Date: Thu, 14 Mar 2024 18:43:49 +0000
From: The Paternal Watcher <mfvb@protonmail.com>
Subject: Meeting for Worship: With Attention to James

Being a good Quaker can mean more than just showing up on Sundays for
worship. From time to time, I attend the sessions of our yearly meeting
to discuss business. These are generally multi-day affairs at a school or
camp, and it was at one of them that I met James.

Yearly meeting business can be tedious for young people, because it's
characterized not only bydebates on very minor points, but long periods
of silent worship. There are other activities which are design ed to keep
kids of various ages engaged while their parents attend to business;
otherwise, attendance would likely drop off for all age groups. I don't
get involved in the youth programming at all, although the little kids
who attend my monthly meeting all know and like me. I'm less a teacher
and more a fun uncle, which isn't what the people running youth programs
really need. Nevertheless, we all eat together and integration across
generations is encouraged.

I'd been sitting in on a committee meeting where the members were trying
to come up with different ways to get Quakers involved in promoting
peace, which historically is a big deal but lately can be a tough sell
because many people just don't have time to be activists. The coffee pot
is bottomless at these things, and by the time the meeting was over I
needed the bathroom badly. I walked into the men's room and was struck by
how very, very clean it was: the sinks and mirrors gleamed, and even the
paper towel dispenser and floor seemed to have a glow about them. Biology
called, though, and I hurried to the nearest booth.

Luck was with me: I managed to get through those horrible sounds no one
ever wants to hear before the door opened and I heard someone enter. They
walked towards the urinals, but not ALL the way over. I realized that
whoever was in the bathroom wasn't peeing, and peeked through that gap
between the stall and the wall to see if it was just someone preening.
All I could see was one hand, but it was past the row of sinks. In fact,
it was holding a pen and appeared to be writing on the hand dryer. How
odd, I thought to myself. Whoever it was either didn't know I was in
there, or didn't care. I could see that he was wearing a bracelet, one of
those woven hemp things, this one with two turquoise beads where it
fastened. The hand scrawled a few letters before hitting the button and
disappearing. Once the dryer finished its cycle, the bathroom was empty.

I flushed, dressed, and emerged to wash my hands. Approaching the hand
dryer I saw, written in a felt-tip pen with a juvenile scrawl, three
words:

In
Mouth
Hard

Someone's in a non-Quakerly mood, I thought to myself. Might be fun to
find out who that was. I guessed -- hoped, really -- that it was someone
young, but the only clue I had was the hemp bracelet I'd seen tied to the
offender's wrist. It was time for a little detective work.

Rather than return to the committee meeting, I went into the cafeteria
and sought out some coffee. I poured a cup and found a seat where I could
get a good view of the space. The bathrooms opened onto this space, as
did the wing with the youth activities and a door which led out to a
spacious courtyard. I hoped if I was attentive I could narrow down my
list of suspects.

It was actually quite a long shot, since all I had to go on was a
bracelet. Hemp bracelets tend to hide in sleeves, too. It actually was in
vain, but I didn't admit that to myself until it was lunchtime and I had
to get up anyway. I left a jacket at my seat, and when I returned several
others were already at the table eating. There was a mother with two kids
as well as three older people; the seat to one side of me was still
empty.

The mother was on my other side, her two children next to her. As I sat,
she chided, "James," as her boy reached out to grab the salt, which was
more than halfway across the table. "It's polite to ask someone to help
you."

What mattered most to me about the exchange, though, was that in
stretching, James exposed the hemp bracelet he wore upon his wrist, with
two turquoise beads where it fastened. Providence.

In a voice that was as lacking in enthusiasm as it was brimming with
nascent puberty, James said, "Would somebody please pass the salt?"

"Sure," I said. It wasn't really less of a stretch for me, but heck, I
wasn't her kid, and I went for it. "Here you go, James." Our hands -- and
our eyes -- made contact, and I gave a discrete eye-roll which earned me
a smile. That was our only interaction during the meal, for the boy ate
as quickly as decorum allowed and got excused to find as friends in short
order.

"I'm surprised you got him here," I said to Melissa, his mother. "Not a
lot of kids that old come to these things."

"Oh, I don't give him a choice," she said with a laugh. "James is
maturing quickly, but he's not ready to be alone just yet."

He certainly was mature enough in my mind, I thought to myself. "He
doesn't complain about being bored?" I asked.

"No, he's learned it doesn't do him much good," she said.

As we chatted, I formulated a plan to get to know this boy better in the
short time we'd be together. Once I excused myself I found some paper and
wrote a note: "IMH could be you; send me a signal and that's what I'll
do." Then I creased it into one of those triangle shapes school notes are
folded into, hoping it would attract his attention, and sought him out.

I spied him chatting with some slightly younger kids, who clearly adored
him, but in turn only bored him. As I watched from a distance, I noted
that he periodically shoved his left hand into his back pocket. That was
a habit I hoped to use to my advantage. I approached the group, note
palmed in one hand and the schedule held in both; I put a befuddled look
on my face.

"Hi again, James, sorry to interrupt," I began.

Recognizing me, he smiled. "It's okay, what's up Ben?" he asked.

"This place has me a little turned around. Can you point me to the
discernment session?" I pointed to it in the schedule. "I can't find this
room anywhere on the map."

"Oh, sure, let me see the map, I think I know where that is." I handed it
to him and studied it closely from over his shoulder. Meantime, I
surreptitiously slid the note into his pocket, which wasn't difficult
since the pants were doubtless as baggy as his mother would allow and
provided ample room. "Does that make sense?" he asked when he was
finished explaining.

I nodded. "It's a lot more clear now," I said. "Thanks!" It was a move
both weird and bold, since there was no telling if he was actually
interested or if he'd figure out a sign that would work. I didn't want to
spell it out because it was in writing.

Now, I had to wait to figure out just how bright -- and horny -- James
would turn out to be. It was a question of motive, means, and
opportunity, and that's exactly what was provided. I certainly helped, by
looking at the schedule and spotting an intergenerational worship session
coming up. First of all, I knew that young people like James were likely
to be involved and would thus give him opportunity, and secondly, the
format was usually something other than just silent worship, which might
afford him means.

The one thing I didn't know is if he had motive. Well, that and whether
my note would be too vague or not.

Intergenerational worship was being held in an auditorium, and I took a
seat about three rows back some 15 minutes before it was scheduled to
begin. James was among the several kids and adults on the stage, setting
lights and discussing lines for the skit they'd prepared. He waved an
acknowledgement to me, which was definitely a good sign.

About three minutes before the scheduled time, as preparations were
wrapping up, I watched discretely as James walked across the stage to the
stairs descending into the orchestra pit. About center stage he stopped
and stretched. His shirt lifted up as shirts (thankfully!) sometimes do.
That normally catches my eye, but it was especially interesting this
time, because written on the left side of his abdomen in thick lines
about an inch high were three letters.

IMH.

It was only visible for two or three seconds, but my stomach flipped when
I saw it. It was definitely a sign, a sign of good things to come. I
hesitated before trying to catch his eye, and missed my chance. How was I
going to take the next step? There were only a few hours left before
dinner, and the events afterward were largely social ones. I settled in
to consider as worship unfolded. Hormones, not planning, had fueled my
note, and now that we'd gone this far I needed to figure out my next
step. I prayed for inspiration, or a sign.

The next sign was James himself, at the end of the session. I noticed he
slipped out without his mother, and that he paused at the door to look
back as he did. I decided to follow, slipping through the milling people
and out the door in time to see him disappear around a corner. This led
to a large staircase that went up to levels I hadn't visited, because
there weren't any sessions scheduled upstairs at all. I heard the fire
door one floor above open and close, and I hurried to catch up.

"About time," said the boy's voice. The hallway was unlit, but daylight
streamed in the windows. James had slipped into a classroom, the door
propped open in invitation. I entered, kicking the doorstop out as I did.

"Time for what?" I asked as I walked up to him.

In response, he pulled up the shirt to expose the "IMH" there. "You
know," he said.

Putting my hand over the writing, I knelt down in front of him. "Life is
hard," I said.

"Tell me about it," James replied.

Sliding down the zipper now at eye level, I said, "Some problems are
bigger than others."

"What you gonna do?" he replied, pulling open the button. I tugged down
his pants.

"Friends help each other," I said, lightly running my fingers over and
around the front of his underpants. "Friend, do you need help?"

James knew what he needed, and it wasn't word games. He yanked down his
underpants and showed me his need.

"I don't think this problem is too big to handle," I said, and then
demonstrated my meaning.

This would be the moment when the character in a story screams out, or
moans, or cries "Fuck!" or something like that, but James is a good
Quaker boy. Instead, I just held James in the light. Okay, I also held
James in my mouth, where it fit like a key in a lock. James did release a
quiet sigh of satisfaction, a feeling that was reflected in my throat.
This definitely wasn't the first time I'd given this gift to a guy, but
with James it was as if the world made sense in a way it never had
before. I held him close, allowing me to work on him without bobbing. I
can isolate the muscles of my mouth and throat the way a belly dancer can
with the abdomen, and it gets results.

The boy lasted several minutes, during which I enjoyed listening to his
regular breathing--and trying to mess up the rhythm. For the most part,
that's all the information the kid gave me, but I don't mind when the
finale is a bit of a surprise. There's this quick thought of, wow, my
mouth sure is watering a lot all of a sudden, and then it's obviously not
your mouth watering. Since I had no reason to think that James was
interested in investigating his own semen, I just swallowed it down.

I caressed his balls as I released his spent youth. "How come all Quaker
weekends can't be like this?" he said with a satisfied sigh.

Looking up at James with a grin, I said, "Maybe you aren't worshiping in
all the right places." I kissed his softened dick, stood up, and left the
room with a smile. Another day, another new Friend.

____________________________________________________________________________

If you enjoyed the preceding work of fiction, please consider donating to
Nifty. Every dollar goes a long way.

I am delighted to be listed as a prolific net author; you can find a
current list of my Nifty contributions by visiting
https://www.nifty.org/nifty/authors.html#paternalwatcher.