook under my feet again and again.

...

Can't tell you how long I was out.  A nurse told me I was found wandering
the desert in only my underwear and one sock.  The nurse worked at a
psychiatric clinic in Paris.  I tried to explain that I couldn't take it
anymore and couldn't reconcile all the horrors, "It never ends."
Medications only scrambled my confusion.  My brain was either empty or
filled with alarming images; I became unresponsive and reclusive.  Nana
sent my favorite CDs, that helped; couldn't keep a firm grasp on my
childhood memories.  The terrible intrusions of the camp life crowed them
out.

...

Dad and Nana came to take me home after several months.  Nana made sure I
kept my appointments at the clinic in Privas.  I went, hoping for relief
and felt like the therapists had no idea of how severe the conditions were,
how impossible the job was.  The nightmares kept coming and the
hyper-vigilance continued; I hiked and biked my old trails for some relief.
More help, my brain needed more help.

Another unreal moment happened.  It sharpened my perspective: As I sat
waiting to see my therapist, another guy sat with me.  He complained about
his shrink, saying they had no clue about his life and never asked about
it.  He spoke about how the stigma of mental illness was stronger among the
professionals than on the streets, "Treat you like an ignorant shit then
send you home with enough meds to overdose.  Wonder if they're making bets
on how long it takes us to put it together."

At that point, I realized I hadn't gotten any real help from the hospital
or the clinic.  I left.  At home, I asked Dad to let me smoke dope in the
house and go to a training program, maybe work with animals or something
easy.

"Man up.  Dope won't help you."  He was stern with me, but kissed my
forehead and sat beside me.  "We'll find another way to help you get
started again -- you got it in you.  I know it."

Nana had the answer, "Go to the island.  The hovel is probably a mess, no
one's lived there since Monsieur Deschamps passed several years ago.  Clean
it up so we can rent it out again.  Do something useful for me - my
government stipend isn't much."  She smiled.

With promises to call and my small monthly disability check, I left for the
Greek island of Donnosso.

...

Took the train across Italy, reading and listening to music; the jostling
and bustle was disturbing and I stayed calm as I switched to a bus going
southward in Greece.  Took a boat to Donnosso, the captain was named Pietro
Dukas, nice looking guy, around thirty-five.  He asked if I was
vacationing, "Fishing?  I know the best spots."

"I'll be fixing up Deschamps' cabin."

"Deschamps, the old guy..."  As he drew near the dock, "He died there,
almost everything was trashed.  You gonna live there?"

I patted my bedroll, "I'll be fine.  Tell me where the shack is."  He made
a drawing on the back of a magazine.

...

Few roads on the island and fewer cars, people biked or walked along narrow
trails around the boulders and through the scrub.  Small island, less than
200 people lived there.  I took off, after wandering around the docks for a
few minutes.  About thirty minutes later, saw the small two-room hoveI,
just like the photos.  Stucco walls, wooden slatted shutters on the
windows, red tiled roof.  Wasn't surprised to find it almost bare inside.
Table, one chair, an ancient sofa, empty cabinets, but there were
amenities.  Seems electricity had come to the island, and there was a
toilet and shower partitioned in the back room.  In the larger room, a
small sink with a mirror above it that stood alongside an old gas stove.  I
could make this hovel into a cottage; called Dad and sent a few photos.

About that time, here comes Pietro in a small truck.  He brought candles,
an old cot and a bag of tinned food, cereal and toilet tissue, "My wife
said you'd need these." I thanked him and shook his hand.  "See you at the
grotto?

"Where is it?"

"Just follow the path."  He pointed to the went southeast.  "Bring your
water jugs."

"Now?"

"God, no.  The women won't let you in -- they get it from dawn to noon.
Men get it from one to sunset.  We get well water after we bathe.  Piped
water's salty."

...

Donnosso is about twelve or fifteen square kilometers, rocky and dry.  A
seven-street tourist town has the best beaches and several hotels on the
southwest side of the island.  Pietro and I came in on the northeast side
-- locals and fishermen, a tiny government building and a dock for small
boats.  Aside the government building was a general store/post office and
bank, not much of a town.

Quickly, I walked back to the docks after I assessed my arrangements and
went into the government office to meet Ms. Dukas, Pietro's wife, "I need
water and electricity at Deschamps' place."

"I'll get things turned on for you as soon as I can."  She handed me an
index card for my name and phone number.  No forms to fill out?

"You only get electricity four hours a day, 10-2."  She warned me.

"Thanks for the food and all."

She winked, nodded and went back to work.

...

Stopped at the small store and bought an oil lamp, fuel and a book of
matches.  Met a few more of the locals and walked home.  I faced into the
wind as I headed to my new home as the wind roared in my ears.  Brisk wind,
cool and clean on my face.

The hovel seemed to embrace me, glad to have someone inside again.  I
texted Nana, keeping what I had left of my charge and saw the sun about 30
degrees off the horizon.  Trunks and towel in hand, I headed down the path
to the grotto.  Entering a rocky cave on a path worn smooth millions of
footsteps, I was hesitant.  It looked spooky -- shadows dancing across the
walls of the cave and the waves splashing below.  About a meter inside the
opening was a flat area, irregular shape.  Along the right-side was a low
ledge where bathers had lined up their clothes and towels and placed their
sandals on the flagstone floor beneath them.  Past the ledge was open, I
could see six or eight marble columns centuries-old rising from around the
pool twenty feet below.  There I spotted Pietro and his boy, I lay my
clothes under my towel and left my shoes.  I noted a few elderly men
sitting on the ledge talking softly.

To the left of the dressing area the natural stone wall rose.  The wall
sported an ancient brass fixture, simple pipe that curved from out of the
wall about ten feet off the ground.  Spring water poured through it making
a cool shower.  The gentle slant in the floor carried the water away
through the rocks.  From the shower and dressing area, wide steps descended
along a curved wall of limestone into the swimming area.  Simple circular
platform with a short ledge running from the steps in a curved toward the
ocean.

At the bottom of the stairs, I looked to the right to see the
Mediterranean, blue, calm.  Soft voices and gentle splashes of the tides
echoed into my ears.  I walked across the smooth circular space toward the
sea to find that the ledge had stopped leaving a four-meter open space that
was stepped into the sea.  This is exactly where Nana learned to swim.

...

Invigorated, I strode down the steps into deep water and began swimming,
listening to the voices of the men behind me become distant.  I swam hard,
turned northward and stayed along the shoreline, then came back gasping for
breath and feeling the full strength in my arms and legs.  Muscles hummed,
filled with blood, my heart pounded.  Every muscle and tendon in my body
sang.

Pietro and his son were sitting on the lower steps waiting for me, "Pouly,
this is Serge -- new neighbor in the old Deschamps shack."  They dove into
the sea and I joined in behind them for a short swim to the sunlight and
back.

In the waning rays of the sun, the boy grabbed his father around his neck
and they kissed on the lips, Pietro's hands rubbed along the smooth body of
the boy, and he pulled him against him hard.  Sweet, intimate and perfectly
natural exchanges between a father and his seven or eight-year-old son.
Seeing that made me smile.  We chased each other around in the water for a
while then back to the steps.  The boy sat on his father's lap clearly
rubbing his rear into his father's groin.  I sat to the side and watched
Pietro kiss the boy's neck as he pulled on the boy's cock until the boy
gasped then Pietro dunked his head into the ocean laughing.

Walking past the older men lounging on the ledge by the columns, I paused
and shook hands, each hand pulled me toward their face for a light kiss.
One of them, Dionysus, followed me up the stairs and to the shower.  He had
soap and generously sudsed me, shampooing my hair and fondling me lightly,
smiling.  I offered him the same in return.  Felt like some kind of custom
in the grotto.  Outside, he began filling his water jugs with spring water,
"Don't you need water?"

"Don't have a jug."

"Take one of mine."  I pulled the cart with two water jugs to my place and
Dionysus left saying he'd bring another jug the next day.  Heaving the jug
to the hovel, I was glad to be alone in the darkness with the breezes
singing softly thorough the shutters.

...

Hunger woke me the next morning, then I was called outside by a man on the
power pole outside, "Hit the breaker and check an outlet."  I flipped the
big breaker switch, plugged my charger in and then my phone -- it worked.
"10 - 2."  I remembered.

Started wiping the dust and found a broom to sweep.  In the dark bedroom, I
found crocks, looked like they held olives at one time.  On the kitchen
cabinet door above the sink was the olive brining instructions thumbtacked
years ago.  Glancing out the window, the old olive tree was heavy with
fruit with plenty on the ground.

...

Through the next months, I ordered supplies through Dad and Nana and got
the hovel back into a smooth, crisp white and the shutters repaired and
painted red.  The roof was water-tight and the shower and toilet worked,
but the water from the kitchen tap tasted awful.  I kept a jar of well
water nearby.

Peaceful on the island, I began writing letters by hand to Nana.  Had to
tell her I was brining olives.  Nana sent codes for me to decipher,
crosswords and a CD player with classical music.  Seldom heard the sound of
my own voice through those weeks.  Through my silence, I noticed I was
calming inside, able to sleep through the night without sweats or
nightmares.  No dope, just a lot of work and the satisfaction of seeing the
cottage take shape.

Pietro came by occasionally with my supplies, and he brought a calendar,
some Greek crafts to hang around.  From my garden, I paid with produce.  We
met every evening in the grotto, he let me hold his boy while he swam to a
small beach north of the grotto and back again.  Precocious boy, that
Pouly, he fingered me and put my hand over his package.  One of the older
men came to sit with me and did the honors for the boy.  Young to be so
adept with his small hands, brought the old man to an incredible orgasm and
breathless release while I watched.  The old men at the showers gave me
startling moments of excitement, and I wasn't fully present mentally, a few
parts of my body were.

...

It was a cool, windy day as I watered my tomatoes with a can, pulling the
weeds as I moved down the row.  I heard a distant wailing and thought it
must be a cruise ship.  I ignored it though the blasts kept going for
almost an hour.  At the grotto that evening, I was told that was the
island's emergency warning -- I must go to the government building
immediately.  Though I hadn't gone, I was assigned a duty.  Several boats
had already landed and more washed ashore.  A storm of refugees was coming
from the east -- war refugees.  Head screams as I walked home.

I manned-up and went to the government building the next morning.  The
official gave me my orders, and binoculars.  My duty was to scan the
horizon to the south every hour and call if I saw even a raft, anything
floating that was big enough to hold a human -- whether there was anyone on
it or not.  I wondered where they would take the refugees, our island was
so small.

At my cottage, I vigilantly scanned the horizon to the south every hour.
My trips to the grotto were cut short as I continued to spot small dots at
sea.  I called and gave the location, and took my meals outside to continue
watching and calling until darkness fell.

Several days later, the emergency siren blared again and this time I jogged
to town.  I was assigned to haul water with Pietro in his truck, and unload
supplies.  Couldn't help but notice a stack of nylon tents near the docks
and several larger tents being erected near the government building.  The
next day there few rows of blue tents, people milling about.  Working
alongside Pietro wasn't difficult and there was a knot of tension forming
inside me -- this was exactly what I wanted to escape.

Wasn't long before more rows of tents lined the shore starting to climb up
the hillside.  Bright, orange fencing was erected to keep the refugees
confined.  Large tents for meals, medical care and orphaned children were
filling.  Our island welcomed more by the day.  I asked for another duty,
the sounds of a refugee camp brought back too many memories.  At the desk
of the coordinator, "Could I could go back home to scan the horizon?"

"The older men are slow; we need you here for a few weeks until the big
camps are open on the mainland."

Glancing up and down the beach, "It never stops." I muttered.

"How do you know?"

"Refugees still coming in the `Stans,' right?  I was there.  It never
stops."

He looked at me, "Do I know you?  He stared.  "Weren't you with the lost
ones, the Lost 58th?  I remember your face from the flyers.  Incredible
work your brigade did, and then..."  He looked away, "I'm so sorry, so very
sorry..."

My stomach tensed; my past was too close.  I started to leave.

"Wait.  Before you go.  Could you help with a difficult child?  You may
know his language."

"What's so difficult about him?"

"He refuses to go inside.  Has his brother with him - won't let him go
inside either.  We have to give them blankets at night to sleep outside.
Not safe."

Outside, I saw the two boys by the children's tent.  Some wise person told
them they would get sick inside with the other refugees.  Respiratory
infections, influenza, tuberculosis, bugs and all kinds of problems, I
could smell it already.  They sat outside, away from the door.  The younger
one played in the dirt with a shell, the older one watched the crowds.

Their eyes were bright, clear skin, no scratching.  I motioned for them to
go into the tent.  The older boy refused, I checked his badge; his name was
Azeem, seven years old.  He appeared to be the responsible adult for Babak,
who was five.  In broken Urdu I explained he had to be inside the tent.  He
stared for a moment then pointed to the tent and coughed.

Sitting beside them for a few moments I saw they were interested, calm and
didn't ask for anything, Azeem held his head high -- almost confident that
all this would pass soon.

I tried pleading for him to go into the tent.

No.  Azeem shook his head, wavy, dark hair flying.

I said we'd make a special place for them with a curtain and gestured.

No. He stared at me.  Then he said a word I didn't understand followed by
something like "Neekro."

"Neckro?"  Was he saying "black" or referring to an African?  The relief
crew was comprised of different races.  Why was that important?

"No.  M-m-m, meekro!"

I pulled out my phone and checked the word in Urdu, nothing, but it showed
up in Arabic as microbe; germs.  Hmmm.

Then I tried my last trick, I offered them one Euro each to go into the
tent.  Babak eyed the money and grinned, but his keeper pushed my hand
away.  "No."

I sat there for a while longer in a stalemate with Azeem.  If I looked at
him, he looked away.  Stubborn, but that may be why the boys were still
healthy.  This situation was difficult -- they boys were right; they'd get
sick if they stayed in the tent.  The camp coordinator had to keep them
from sleeping in the cold and damp.  Either way, it wasn't healthy.  I took
a big chance; couldn't save the world, but I might be able to help the boys
sleep inside.

Back at the coordinator's desk, I told him I was taking the boys home with
me and would bring them back the moment they had safe passage to family.
He gave me the forms to fill out and started hitting the keys on his
computer, noting their address as "Deschamps Cottage."  As I left his tent,
workers were frantically trying to pull in more humans from the ragged,
overcrowded rafts and Pietro's boat.

...

The boys were hesitant to go with me at first, but I smiled and pointed
then gestured bed and house, food and wash.  Tiring to be sitting outside
in the sun and wind, they surrendered and joined me on the trail --
probably figured they could run back here if they didn't like my
accommodations.  After they ate almost half a loaf of bread and most of my
olives and cheese, they fell asleep on the old couch.  I wondered what I
would do with them for a moment and sent a message to Ms. Dukas telling her
I had two boys with me, "Got any kids clothes?"

The next morning, "Backup in the pipeline.  We're holding the migrants for
the next two weeks with more coming.  Too many, too fast."  Pietro told me
as he brought food, a bag of used clothing and boxes of school supplies and
grooming items from relief agencies.  The boys woke, ate again, looked
around and went back to the couch to nap.  Inside one of the boxes of food
was a tin of English shortbread cookies with a prayer taped to the top.  I
hid those and sent my thanks on the winds.

...

As the sun lowered, I gathered the boys and my only towels and soap.  They
were filthy and would enjoy the water.  The boys were hesitant about going
into the grotto, their small hands gripped mine as we stepped through the
dark opening.  They watched me take my clothes off, and looked worried but
I pointed over the ledge and showed him several older men sitting, enjoying
the water.  Wasn't long before they splashed through the shallow water
naked and wide-eyed.

The older men were delighted and took their hands to bring them to the
steps where the tides brought warmer water.  Seems they had no reticence
with the older men who spoke softly and smiled reassuringly.  One of the
older men took Babak and swished his body through the water slowly,
encouraging him to swim.  Babak grabbed his neck, so the old man stood and
took the boy to deeper water, mumbling reassuring sounds to him and I
believe he made the boy start kicking his feet.  Didn't take long for the
younger boy to catch on to paddling around by himself.

Azeem watched closely, I went to him and pulled his hand, motioning with my
arm.  Awkward first try at swimming.  He wound up with his legs and arms
around my body.  I pushed his waist away from me, letting him hold onto my
neck.  He brought his torso back to mine with a serious look on his face,
not ready for this much water.  As his legs wrapped around mine, "Jid," his
face looked worried.  I didn't know that word but nodded, stood still and
let the ocean pull his short shaft across my belly several times.  I
grabbed his buttocks and he kissed my cheek rubbing his smooth skin along
my stubble.

After playing and speaking softly, the old men were doting on the boys and
accompanied us to the shower.  No refugee toiletries for them, but shampoo
and flowery smelling soap followed by lotions while the boys stood on the
ledge being caressed by the geriatric crew.  Though they didn't understand
one thing any of them said, the old men oiled and caressed freely as the
boys cooed and lifted their feet and legs.  It occurred to me these boys
hadn't had any affection or loving attention in a while yet obviously had
before.  They were willing to accept touches from the old men without
inhibition.

We filled the water jugs and the three of us pulled the cart home.  I began
washing their grimy clothes as they explored my garden, eating the ripest
tomatoes and found a melon they inspected and sniffed, then pulled it off
the vine for dinner.  There was a garden in their past.

As the sun set, I hung the ragged clothes on the scrubby brushes and threw
their pants over the branches of the olive tree.  Slicing the last of my
cheese, bread and the melon, I made dinner when Pietro came to the door
with bags of clothes, not much but they were from his children, and might
fit the boys.  He brought a wooden crate from Dionysus; it was filled books
from his days teaching school.  "Take good care of those boys."  Pietro
told me, "The old guys are watching."

"Are they going to let me know when the boys have to leave?  I'll have to
prepare them first..."

"I'm afraid the preparation might be yours -- could you take in several
more?  My wife and I have three extra now and we added twenty-seven more
tents today."

Two small rooms with two boys and myself?  "I've only the couch and a cot,
a table with one chair.  Nope."  The boys had their boxes of school
supplies out on the table drawing pictures.  I combed their hair, even
tugging out the tangles without one complaint.

We had our small dinner while the boys drew and talked about things I
couldn't understand.  Babak was content to sit on my lap and eat from the
side of my plate.  Azeem emptied the crate and sat on it.

...

After lighting the lamp, I sat at the table with the boys and got my phone
out.  "Mama, Papa."  I pointed at the photo and then at myself.  They
nodded.  I pointed at them, "Mama, Papa?"

"Jid."  Azeem pointed to his chest.

I drew stick figures of me, my parents and my brother, then my grandmother
and showed her photo on my phone.  Azeem was bright, "Ah!  Jida."  He
pointed at me and the photo.  Jida was grandmother, jid must be
grandfather.  They were raised by their grandfather at some time in their
life.  No wonder the boys took to the older men.

...

The boys weren't sure what was going on when I helped them with their
sandals and clean shirts and shorts the next morning.  It was a struggle
when we turned toward the town.  The boys thought I was taking them back to
the camp, took a lot of gestures and reassurances to get them to stay with
me, but we made it into the camp.  The boys sat inside our water cart to
the side of the chaos.  Inside I got more information on the boys, nothing
I didn't expect: Couldn't find their family.  I asked if anyone was looking
for them -- grandparents?  They gave me the website.  It was overloaded, I
couldn't get through.  I took a bag of first aid supplies and found some
shoes for the boys in a donation bin, then got several more blankets.  As
we left, I noticed that the women and children in the tents had less room
than the boys and I did.  That stung until I considered the comfortable
hotels across the island without a tent in sight.

...

Life was simple at the cottage.  We woke and watered the garden, pulled the
weeds, then made our oatmeal.  I watched the horizon, keeping the
binoculars around my neck.  Inside, the boys started printing out English
alphabets with me making the sounds and printing simple words for them to
sound out for themselves while I watched out the window.  Hugs when they
figured out difficult nouns, though we started with things they could see.
Around lunch we worked with numbers.  Azeem was a whiz with his adding and
subtracting we made multiplication into a secret code and division held the
solution.

After lunch we rested on the bed looking through the books at pictures of
animals and different cities, mountains.  They refused naps knowing we
would leave to swim soon.  The next Friday was different, I didn't let them
lay down.  We went outside and I put the boys in the olive tree to shake
down the fruit.  We gathered and brined another crock of olives.

...

We went to the grotto for their daily jidding and swimming lessons.  The
boys were greeted with whoops, and the old men came to the stairs to take
them to the steps.  They swam out further every day, then got an English
lesson on body parts with the most intimate caresses.  As long as the boys
were smiling, I didn't say anything.  These jids were my neighbors and I
planned on staying on the island.

Babak was the most entertaining, and a popular sprite -- he'd wiggle around
and hold onto a senior erection, rubbing and singing while semen swirled
from an older man who kissed his neck, trembled and then returned a brief
pleasure.  Azeem had a very direct technique, sitting in the bend of a man,
facing away from him and pulling the hard dick again and again under the
water while the silver-haired Greek moaned and shook.  At that point I
realized that these older men probably didn't get much more affection than
the boys in the refugee camp.  As we showered, I gathered the courage to
give Dion a hug and a brief kiss for the books.  He had a comforting way
about him, one arm around my shoulders while the other soaped and rubbed.
If I tried to say anything, he'd kiss me, forcing my silence and
submission.

With regular food and all the lotion and rubbing, the boys plumped and
sleeked, no more bony knees or rough feet on Azeem and Babak.  They were
smiling, energetic anchovies with a sketchy schedule and simple chores.
Being such carefree, beautiful boys, I was no difficult task master and
often felt paternal feeding them, checking their scratches and scrapes.
Still I wondered if someone was looking for them -- I was guarded about the
joy they brought to my life.  Their fear was going back to the camp, but I
wouldn't let that happen.  Our communications improved, I told them that I
would only let them go back directly to family, "No more camps."

...

Tying a short board to the strongest limb of the olive tree, I made a
swing.  The boys needed more recreation than the old men and swimming.
They needed to be with other children.  No school, and most of the children
on the island were refugees, I wasn't sure how to make that happen.  Then I
remembered that I needed recreation myself.  I pulled out my old backpack
and on a windy day, I took the boys on a hike around the larger town, the
one with the hotels, cabanas on the beach.  It was off-season, few
tourists.  The boys looked in the shop windows and we walked the piers
assessing the yachts.  Tomato sandwiches with spring water was sufficient,
then we had ice cream.  They almost exploded with wonder from a brain
freeze.  When we neared the grotto, they were half undressed before they
were inside.  One of the old men was sitting on the steps combing another's
hair, carefully snipping it along the hairline.  Then he nodded at us.  He
combed and snipped the boys' hair in the tides and the water pulled away
their wisps while another man rubbed a small package under the water.  Lot
of jidding going on with a haircut and it kept them still for those
moments.

The wind whipped our hair dry on the way home and the boy's curls bunched
up around their faces; angelic.  That night, after the boys were asleep on
the couch, I called my Dad, explained the situation and asked him to come,
"Dad, could you bring a scooter, like a Vespa, or something two boys can
ride on with me?"

"They got a gas station there now?"  Dad knew the island was primitive.

"I think we got four vehicles in total.  There's two electric cars down in
the tourist town, but I got these boys now, and, it's a lot more work --
have to haul twice as much water."

"I'll be there next month."  Two kick scooters and a bike with a cart on it
arrived in boxes on the dock the next week.  Extra tires, patch kits and
tools were taped to the struts.  Azeem and Babak danced around as we
assembled the kick scooters, both with large tires that allowed them to
navigate the dirt paths.  The bike was more complicated to put back
together -- three wheels with a small, detachable cart.  Great!

...

Dad finally arrived with a big bag over his shoulder.  He grabbed me and
kissed me right on the dock, then looked at the boys.  "Azeem and Babak?"

"Jid?"  They asked.

"Yes jid," I nodded and they embraced him, then jumped on their scooters to
lead us to the grotto -- time for bathing and they weren't missing a
minute.  Before Dad and I undressed, I heard the laughter of the boys and
the greetings of the old men as the boys went to swim.

"Fine old hidden bath.  Do the refugees come here to bathe?"

"Maybe the women come in the morning.  Only men in the afternoon.  I
haven't seen any but I'm sure they'd be welcome."  I went down the stairs
telling the jids my father arrived.

"Fine son you got there.  Doing a good job with the boys..."  They went on
while I went to the steps where Dad came beside me and several older men.
Azeem had to show us his water tricks, then Babak tried to drown himself,
but he bobbed around while we smiled.  Never seen them so proud of
themselves, then they came back for some jidding around with their
favorites.  The older men openly kissed the boys on their lips while their
fingers went to small butts and short, tanned thighs parted for pleasure.
Dad watched, "Every day?"  He lifted his eyebrows.

"You haven't seen them in the shower yet.  These boys haven't washed
themselves since they got here."

"Good for you.  Good for them."  Dad slipped his hand over mine, lifted it
and put it on his erect cock under the water.  "Do they sleep with you?"

"We're busy all day.  They'll get tired and drop on the couch after
dinner."

The boys beat us home.  Dad and I pushed the bike, catching up on family
matters.  "Your grandmother said you'd do well down here."  He looked at
me.  "I'm sorry for telling you to `man-up.'  Nana told me my dad suffered
with depression; shell-shocked.  We lost him shortly after the war, Nana
suspected suicide but he hid it to make sure she got the insurance.  When
you broke down, I thought you were a coward.  I mean, they're defenseless
refugees, what could they do to you?  Having your soul beaten down is worse
than your body being beaten.  You were brave to keep going like you did."

"Past now.  Still working with refugees, it seems."

"Don't call them refugees, they're two boys living with a man who loves
them."  He paused, "Europe's taking a lot of people in -- they'll probably
wind up there.  I'm warning you, if you want to keep them safe, change
their names.  They look like they could be from anywhere, maybe Black
Irish.  The migrant boys are treated like jihadists, they're treated as
terrorists in Europe.  Adopt them if you can and give them our name so they
don't have to face that."

"How bad is it?"

"Bad and worse since the videos of the child soldiers being trained."

We walked the rest of the way home in silence and found the boys left
tomatoes, cucumbers and onions on the table and were jumping on the swing
in the olive tree.  Dinner was island-casual.  We each had a boy on our lap
as we ate, sharing plates with them, heaping them full several times.
After I cleaned the kitchen, Dad scrubbed the boy's faces, hands and feet,
they brushed their teeth and got on the couch.

When the boys were ready for bed, "This old sofa folds out into a bed.
Open it up."  He said.

I didn't know the old couch was a sleeper.  Azeem and Babak were amazed and
jumped on the mattress.  I got their blankets and told Dad to lay down with
them and go through a book, asking them to name things in the photos and
left them in the lamplight.  I was tired.  The lamp went out later after
the boys were asleep when Dad came in whispering for me to move over.

"Precious how they speak, they sound like you."  He kissed my hair, "How
are you doing?"  His hand patted my chest over my heart.

"The boys keep my mind off things, you know."

Dad kissed my neck. Snaking his arm around my neck, "You look good..." The
way he held me reminded me of our Sunday naps at home when I was growing
up, I turned, rubbing my face against his smooth chest.  Kissing my
forehead, he guided my lips to his nipple.  I flicked with my tongue and
his body jerked then sucked softly, biting occasionally.

In Privas every Sunday afternoon while the women talked, we would lay on my
bed in the afternoon sun.  He shoved his big, hard cock between my legs
while I sucked his nipples.  I loved the smell of his skin and the slippery
fluid between my legs, then he'd roll me on my back and shove his cum into
my butt with one hand and held me close.  I made frantic, dry orgasms
against his soft cock.

Tonight, though he sighed after a few moments and turned me away from him.
"Do you know how much I love you?"

I nodded and felt his hand on my chest.

"Forgive me for being an ass?"

I nodded, not really sure what he was talking about and it wasn't
important, I reached behind me and opened my cleft for him.  Soon, the
delicate touch of his foreskin, a heavy smear of his juice.  Pulling my
groin close, he began pushing, slowly and steadily.  Occasionally, he'd
kiss my neck, then continue pushing.  I fiddled with my rod until I felt
his thighs come behind mine forcing me into opening more widely to him.
One arm around my chest and one on my back, he leaned me forward and with
one quick shove, he penetrated me, breathing hard and humming.

Dad was expert, maneuvering his dick to my glands.  The narrow bed rocked
gently as he shoved deeper.  He was a big man with a big cock, I always
looked forward to a few moments with him when I was younger.  Dad had great
moves.  My eyes were closed, enjoying his masculine ministration inside me,
his timing was impeccable.  He stopped and his shoulders twisted.

"Is that you, Babak?"  He called out.

"Pee-pee."

"Well, hurry up.  I'm trying to sleep."  He boomed.

After he peed, he came to the side of my cramped cot and climbed over us,
snuggling his butt against me.  "He's my jid."

"Okay.  Your jid during the day, mine at night.  Go to sleep."

Dad continued gently, slowly, then came to the point when slammed me into
the mattress squashing Babak partially underneath me.  "You've got the
tightest ass on the planet."  He caught his breath and gave me a few
kisses.  Babak slept during Dad's finale.  It occurred to me I needed to
speak to the boys about privacy and discretion, though that was going to be
a complicated subject at the grotto.

...

The next morning Dad made big slices of cinnamon toast and gave the boys
coffee with sugar.  I looked the other way and told the boys to take Dad
down to the store and handed them a list.  As I cleaned, I looked out the
window, then grabbed the binoculars.  Five more boats on the horizon,
looked like more behind them. I called immediately.

When they came back, I told Dad to take care of things, I was going to help
with the tents and getting the refugees in for the night.  He was delighted
to take the boys to the grotto for an all-afternoon swim.

"Wash the clothes and don't eat the cookies."  I came home late to find
them snuggled on my bed and had to sleep on the couch after I brushed off
the cookie crumbs and moved the dirty laundry.

My Azeem brought me coffee in the morning with an aspirin.  My muscles were
sore after hauling equipment and tents, dealing with so many and helping
address the worst emergencies.  Unfortunately, we needed more body bags,
not everyone survived the voyage.  It broke my heart again and again.  With
every adult we placed in the cooler, I wondered if it was a relative of
Azeem and Babak.  Because any ID had to be attached to the bodies for the
photos, I carefully reviewed each one as I tied it around their bodies.  I
checked the website for anyone searching for the boys -- no responses yet.

...

Since my closest neighbors weren't so close, Dad sent the boys out naked
while he rinsed the clothes under the olive tree and hung them to dry.  Dad
was naked as he hoed the garden and the boys watered.

When they came in for lunch, Dad pulled me aside, "I noticed something," He
hedged for a moment, "Your sex drive -- uhm, your libido seems low.
Where's my horny Serge?"

"He's not back from the `Stans yet."  I looked into his eyes.  "Maybe he'll
come home soon."

"Do you need medication?"

"I don't want any."

"We'll find something else."  He puttered around for a while and walked
toward town.  He was still gone when we left for the grotto.  He wasn't
home when we came back.  Pietro dropped him off in the truck and he came
in, eyes glazed over.  "They need to stop the war -- the refugees keep
coming."  He'd been inside the camp.

I kissed his cheek, "Dinner's ready.  Azeem, bring olives.  Babak, give Dad
a kiss and tell him it's going to be alright."  We dined with Dad still in
a daze.

...

Afterward, with the boys on the couch I asked them about their day.
Nothing I hadn't found out already, so I told them they were going to have
to stay on the couch then made them both pee whether they wanted to or not.
We brushed our teeth and I told them again they had to stay on the couch.
Babak smart-mouthed me, "You said he was my jid."

"Your jid during the day, my jid at night."  Why couldn't he remember that?
Azeem grinned, he was hiding something behind that smirk.  Naked most of
the day with Dad?  I let it go, he was smiling.  I blew the lamp out and
found Dad waiting in bed for me, "Serge, I went into town to see about
adopting the boys but I got overwhelmed."

"The boys have to be without family for at least two years before adoption.
They could be now.  I promised them I wouldn't let them go to another
camp."

Not a calm night, the boys wanted to sleep with us and we all wound up on
that damn couch and it was cozy with the boys between us.

...

The next day Dad took the binoculars to scan the sea while I took the boys
down to the camp.  They scooted ahead and waited on the path for me to go
near the docks.  I checked the website and went to the coordinator and told
him I'd like to foster the boys until family was found.  "What do I have to
do?"

"Got to find out where they're from first."  He went to a website, got my
email and sent it to me.  "It appears the family last registered in
Sulaymaniyah, but something about the boys makes me think they were in Iran
for a while, and maybe somewhere else before that..."

"How long have they been refugees?"

"From what we could gather, at least a year.  The woman who took them with
her kids didn't make the crossing, their papers were lost."  He looked away
for a moment.  "She made sure the children arrived."

"I want to start the paperwork for foster care today."

"All I can tell you is to go online and fill out the forms."  He stopped,
"That was your father who came yesterday?"

"Yes."

"It might work out better if he applied to foster the children, being
older, established and all."

...

After the boys' customary jidding, we came home to eat bowls of salad
sitting on a blanket with Dad.  "Azeem, Babak, do you know what foster care
is?"

"Like another family that's not your real family?"  Azeem asked.

"It's like that, it's a temporary home.  I promised you wouldn't go to
another camp.  Dad and I want to be foster parents for you two, keep you
here or in his home in Privas. What do you think?"

"How long is temporary?"  Azeem asked.

"Until your family is found, or until you turn twenty-one."

"Where's my jid?"  Babak asked.  "He loves me."

"If you tell me what you remember before you came here, I'll try to find
him."

We cleaned up and sat at the table with me taking notes in one of their
composition books, carefully noting their journey.  They'd moved a number
of times before they got to the Mediterranean.  Traveling at night, hiding
in basements, staying silent in bombed-out buildings until they could move
eastward, finding a sympathetic truck driver and traveling with anyone
going away from the shelling.  They seldom talked about their dad, he'd
been taken, I guess inducted into the military.  He wasn't a soldier, it
seemed he worked in something like an oil refinery or with chemicals.  The
boys were young when he left; they didn't remember much more than that.
Strangely, they described a bridge and a city where they last saw their
mother, sounded like Isfahan.  She was the one who told them staying in the
tents would make them sick.  Seems she didn't come back to her boys after a
difficult few days under fire.

Carefully, I wrote down all the names of the people Azeem and Babak could
remember, any town names as I lit the lamp, I closed the book.  "Dad's
going home in two days.  He's taking all your information with him.  If we
can't find your family, you're not orphans -- I'm here, Dad's going to help
me."

Dad who opened his arms to them.  "You'll never be orphans, take a whiff."
Dad put his hands behind his head, "That's the smell of daddy. Good, huh?
I'm a great dad until we can find your jid."

Babak looked at me with a frown, unsure that this was the smell of daddy.
My dad didn't use deodorant.  I pulled Babak on my lap.  "He's saying he
loves you and one day you'll be a man and smell that good when you have
your own family."

"But he stinks."  Babak whispered.

"Some dads are stronger than others, and Dad's a heavy-weight."

Babak was tired, I opened the couch and lay with him while Dad and Azeem
sniffed each other in his olfactory bonding ritual.  Dad used to make me
sniff him all the time when I was a kid.  I came to enjoy his potent scents
though it took several years.

...

The next morning, we went down to the camp.  More refugees in dinghies and
rafts.  Fishermen from the other islands brought in a big catch.  Dad and I
stayed to clean it while the boys went to the shore.  I saw them talking
with the other boys, they raced down the sand and back again.  By
comparison, Azeem and Babak were full-bodied, fast and smiled often.  The
other boys tired quickly.

"Babak, go to the general store and ask if there's any mail for us."  I
told him when they wandered back.  They stuffed our mail into our cart and
flew off to Dion who was shopping, giving him hugs and kisses while he
tousled their hair.

Fish for everyone in the camp that day.  Pietro and I got several fillets
for dinner and we left before noon.  We let the fish marinate and ate the
chocolate Mom and Nana sent.  Around the thin bars of chocolate were pages
of photos of our house in Privas.  "When are they coming?"  Mom wanted the
boys with her and Nana.

...

Our last shower with Dad at the grotto was a celebration.  The men had a
bottle of Raki, passing it around, swigging.  They started singing,
honoring Dad in their way; seems they were celebrating before we arrived.
"You have to come back."  They formed a hard-dicked gang in the shower
laughing and scrubbing, lot of groping and fingering.  One of the old men
leaned over for Dad.  Couldn't help but watch as the old man grunted to
release a load that seemed to go on for quite a while.

As we dressed, Dad told them we were going to try to foster the boys.  Like
a herd of cows, they lowed, concerned that the boys would leave them.  "Not
good.  They need to be here -- look how strong they are now!"  The bottle
had to go around the group again, as they formed consensus on the health of
the boys several more times.

"We're not sure what's going to happen.  They're here for now."  I
explained.  Half-drunk Greek codgers are a farce to be enjoyed, not
instructed.  I had to repeat myself a number of times as I dressed.  They
did offer to help as they retold each other what was going to happen.  Dion
and Dad only smiled and shook their heads at this party.

I cooked fish and tomatoes, brought out a big bowl of olives and we ate our
last dinner together.  Looking at Dad kissing and loving Azeem, I knew I'd
miss him.  But here was my Babak on my lap needing to learn his adding and
subtraction.

Before he left, I stuffed the composition book filled with all the boy's
information into Dad's bag.  We all kissed him before he stepped onto the
gangplank, "Thanks for everything, Dad."

"De rein."  He was eyeing Pietro's butt.

...

Nana told Dad to get a lawyer to adopt the boys, Mom was excited.  I wanted
to keep the boys on the island with me.  Still, they needed their education
and friends.  I went back down to talk to Pietro's wife, "How do your kids
get schooled?"

"On line.  Pietro takes them to the mainland twice a year for testing."
The boys weren't Greek; they weren't entitled.  I ordered books online for
their studies at home, awaiting more word from the foster placement office.
Through the next weeks, Dad found an investigator to try to find the boys'
family.

Feeling stronger, I started volunteering at the camp with Dion, we worked
inventory, moving supplies and stacking more while the boys played on the
beach.  Someone found a soccer ball and there was a loud game outside the
fence.  The refugee coordinator and I became familiar and more of the
people around the island knew my name, I found out where their cottages
were and we exchanged olives and produce daily.  During this time, I began
smiling, even laughed a few times.  My body was taut and strong and my two
boys were no trouble, Azeem had a strong sense of right and wrong, poor
Babak lived under his thumb.

...

Dion had a small library; we took his books back and got several more with
stories of Greek gods and goddesses and found old encyclopedias with
pictures.  We stayed late that night, the boys fell asleep on his couch.
Dion played classical music.  When a Strauss waltz came on, he took me in
his arms and danced with me, swaying gently as he kissed my neck and
whispered how he admired the way I managed the boys, how handsome and
strong I was...  Couldn't help but hold him tighter against me while I
kissed his lips.  This felt foreign though it felt good, "Are you seducing
me?"

"Hope to, is it working?"

This respected, educated older man wanted me?  Had to take a deep breath,
then for the first time in my adult life, fell into a man's arms for an
intimacy I didn't know I needed so desperately.  Slow and gentle, Dion was
a quiet lover, holding me tenderly while we kissed.  He stroked me slowly
in the moonlight from his bedroom window and kept me close while his hands
went to my rear.  Kissing me while his fingers explored, then entered me, I
submitted with surprising ease, relaxed and ready.  Didn't smell like Dad,
but he smelled good, healthy, and his skin carried a light taste of salt.

Silently turning me over, he knelt behind me and pulled my hips off the
bed; I offered him my ass bringing myself to my knees in a half-crouch.
His shaft lay along my cleft as one hand went to my dick and the other
between my legs to my balls.  No grabbing or tugging, only slow caresses.
His knees closer, his hands came to my cleft and he opened me, his foreskin
swabbed his juice around my hole.  Hot breaths came faster from him as my
heart began pounding.  I tried to relax; my excitement kept me tense.  One
finger massaged me and he hummed briefly through several breaths.  A few
strokes, and he pulled his finger out, and placed his glans at my hole.  I
quivered, sweating and pushed myself through a moment of wavering
indecision.

He tried several times, then leaned over to kiss my neck, "Let me love
you."

For some reason, tears stung my eyes as I felt an incredible heated
expansion of my sphincter, then a slow, smooth entry.  He stopped as my
chest jerked, Dion's hands rubbed along my back and my sides.  Grabbing my
hips gently, he began a slow rhythm and I assessed each sensation.  Every
stroke was deeper, richer and tears stopped when my unnamed defenses fell.
Electric jolts coursed through me and I felt myself more aroused than I'd
felt in a long time.  "Let me love you," I lifted my hips for more of him
and felt his corona brushing, causing urges inside me.  I wanted more but
didn't want any more.  Without warning, my torso clenched and I began
pulsing out a load that carried hidden pain, the reticence I'd secreted.
Halted and waited, clenched my ass as hard as I could around his shaft.  He
moaned softly and began plowing deeper and faster into me and stopped at
the deepest point to let me feel his hot discharge, a few more strokes and
his body fell on mine.  My eyes didn't sting, but filled with tears again
feeling his damp skin on mine, breathing the smells of men who've just
exchanged more than physical movement.

Dion brought a washcloth and wiped me gently, kissing my ass and fondling
my balls.  He held me in his arms again, noting my puffy eyes.  He kissed
my eyelids softly.

...

Woke to find two boys crowding us on the bed, inspecting our early
erections.  Dion lived near the edge of the island, farthest hut from the
dock.  He sent the boys outside to pee while he took me into the shower and
cleaned me gently.  "Thank you." he whispered.  "I haven't had anyone to
love in years."

Holding him against me before we dressed, I thanked him for his tenderness,
I kissed him, "I needed, uh, I needed -- a good jidding."

He chuckled and we started our day off smiling.  All the while, there was
some confusion rumbling in my chest, and it settled as the boys and I got
near town and picked up the mail, checked with the coordinator.  Still no
word about the boys' family.

...

Refugees kept coming, and I kept spotting small boats; Pietro kept hauling
people to the mainland as more arrived.  Nations around the world opened
their doors, and it was a logistical nightmare for the coordinator, but he
kept pushing forward and looking more bedraggled by the day.  I invited him
to the grotto but he didn't want to come -- he drank heavily when he wasn't
working.  He was a lonely man and invited me to join him.

"Got two boys to keep."  I smiled.

"Leave them here with the orphans for a few hours. Nobody'll find out.
They come and go, you know how it is."  He replied.

"I promised them no more camps."  I said and watched the boys talking with
Dion.

"You know I can knock back their reception dates and make them two years
without family contact tonight."  He gave me a sly look.  "We could work
that out over a few shots."

From my calculations when I first checked the website, the boys only had
about six months more to wait before adoption, and I was fostering them
whether it was registered or not.  "I better wait."  All the way home I
wondered what he meant when he said the kids "come and go."  From my
experience, children didn't come and go so easily, everything had to be
listed on the databases, photos taken, IDs made and secured placement noted
with all the pertinent information about the child.

...

That night, I called Dad, told him to try to put a fire under the foster
care agency since the investigator couldn't find the boys' family.  "Dad,
wherever there are refugees, there are people looking to pick up people for
human trafficking.  I got a feeling I better get us to France quick."

"Just bring them."

"They only have refugee IDs.  How do I get them across the borders without
the foster family paperwork?"

...

That night at the grotto, the boys paired up with their favorites for
swim-n-jid while I spoke with Dion, "That guy running the camp, I got a
funny feeling about him."

"He's doing a great job, got a number of the orphans out last month.  Last
week he sent another group off to the mainland, he says they got a special
place for the orphans now."

I doubted if there was a special place for orphaned kids, they were usually
kept with the mothers and their children.  "Did he say where?"

"I think he said Belarus."

"Belarus?  They refuse refugees.  Got to get my boys to France, let the
paperwork come later."  I whispered.

We spoke further and worked out a plan to get the boys to Privas.  Seemed
the old jids knew of an underground railroad that their families devised
during another war though it ran in the opposite direction.

...

The old jids were excited, and we had to keep things under wraps until the
time came.  I stayed close to boys as they studied and we went about our
routine.  It was a sneaky move, but I called Nana and Mom and told them to
come in two weeks, "You won't believe how good the cottage looks.  Come
back to the grotto, Nana."  They were delighted.

We wouldn't be here.  That was the plan, I texted and worked into the
nights cleaning the cottage and shaved my head to let my scalp tan and let
my beard grow out a few days before they arrived.  I called Dad and let him
know what was happening, he explained it all to Nana and Mom.

The day my mother and Nana came, we were gone - already at the tourist town
and onto a small yacht with my two boys, Dion and three jids.  An old
friend owned the boat and took us to on a circuitous route through several
other islands then around Italy to Nice, while the boys saw flying fish and
played dominos with the codgers.

We anchored off the coast of Nice and the boys got another haircut, short
so it would draw into curls.  My Dion shaved my head for me again and
shaped my beard into a neat style and kissed me.  That night, he silently
encouraged me to penetrate him from behind as we lay on the narrow bunk in
the dark, tides rocking us.  I was stealthy in the small cabin as he took
me into his heat.  Deep inside him, he lifted his leg and rubbed our balls
together.  For some reason that was incredibly comforting; I reached around
him to find him full and leaking.  "Hard, deep."  He whispered.

My cheek on the moist skin of his back, I licked and kissed while I told
him how good he was to me, and how letting him love me brought a new kind
of courage inside me, "Will you stay with me in Privas?"

Pushing back against me, "Dionysus was the god of the theatre - we've got a
performance ahead of us, then we'll see."  He clamped his ass around my
rod, "Deep, lover, I need all of you."  His chest leaned away from me and
we both grabbed his rod and I struggled to stay deeply inside him and
control my release.  It was too good, too satisfying; grabbing his hips, I
emptied myself quickly into him, our sweat sticking us together.  Don't
even remember my dick falling out of him as we fell asleep.

...

Act one, scene one began at breakfast: Azeem almost had a fit, had to talk
to him quite a while. Babak liked the idea.  The boys had to wear
sunglasses and tiny bikinis made for girls.

Dion pointed past the town, "As soon as we get past the harbormaster and
outside of town, you can put your pants on.  No one is looking for a bald
man with two girls.  And if anyone asks you, say that's your Daddy Sergio.
Understand?"

"Why do we have to act like girls?"  Babak asked, fingering the bright ties
on his halter.

"We don't have the right papers.  Remember my Dad -- your day jid?  We'll
live with him till the right papers come."

Azeem was getting his eight-year old penis taped to his groin, he'd grown
since we'd met, "Where's my jid?  He's going to look for us on the island."

"We'll change that on the computer at Dad's house."  I kissed him, "For
now, we've got to pretend to get past people who don't understand camps.  I
promised you wouldn't have to another camp.  You gotta help me for a few
minutes."

The jids began practicing the boys on prissing up and down the deck with
their flipflops and towel.  The boys looking like models.  Then, they had
to practice speaking softly.  They learned a few French words and one of
the geezers put lip gloss on them.  Azeem blew a fuse, refusing.  Babak
wanted more and had to tuck the tube in the skimpy tie of his bathing
outfit.

Three jids and the captain of the yacht went into the harbormaster's office
to register our mooring.  The harbormaster was an old friend of the
captain.  One of the jids carried a bottle of Ouzo, and they would ask him
to take a break down the street at the café.  Dion and I would
hustle the boys down the pier after they left for a drink.  Those were long
minutes we watched with binoculars waiting for the men to leave.

About forty-five minutes later, Babak sashayed down the pier toward the
beach with Azeem stomping behind him.  They were charming in shiny bikinis,
big sunglasses and bright towels over their shoulders.  Here I was with my
bald head and a beard, Dion in a beret and aviators. Anyone looking for us
now, or later, couldn't identify us.

When we got to the shore, I looked around.  Security cameras everywhere.
Smiling, we hustled along.  I bought our debutantes ice cream while Dion
found the address for what we needed and we casually walked off in that
direction.  You can be sure the boys got a lot of attention as we coursed
the narrow streets to the rental car agency.

"Taking my granddaughters to Cannes for a few days..."  I filled out the
paperwork.

"You girls like to swim?"  The clerk asked.

"Oui."  Azeem grunted.

"But we swim naked."  Babak said, rubbing the satiny fabric over his chest
and grinning.  He decided he liked his flipflops slapping on the floor and
began dancing around Dion.  I just smiled and pulled them outside before
Azeem blew another fuse, he was frustrated with this affair.

We left for Minton immediately, taking A-51 through the hills, off the toll
road where we'd be on camera at every booth.  Long drive through the
mountains, we stopped to let the boys change clothes, I gelled their hair
and combed it back flat against their heads and shaved my beard quickly in
a restroom to confuse anyone looking for us.  Two hours later, we were
almost in Privas, I texted a cryptic note to Mom saying I was landing in
Heathrow.  Then I texted Dad the same message.  He sent back a photo of
himself lifting a glass of wine with Esteban.

Several hours later we were safe at Dad's.  No grotto, so after dinner we
went to the hot tub while Dion explained how we sneaked out.  When the boys
were in bed, I explained about the camp coordinator and why I wanted to get
out so quickly.  Dad told me to write it up while Esteban searched for any
camps for orphan children in Belarus.  I knew there wouldn't be any.

Dad watched over my shoulder as I wrote.  He told me he'd take my concerns
to the foster care agency and explain it for me, "Send it tonight, though,
before anything else happens down there."

...

All this time, Mom and Nana were in our cottage having a great time
pretending that they'd lost me and the boys, "Oh, mercy!  Where could they
be?"

Gutsy ploy, the women went to the coordinator of the camp and asked about
us.  He took them aside and told her our disappearance would reduce their
chances for adoption.

"Have you filed a report on the boys being missing?"  Nana asked.

"Why bother?  All these kids are missing from somewhere."  He went on about
his business.

Nana and Mom made plans to leave after they rented the cottage to two women
relief workers.

...

In Privas, Dion and I took my old bedroom, "Will you stay for a while?"

"Need to get back to the island, someone's got to let you know what's going
on."

That night, we made love slowly, warmly and when his legs came around my
waist, I never felt stronger or more in control of my life.  This man's
love changed me.

The next morning, Esteban took us to his chalet after we dropped Dion at
the train station.  Sad being without him and he promised he'd be waiting
on the island for us.

...

Why all this sneaking around and the boys in bikinis?  One reason was the
relief agency - I'd taken the boys without their approval and the proper
documents, that's called kidnapping.  More than likely, I'd be viewed as a
human trafficker if we were stopped and questioned about anything.  Once
the boys were out of my hands, they could be sold for a good price.  Then
there was my statement.  My statement to the relief agency started an
investigation about trafficking and until it was completed, I had to lie
low with the boys.  Traffickers would silence any further statements from
me and they could be working inside the relief agency.  Also had to keep
the boys safe from anyone who might find them and turn them in as
undocumented immigrants.  We faced the factions forming in Europe harassing
migrants; mobs formed to apply street justice.

...

Dad was great, he called the relief agency the next morning and asked about
our paperwork.  They were working through the applications, and there were
so many, it would take a while.  He made a donation which put a fire under
the bureaucracy.  Mom and Nana came home and brought the boy's school books
and scooters, then sent Esteban back out to his chalet along with plenty of
goodies.  This "chalet" was more of a cabin in the lower Alps, but finished
and comfortable.  Again, we began a simple daily routine.

The wintertime brought only a few snows.  Mom, Dad, Nana and Esteban came
for the holidays and brought the paperwork.  Dad and Mom were foster
parents, we could move back into Privas.  I wanted to change the boy's
names as soon as I could knowing that full adoption was coming soon but
more to protect them.

I needed more money to help pay the legal costs and support the boys.
Being on disability due to a mental problem doesn't look good on a resume,
but I needed to show I was doing something with my life before I could get
a job.  I didn't put my work with the 58th brigade on my resume, I slid
over that with my degree in Business Administration and said I was working
with an international company in their distribution department. I jumped at
the opening for a seasonal job in a winery, driving a forklift hauling
boxes of bottles from the dock to the plant.  Not much, but enough to help
the family with the extra expenses.

Nana kept the boys at home studying on the kitchen table, but now they
could take courses online through the national education system.  She
showed them crossword puzzles and cryptos while Brahms played in the
background.  She loved those boys; they were her darlings now.

...

Still no word from the grandparents, and we moved into the paperwork for
full adoption.  When the papers came from the agency, I was asked to come
in with my parents and the boys to their office in Lyon.  Completing the
paperwork was easy, and we were congratulated and the boys were welcomed to
France.  Just as I suspected, I was called aside with Dad before we left.

Two men in suits came in, one was German, the other Dutch, I could tell by
their accents.  We were questioned about the statement I made and I laid
out what happened in the `Stans and afterward.  Dion's face came to mind
and I steeled myself and told them about Donnosso and the refugee camp
there.  Gave them the name of the coordinator and told them what he'd said
to me.  "That's all I can tell you and it doesn't look good for the
refugees, especially the kids.  He offered to falsify information on the
registry, I had to wonder what else he was doing."

They spoke with Dad for a while, and in those moments, I realized the
entirety of the situation.  The naiveite of my youth had been replaced with
wisdom when I took responsibility for the boys.  My need to protect them
and my own internal conflicts pushed me to a wider view of the dangers
surrounding us.  I had deep insight from a personal perspective.

The German asked if Azeem and Babak knew anything about the coordinator.

"I never asked them."

"Who else knows?"

"One other man, Dion.  Not sure how much his friends know."

The two men put their heads together for a while.  "We've been watching the
encampment on the island.  There are a number of irregularities beyond what
you mentioned in your statement.  Would you be willing to go back?"

I went silent, thinking.  This could be dangerous; big money human
trafficking and they didn't mind sparing a life to get to the cash.  "I
have to think about it."

"We'll be in Privas next week."

...

I was prepared when they came.  Mom was leery about me going, but brought
up some things I hadn't thought about.  I had to negotiate to make this
work out for all of us.

Dad and I met the guys at an outdoor café on the edge of town.
Before I made any commitments, I asked them specifically what they wanted
me to do in the camp.  They came back with three things.  First, I had to
wear a bug and volunteer at the camp.  They wanted me to plant a computer
monitor, slip transistorized trackers onto a number of children, find out
how the children were being transported to the mainland, then leave without
causing any suspicion.

"Will I have a gun?"  That question plumbed the level of corruption in the
camp.

"Do you want one?  We were thinking of giving you a taser rod.  A small
device."

The traffickers were depending on someone in the camp to deliver their
goods from that answer.  "Compensation?"

"Two hundred thousand Euros."

Lifting my eyebrows, "I could get killed.  Remember, Dad and I have got two
boys to put through college."  I shook my head.

"Two fifty?"

"Not enough.  What about four hundred thou with a two million Euro life
insurance policy on me for the time I'm on the island," I paused, that was
the easy part, "And permanent employment."

"What kind of employment?"  The German asked.

"With the relief agency."  I said with a steady voice and stared them
straight in the eye.  "I know this because I lived it: Workers are
overwhelmed and turn bad, when they do, the results can be fatal for them
and the refugees.  Workers know the system and use it for their own
benefit.  The security on your website stinks.  You're leaking information
to criminals."  I knew these guys could be part of a trafficking ring, and
Dad was sitting right there and had my statement on his computer.  Two men
from a small town, same family with recently adopted boys would raise too
many red flags if anything happened to us.

"We know that."  I suspected they weren't sure how extensive the problem
was.

"If you haven't plugged those holes, you're part of the problem."

...

Within two weeks I was trained and off to the island and Dion.  Once again,
Pietro met me to take me to the islands, "Looking good.  Got some time for
me?"

"Maybe.  Got to check on the cottage, square away the taxes.  Talk to you
later."  Like I planned on doing that, I happened to like his wife.  "Those
kids you took in, did you take them into foster care?"

"Nah.  They had to move on -- you know how it goes."  I noticed he had a
new truck parked close by.

On the docks, Dion was waiting for me, smiling widely, "Love, I missed you.
How are my boys?"  He whispered.

I winked, "Fine."  We picked up a bottle of wine for dinner and headed to
his hutch.  As soon as we got inside and shut the door, I put my index
finger over my lips and took off my wire and wrapped it in my jacket, then
I explained what was going on.

He cocked his head, then nodded.  "Go to the grotto?"

"I need you more than the grotto."  Forgetting about dinner or the wine, he
took me to bed and held me, telling me how he missed me, the boys and our
afternoons together.  We relaxed and I took him in my mouth.  His tastes
and smells, rich and full, and he was incredibly generous within a few
moments.  I kissed him with his taste in my mouth and my cum splattered
over his torso from simply being so aroused and close to him.  Sometime
around midnight, we got up, showered and took our wine and dinner outside.

"Still volunteering at the camp?"  I asked.

"Yeah. I'm installing some framework with the jids.  Not the same as
before, like there's a shadow over the place.  They're not hauling the
trash or replacing the latrines."

"I saw Pietro today.  Got a new truck."  I said.

"I noticed that.  I noticed something else, too.  He's making runs to the
mainland at dusk, sometimes several a night."

"How do you know?"

"I can hear his motor on his boat.  If you look out the window to the east,
I have a view of the dock."

I only nodded.  "Need some help with the framing?"

"Yeah, the guys'll be glad to see you again.  Don't be surprised if they
bring a bottle to celebrate."

"Let's go back to bed."

...

The next morning, I let Dion go ahead of me to the camp while I watched
through the binoculars.  People were waking up in the camp.  Slow going as
the sun rose higher.  The smell of food began wafting.

I decided to wander down to help the guys later.  Spoke with the
coordinator as I went in, "How's it going?  Place looks good."  I lied, it
was a filthy, muddy mess -- smelled bad.

"Serge, long time since I've seen you.  Where are those boys you wanted to
take into foster care?"  His eyes were red-rimmed and his skin carried a
gray cast.

"Grandparents came for them."

He nodded, "Here to help?"

"Yep, got something easy for me?"

"Help the old guys, damn they're slow."

"Free labor from the goodness of their hearts, asshole."  I thought and
went to help them.  We worked until around noon when I saw the coordinator
walk along the path like he was going to my cottage.  I waited till he was
out of sight and went into his office and attached a wire under his desk
and a bug on the underside of his hard drive and came out to pound a few
nails and haul more studs.  Before the sunset we had the frame up for a
storage shed.  That night, I spoke with Dion, "Is there some way I can get
into the children's tent?"

"Easy.  The church comes once a week from the mainland with toys.  It's
chaos but they sing and tell stories.  The kids enjoy it.  They'll be here
Wednesday morning - the whole camp comes out."

"Have you been by my old cottage lately?"

"Two gals rented it.  They party all night from what I heard."

"Hmmm."  Feels great to fall asleep in a strong man's arms.

...

I puttered around the camp with the jids until Wednesday.  It was noisy and
busy as volunteers handed out stuffed toys and coloring books, then they
brought out an electric keyboard and began singing.  Behind the group, I
was able to attach several trackers to backpacks, and shoes the kids had
left at the back of the area, then I moved on to place a few in the
donation bin inside the best-looking pairs of shoes.  One small girl sat on
my lap and we sang together.  I was able to stick a tracker inside the hood
of her jacket and another inside the pocket of her jeans as we sang.  She
was exceptionally cute, and healthy.  She hadn't been there long and I
figured she'd bring a high price.  Then, we all joined in simple games
together.

On my way back to Dion's I texted the German that I wasn't able to do more
than stick the trackers on the kids' clothing and gave a brief description
of the kids I knew I'd tagged.  "Check the coordinator's computer, it's
linked in now.  Monitor the guy that ferries to the mainland.  He's making
extra trips and just bought a new truck, the kids he took in moved on, he
says."

I was done.

...

That night, I asked Dion to come back with me to Privas, "I've got work
now, maybe have to travel, and I'll be able to support us both, as well as
the boys."

"Come back here, bring the boys.  The camp won't be here forever."

"Love, most camps become towns."  I told him.

"Please come back."  Hard to resist his kisses.

"May have to repair the cottage again.  Will you send some photos?"

Our last night together was quiet, listening to the wind howl around his
hutch.  We felt snug so close.  A few tears between the strokes...

Back in Privas I packed my bags again and headed for Lyon after I invested
my sign-on bonus and I was glad they hadn't asked me to do any more.  The
camp seemed decrepit despite the increased international funds coming into
the island to keep it up.

...

Azeem began his fifth level in school and Babak was in second level and
doing well.  Mom retired early to care for Nana and help with the boys.
The women in my family loved the boys dearly.  I wanted them with me, and
would wait until they were older, Privas was quieter than Lyon and had with
fewer social problems.

...

All of the thoughts that filled my silent hours when I first worked with
the `Stans, then my experience on the island camp came to voice in the
board meetings of the relief agency.  Tough going against the old guard.
The immediacy of current communications allowed relief agencies to be
proactive instead of waiting for the death count to alarm the news
reporters and international outrage to occur.  Some of us promoted
monitoring areas that looked like they would need help soon.  Together,
several in the office allied and pushed; changes started happening.  We
were looking at over 70 million refugees on the planet with 37 thousand
losing their homes every day.  The agency could do better with the billions
from governments and more from charities.  I wasn't afraid to approach the
CEOs of the various organizations and sell them on a "life-centered"
approach and my first year I began streamlining services in small ways.

My first year also brought accolades as part of a group that stopped a
human-trafficking ring.  Another would spring up, so I urged increased
computer security all over the agency and send out reps to different camps
to pose as refugees or volunteers and check on the management or activity
in and around the camps.  There was always pilferage - that could be
reduced, but they were trained to look for human trafficking.

...

My beloved Nana passed and left me the cottage.  On the boys' vacations
we'd all go to the island.  Azeem, Babak and I stayed with Dion.  Maybe it
was because when we'd met I was at a low point in my life, it was his
loving nature that brought me to feel he was the rock in my life.  He'd
gotten us off the island and called me with updates and told me he loved me
in a soft voice.  He kept asking me to come back to the island.

...

Seven years passed quickly, and now I was nearing the zenith of my career.
During the holidays at Privas I noticed Azeem reserved, very quiet.  Had to
take my beloved boy aside, "Aren't you excited?  Music, lights, all the
decorations... You always loved the holidays -- what's going on?"

He looked away.  Taking his hand, I took him upstairs with me, hoping to
find out why he wasn't his usual, brash self.  Fourteen is an awkward year
with the waves of hormones, and though he carried my last name, his
background hadn't prepared him for the culture here.  He was in constant
adjustments and Nana wasn't around to explain how to adapt.

Taking him in my arms, "What's up?  There were a few dark hairs above his
lip, making me smile.

"Babak's girlfriend is coming for dinner."  He mumbled.

"Okay, we've got plenty."  I squeezed him, that was no reason for being so
withdrawn, "Do you get along?"

"Sure."  He looked away.

"Why so despondent?"

"Babak's not queer."

"Okay." Babak was free-spirited and definitely a heterosexual imp.

"I am."  I hugged him and thought it was clever how he sneaked that into
our conversation.

"Do you have a friend to invite to dinner?  He'd be welcome."

"He'll be at dinner."

"Good, what's his name?"

"Dad."  He looked away.

My dad, the old roué, could smell teen spunk at twenty kilometers,
"Dad been jidding you?  Did he go any further?"

"Yeah."  Came out of him in soft tones and the boy told me the story of my
childhood experiences with my dad.  "He's great in bed."  He paused, "Is
your dad queer?  He's married to Mom -- makes me feel guilty, like adultery
somehow."

Dammit, Dad's slippery proclivities were a perplexing mess for me to
explain, "Let's just say Dad's always been sampling at the buffet of life.
I'm sure Mom's been aware of his pastimes."  Wasn't sure how much she was
aware of though.  Had to get this conversation back on track, "Let's talk
about you.  Do you understand that being gay is alright?  It just happens
like brown eyes or freckles."

"What could I do about it?"

"Accept it and be proud.  Know that there are a lot of people who love
you."

We talked for a while and decided he could go back to the island instead of
staying in the moral morass of Dad's making -- this was too much for him to
deal with alone.  My parents made a good home, and a divorce or other
complications would destroy the home where Babak had several more years
before college.  Didn't know how to tell Mom and Dad I wanted the boys with
me since I was an adopted brother and nothing more.  Then, I'd enjoyed Dad
since I was young and later; what did that make me?  I kept that to myself
not wanting to confound this situation further.

Assuring him he could continue his studies online; we called Dion and made
arrangements. During dinner I stared straight at my Dad and told him Azeem
was going to stay with Dion for a while to help him with some things.  I
believe he blushed while he grinned.  He and Mom agreed without much more
being said.

As I left Azeem at the airport, I promised I'd come and visit.  "Do your
best with your schoolwork, Dion will help."  He was smiling and eager to
get on the plane.

Dion was pleased to have Azeem with him, I got calls every night.  They
were volunteering at the camp.  Azeem was smart, he worked ahead in his
studies and they got the old cottage back in shape.  They painted the
inside with bright colors, got new furniture and installed a mosaic on the
floor in the bath.  Short-term rentals to tourists who wanted the simple
accommodations paid well for the cottage.

...

Two months later, I visited the island knowing that Dion was taking good
care of a boy whose hormones were in high-gear.  Dion was a measured man,
enlightened, thoughtful and exceptionally gentle.  Great example for Azeem.

In the grotto, I found that two of the older jids had passed, a few men
from the camp came.  Not as much fun as it was before, but a relaxing time.
Swam out and northward to the small beach and back again to find the grotto
empty but for Dion and Azeem.

In the dim light of evening, Azeem came to straddle my lap, and he kissed
me, "I want you for my dad."

"Is Dion being a good dad while I'm working?"

"Yeah, he teaches me all kinds of things, like he helped me get some
friends.  There're two boys in camp, they work with us.  Dion brings them
to the grotto sometimes."

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Not yet, but sometimes me and the boys jid on each other...."  He put my
hand on his groin.  His young cock was hard almost instantly as I fondled
his balls and stroked his shaft.  Dion came behind him, kneeling on a lower
step and pushed him toward my chest.

He kissed Azeem's neck, "Such a beautiful boy."

My hand stroked Azeem's cheek, "I love you."

Carefully and gently stroking his cock while Dion rubbed his ass, Azeem
tilted his head back and moaned.  "I want -- "

"Shhh, you'll want this in a moment."  The last few rays of the sun were
gone.  We were in darkness with only the warm currants gently lapping on
our bodies and the smell of the ocean engulfing us.  I pinched his rod,
"Don't cum yet."  He wouldn't last long with two men pleasuring him.

Didn't need to see anything.  Azeem's body tensed and he groaned, a groan
of discomfort jumped out of his throat with the next few sounds; Dion was
in.  My hand went behind Azeem's tight balls and I squeezed, then my
fingers explored further feeling Azeem's tight muscle stretched taut around
Dion's sizeable shaft.  I rubbed along his ass feeling the smooth muscle
around my lover's cock, then I grabbed Dion's balls and squeezed gently.

Half standing between my legs, Dion lifted himself to position his shaft
for deeper entry and captured the young body between us.  I grabbed Azeem
around his neck and pulled him close, whispering how much I loved him, how
strong he was, how much he had to be proud of as his rear became accustomed
to Dion's substantial intrusion.  The body I held against mine trembled and
quaked, our rigid dicks rubbed together in the tides the water slapped the
steps beside us in time with Dion's strokes.

Dion stood, taking the boy deeper, with harder thrusts, I could hear his
breath, he was ready to cum soon.  With my right hand I grabbed my dick and
Azeem's, holding them together, pulling gently, "I love you Azeem..."  Dion
grabbed the boy's hips and plowed deeper.  When I felt our dicks pulsing
out our cum, I moaned and my eyes stung with tears of relief and bliss.

A few jerks on my torso when Azeem felt Dion's release being pumped inside
him for several long moments while Dion kept himself as deeply as he could.
Then, Azeem collapsed on me.  Dion stayed behind Azeem, rubbing his ass,
calming the sting, fingering his cum from the boy, then came to sit beside
me and kiss Azeem's shoulder.  Can't say how long we stayed in the warm
water together kissing.

In the inky blackness of the grotto we gathered our strength.  After a few
stubbed toes, we found our way back up the stairs and showered, went
outside to dress in the light of a crescent moon, then felt our way along
the path with only the lights of distant cottages and the town to direct
our way.

Dion and I took the boy to bed with us where he softly explained about
being a gay man in different parts of the world and how to maneuver through
difficult situations to find himself a boyfriend.  The tone of Dion's voice
was soothing and calm.  Azeem stroked Dion's face and cuddled close to him.

Azeem didn't come home with me, he wanted to stay on the island with Dion.
I did, too.  Since he was doing well with his studies, I told him to check
on the universities and decide on a major, "Not long before you graduate."

...

When I thought I'd gotten my life in order, I was able to effect changes
more quickly at work and began receiving more responsible positions;
compensated well for my expertise.  There were changes I wanted to make
that would keep good staff.  Though it sounded extravagant, I worked out
the figures and suggested an anti-burnout program for the front-line
workers.  "We're careful with the humanity of refugees yet the seeming
hopelessness of the work drills into the spirits of our workers -- it
drains their humanity.  They abandon their jobs, use drugs, and some turn
to criminality.  Damn few make it to retirement, and those who do are
broken."

This struggle was difficult -- the old guard wanted outcomes, numbers.  No
one counted the lost refugees or workers.  I kept plugging and got a mental
health service available by phone or online.  Within the quarter the
service was overwhelmed with relief workers.  I began pushing for revamped
schedules, moving workers around in their same positions in different
camps.  Older, established camps had developed internal governance among
the residents, they had better control and a more hopeful perspective.  I
continued to fight for employee rights to a safe workplace.

As I visited different camps, I always sent photos and notes to Dion and
Azeem, Mom and Dad and Babak.  Mom seemed to be out with Babak often, and I
asked if he was alright.  "It's a surprise, you'll see when you get here."
I tried wheedling, but her mouth was shut.  We went to a piano recital to
see my Babak play the slow movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.
Bravo!

...

Azeem was ready for college when he was seventeen.  He chose to become an
English teacher - ESL for students in refugee camps.  He told them of
learning English in our cottage, and built hope that they would succeed.
Babak was a performer, not in a shiny bikini, but in a suit as a pianist.
He continuing his studies in Florida with a specialized instructor.

...

My life was working out well, money in the bank, white-haired, parents who
enjoyed raising two families. The boys went on to their studies and their
careers and I didn't wait to retire -- I moved back to the island to become
the camp coordinator there.  It was small, almost ready to close. That
helped me transition back to the peaceful life with Dion.

Swimming in the grotto is a very healthy practice.  Dion was in great shape
in every way.  He helped me write the story of the refugees coming to the
island for publication, then suggested I preface it with my experience in
the `Stans.  I did, though it was depressing, I finally wrangled it onto
the page and looked back to realize what I'd survived.  At twenty-one I'd
walked into a war and walked out the other side wounded yet found a way to
rebuild myself and my life.  Most didn't.

"You've done a lot to help me heal.  My Greek god, you don't know how much
you helped me."  I told Dion.

"Lover, I'm Diyan, not Dionysus, Greek now, but born in Syria.  I just took
the name Dion to fit in here."  He explained that he had a lover when he
was young.  Politics and society and the law weren't kind to gay men.  Sold
all he had and bought the small cabin where he lived after his family were
shamed publicly and moved.  Had to give up an excellent position in a
private school, his life destroyed.  Dion worked in one of the hotels on
the island for years.  "All the years alone...  I was a refugee until I met
you.  You looked as lost as I did when I first arrived."

"Refugees."  I thought.  When I came to the island, I wasn't comfortable in
my own body or my mind.  This man's gentle touches, his help, kind
nature...  I took him in my arms, "We were the lucky ones, we're home now."



Epilogue

Huge refugee camps on the mainland stayed open the next years; some became
towns as the war continued and moved through the regions.  Seemed there was
no end in sight -- civil unrest and tensions grew internationally.  Europe
was flooded with refugees and migrants.  My Azeem graduated early and began
working immediately, staying with Dion and I at least a week every several
months.  I demanded he come home to keep himself sane and healthy - at
times he appeared exhausted.  A few times he spilled his sorrows, and I
listened patiently; Dion gave him the affection and attention his eager
body needed.

Thought I might lose my boy.  Azeem was still the hard-headed boy with a
definite sense of what he expected from other people.  Perhaps I replaced
Babak in his life as I ordered special things for him, cooked his favorites
and did his mountains of laundry.  One weekend he arrived morose, sullen
and impatient with our slow lifestyle between the grotto, Dion's hutch and
the docks.  He always loved the island, I wondered what was on his mind.
He might be having problems with a lover...

After our grotto swim and shower, he was still aloof.  At home I asked what
was wrong.  Dion shook his head telling me to stop the interrogation but I
noticed he kept filling our wine glasses.

Quiet dinner that night; we went out to watch the sunset from the boulder
behind the hutch.  Retsina loosened Azeem's tongue.  Putting my arm around
him, sitting close, "What happened?"

He sputtered for a few moments then, "You don't love me.  No matter what I
do, you won't love me."  He stared toward the west.  Dion only looked away.

I was astounded, "I do love you..."

"Dion loves me more than you."  He turned his head away.  Dion went in the
house, leaving me to handle this alone.  "Why didn't you love me when I was
a boy?  Why won't you love me now?"

"You're asking why don't I jid on you and have sex with you?"  My boy had
plenty of sexual attention, "I feel like you're my son, and I, well, I
didn't turn out like my dad."

"You're my adopted brother, not my father.  We're not related."

"Do you remember when we first met and I tried to get you and Babak to go
into the tent, even offered you a Euro?"

"Yeah, you were the first worker who didn't try to force us.  I hated that
camp."

"You gave me a gift that day.  Maybe because of the way you took care of
Babak, you kept yourselves safe...  I hated that camp, too and I couldn't
leave you there."  This required honesty, and I took a deep breath, "Never
thought I'd be a father or even feel like one.  When we made a home
together you gave me that.  Surprising feeling and I liked it.  You and
Babak changed my life when you let me care for you -- and it was so easy.
Profound change in my life..."

We watched the moon rise together with the boulder still warm underneath
us, "I'm sorry about my dad's affections.  Must be confusing."

"I didn't tell him to stop.  He's a good lover."

"He is.  And, he confuses things, like relationships."

Azeem chuckled, "Dad says to get all the pleasure you can, life's too
short."

"Sounds like something Dad would say."  I thought for a moment, "He has no
sense of propriety."  I looked at the moon and remembered, "Don't call them
refugees, they're two boys living with a man who loves them."  Dad ignored
the rules and always brought things down to physical, sensual terms.

I recalled giving myself to him that night on the cot.  Looking toward tiny
lights on distant shores, I thought about all the people making love in
that very moment...  Bodies are all we have to express ourselves, through
the arts, through our actions and it all emanates from our physical bodies
-- all the music that had soothed me through the years, doctoring cuts and
scrapes and finally the intimacy I needed.  My wholeness had returned
through physical sensations, touch, sounds, wide vistas, warm tides in the
grotto.  Maybe Dad was right with his pleasure-seeking philosophy and maybe
I needed to redefine parenthood for the family that chose me.

"I loved you since I met you, I love you now."  Whispering, "Will you give
me another gift?"

Nodding, he leaned his head against my shoulder.  Hesitancy kept my words
inside my head.  I still felt like a father to him, and a father with
changed boundaries; softer edges, "Let's go talk to Dion, he loves us and
this might be difficult for me..."

"I'll make it easy."

He leaned closer to kiss me.  I could feel his warmth and feel his heart
beat strong and fast.  In the back of my mind, I sent a message of
gratitude to a grandfather who had loved my boys the way he did and sent
them on a long, hard road to me.



Fin


Jid, Jidded, Jidding
MCVT2017@gmail.com