Now Am I In Arden

A story by Ivor Sukwell and Kyle McKenzie. A story about a boy and a man with all that such entails. The setting is modern and based around the theatre. Not your thing? Sorry about that, we're sure you'll find something that is.  Whatever your choice, please remember Nifty needs your donations.

                                       Now Am I In Arden

                                                               Chapter twenty-two

 

 

 

 

 

Pre-opening Technicals went well and the Dress was a dream. Surely the spirit of Sweet Will was looking down and making all perfect on his magic Island.
And not just the play was perfect. My Brat had been more wonderful in bed than he had been for ages, seeming to have forgotten he was now only days from being seventeen.
I felt sure that his enthusiasm was down to him having discovered lust again, that he was now wonderfully familiar with every inch of Caramel Paul's young body.
They'd been inseparable for weeks now and I couldn't help hoping that inseparability had been carried to its logical conclusion.
Brat talked non-stop about how good Caramel Paul was, about how much he was sure I'd get to really like him, and about what good fun and company he was.

A few times I was tempted to tell him how happy I was that he'd found a boy, but decided that, as they'd have lots of time together without me around once the show was running, I'd let things take their course and give them my blessing when the time was right and my lovely Brat introduced Caramel Paul to me as his new boyfriend.

"So any last minute nerves?" I gave Rich another lingering kiss, naked as always in his bed and enjoying the calm before the storm of the run being in full flow.

"My nerves are fine," I allowed a hand to wander over my lovely Brat's naked and still utterly delightful body. I knew he wouldn't be my Brat for very much longer – Time had almost ticked its relentless way around the stars now. Caramel Paul was about to take his rightful place in my Brat's physical affections, and that was as it should be. 'Mine be thy love, and thy love's use his treasure', I misquoted to myself, and thought how blessed I had been by having both Brat's love and the treasure of his love's use as well.
How fortunate as well that there would be no tragic, dramatic ending, and that my wonderful boy would be able to slip into his almost adult life unhindered, and with a boy like Caramel Paul by his side and in his bed.
"No nerves," I repeated, "But a sense of near disbelief that all has gone so well, so smoothly. I truly think Sweet Will has blessed me."

I smiled, enjoying the feel of his hand on my thigh. He still loved that part of me, and I still didn't really understand why he found it so alluring, but the knowledge that it would soon be Paul's thighs he was stroking made me a little sad. I tried not to show it, of course; time had passed and our time had passed. Mr Williams and Paul needed to be together and I was determined to ensure that they were exactly that by the time the second performance was underway.
"I think he has," I smiled and gave him a soft kiss, nuzzling into his neck and trying to hold the memory of how this felt so I could enjoy it when I had been replaced by Paul.

Blessed I may have been in so many ways, but Fate never gives her all without a price, and, at breakfast time on the morning of opening night, Personnel phoned with an unpleasant bombshell.
Madam Delgard had, it seemed, told the Company that, as her establishment's term had ended, and that as Caramel Paul was employed by the Company, he was no longer her responsibility, so they now had to find somewhere for him to live, starting on Saturday, a mere two days' time.
"Leave it all to us," the lovely lady in Personnel said, "You've got other things to worry about."
That was true enough, and the biggest worry of all now was how mini Ariel was going to react when he heard the news!
Fortunately, Personnel were brilliant and had things sorted without the boy even knowing he had a problem, finding temporary digs for him with a couple who were long-standing theatre patrons and who offered to look after the boy until the Company and the local Council could make proper arrangements.

The First Night itself went perfectly, Caramel Paul and my wonderful Brat drawing laughs and even applause, and all without stealing the show.
Incredibly, the traditional after show party, an institution I always loathed and always left early because I knew the cast was always desperate to see the last of me, was, for once, something I quite looked forward to.

The toads were there for the sake of form, but for half an hour only, but mini Ariel, now no longer officially a toad, was allowed to stay for longer. Brat whispered to me that mini Ariel, Caramel Paul, wanted a private word, and I half-guessed that it was to say `thank-you', either for giving him that part in the show, or for helping to sort out his sudden living problem. Personnel had, I knew,  already spoken to him about that straight after House Lights went up.

To say I was astounded when he launched himself at me and tried to give me a huge hug would be to understate matters, and I just gave him a pat on the shoulder, muttered something about how well he'd done, and took him back to Jacob Brat.

"I think he needs a bit of comforting," I gave Brat a rather suggestive wink and left them to it.

I had a pretty good idea that my Brat had more than a slight acquaintance with Caramel Paul's physical charms, and now, with the boy on a post show high, was the perfect time for him to develop the physical into something deeper and longer lasting.

They were going to have the next five months of the Tempest's run together, and I had no doubts that, if my lovely Brat had any sense at all in his head, those five months would be just a starter.

 

"Oh, it has been amazing! Jacob has been so nice! Like when we first met I was scared cos he's a big star, but he's totally cool!"

I smiled as Paul gushed to the local reporter who had come to Shottery to interview us, Paul was still clearly on a post-show high after the Saturday matinee, the third and last of our `bedding in' performances. They'd all gone better than anyone had dared hope, and  Paul was way up in the clouds about the way things had gone.

"Paul's really talented," I chipped in as the reporter asked what it was like to be back on the stage, "And I always love working with Rich. I don't think there's anyone out there doing Shakespeare better than him at the moment."

Mr Williams would, of course, disagree in his usual contrary way, but he wasn't here so I decided he could take a bit of praise whether he wanted it or not.

The reporter gone, I poured a drink from the little bar Mr Williams had set up, popping a touch of vodka into Paul's orange juice. I remembered how the alcohol and nicotine and weed Mr Williams had given me long ago had turbo-charged my hormones and suspected that the same would be true for Paul.

"Loosen you up for later," I whispered with a wink. "Just remember what I said. With Mr Williams you've got to be really forward, so get him alone and really go for it with the dirty talk."

Paul looked mortified at the idea, but with a bit of encouragement I had got him to the point where he was up for trying to seduce Rich. Of course, Mr Williams did not need seducing, only convincing, and as soon as smutty Paul made himself available, Rich would be putty in the young boy's hands and my match-making task would be complete.

"As soon as he comes in," I encouraged, "Go and say you need to talk in private."

"But last time I tried he said I should come and see you!" Paul's uncertainty was urgent, clearly confused by Rich's reaction, and I sighed a little. Paul was still  innocent and didn't understand how to catch a man.

"He's just nervous. He really fancies you, thinks you have amazing legs. He's just frightened that because you're thirteen you won't be interested in him. All you have to do is try a bit harder, make it obvious you're available."

Paul didn't look convinced, but when Mr Williams came back he walked over to him anyway.

I felt a pang of jealousy as I watched him, trying not to focus too much on his backside. After Rich had sent him back to me at the First Night party we had enjoyed a lot of `private' time together, Paul learning how to make his cock feel good while sucking on mine, but I knew he needed a man and Rich needed a boy and I was determined that they should be together.

The first week went as well as I could have hoped for, the opening night on the Wednesday, followed by a Friday night and Saturday matinee, all running smoothly and disaster free.

Reviews were mixed, some feeling that the introduction of mini-Ariel and the resultant comedy detracted from the plot of the play, but, needless to say, those same reviews had little idea of what the plot actually was. One perceptive critic did dare to say that it was the first Tempest he had seen that made sense of the timeline of the play being the same as the actual performance time, but he was a lone voice.

The local paper did a sweet `human interest' story on Brat and young Caramel Paul, Brat sneaking in a comment on how good it was that a distinguished director was prepared to take the risk of putting someone as young as Paul on such a stage as Stratford and trust him to perform in front of a full house. I smiled to myself when I read that; Brat, I felt, was definitely falling for the boy just as I hoped he would.

With the show up and running there was no need for me to be in Stratford, but I had rented the cottage for the entire run as it would have been pointless expecting Brat to travel from Berkshire for performances, and, as I wanted to make the most of what time there was left for us to be together, I stayed there as well.

It also provided somewhere for Caramel Paul to spend his spare time as the Council was finding a foster home for him difficult to obtain. No-one seemed willing to take on a boy of such a clearly effeminate nature and cope with the late nights and long lie-ins he needed, so he stayed with the people Personnel had initially found. He was dropped off at the cottage each morning so he could spend his time with Brat, someone reasonably near his own age.

That, of course, fitted my plans perfectly; all I needed to do was to find excuses to leave them alone and allow adolescent hormones and nature to do the rest. Of course, that did mean I missed out on Brat time during the day, but I still had him to myself at nights.

Paul though, was something of a puzzle. Effeminate as he was, he was still more than an averagely attractive boy, and more than once I found myself regretting that he wore leg-concealing track-suit bottoms when he was around. He also seemed to have got the idea from somewhere that he needed to push himself onto me, and at times it seemed he was trying to flirt in a blatant and almost outrageous way.

"Save that for Brat," I said on more than one occasion, and even went as far as once saying `You know he can't keep his eyes off your bum," though I did say that with a smile and a wink and Paul blushed quite delightfully.

"But he doesn't want me!" Paul was lying on top of me, his smaller frame keeping me in place on the bed, and he whined as I ignored his attempt to restart the snogging.

"He does, babe, you've just got to lead him a bit." Paul looked annoyed and moaned that he had tried, and then pushed his mouth on mine, clearly hungry for more tongue.

I knew I should resist and send him back to Rich to try again, but the feel of his body, especially the small hard point in his trackies and the taste of his mouth was too much and I tongued him back hard.

Paul might be shy around groups of people but on his own he was pretty insatiable, and he pressed his body against mine as we kissed. Slipping a hand into his trackies I gave his bulge a squeeze and was rewarded with a buck of his hips as he started to hump, but it was too soon to make him cum and my fingers made their way round to his backside and tickled his hole.

"Want to play down here?" I liked teasing Paul when he was excited and was rewarded with a frustrated whine and a beg for me to finger him.

After a few minutes of him sucking on my digits they were back at his entrance and I locked mouths with him again as the first made its way inside.

That part of my plan was working perfectly, I had no doubts about that. Caramel Paul had a glow about him when he'd spent some alone time with Brat that, even to only-Brat-experienced me, proclaimed loud and clear that alone time meant clothes off time.

That my wonderful Brat was lustfully indulging in thirteen year old caramel boy flesh was something that made me glow as much as it did Paul. I loved Brat, and I knew he felt the same about me, but love and lust are different things. Brat and I had had our lust time together, but lust had faded with the passing of time though the love remained as strong as ever. Brat, though seventeen now, still needed to have lust in his life, his hormones demanded it and, because I loved him I was determined he should have what he needed and be happy that he was.

Caramel Paul didn't excite lust in me, perhaps because inside, I was still frightened of boys, of liking boys. Brat had dragged me into understanding that, that I had spent forty years of my life denying and hiding from my own desires, but Brat was different, Brat was special. Brat had come into my life, removed his clothes, and his nakedness had burst the dam of my fears. But that dam had been rebuilt even as it burst, and the flood that carried Brat and me into love and lust did not bring open desire for any other boy or boys with it. Yes, I now could admire boys from a distance, but from a distance only because I knew admiration would bring lust with it, and to lust for boys was dangerous and I had no wish to exchange the comforts of Arden House for a prison cell.

 I did wish, though, that now it was summer, Caramel Paul would return to wearing those tiny shorts and dispense with those horrible, leg-concealing track suit bottoms.

"He's a sweet lad," I mentioned to Brat one evening after Paul had returned to his lodgings, "And I'm really happy you two are getting it together; but I do wish he'd go back to those shorts again and let me have a dribble or two over his lovely legs."

"He would let you dribble to your heart's content if only you'd let him."

I gave Rich a lingering kiss to cover my jealousy, wishing, as ever, it was my thighs he wanted to dribble over.

He still loved me, I couldn't doubt that, but knowing he lusted after Paul as he had once lusted after me meant at least he wouldn't be alone when our time together was finally at an end.

"I can ask him to wear them if you like," I teased, "As a special favour to you." I tried to make it sound like I was the one who really wanted Paul to wear those shorts, and, I suppose, in a way I was.
One thing I had learned about Richard Williams was that you couldn't just force him to do something. I had to make it seem like I was the one who really wanted Paul, knowing the sight of him in those tiny shorts would make sure that Rich would, when the time came, make him his new boy.              

"Best not," I smiled, enjoying the lingering taste of my lovely Brat's lips, "If you did, he'd be bound to be thinking there was a casting couch somewhere and I had a part lined up for him."

In truth, I did increasingly find the Caramel boy had a distinct appeal, and even though it was my scheming that had got him in Brat's bed, I did feel twinges of regret that Brat knew what was inside those shorts and I did not.

"You just concentrate on keeping him happy; the show's got months to run and it must be just as good and fresh in October as it is now."

In my heart I knew October would not only see the final curtain come down on the run of the Tempest, it would come down on my time with Brat as well.

I knew he would not transfer to London for the winter season; six months is a long time for a boy of seventeen, and Brat would be longing to do something new.

It would be a fitting end though, bitter-sweet in a way, but Brat would have done Shakespeare at Stratford and I would have done the Tempest as I was certain Sweet Will had meant it to be done.   

I felt no anger, no bitterness that our time was almost done. A sadness that those horses of the night had not stayed still, but Brat had given me his love and his youth, and, for near four years the world had been, for me, a place of wonder that it could never have been had not my wonderful boy entered it.

The love would stay, remain with me till my time ended, but my lovely Brat's youth was almost over. He was ready to be a man now, to shape the world as he wanted to shape it and, however much I wanted him to stay a boy, I could not deny him his future.
My consolation, and my pride, was that I had helped him to see his talent, understand it and waste it not.

What more reward could any man ask for?            

"But he doesn't want me!" Paul pouted as I cuddled him into my chest and I suppressed a smirk. Paul was becoming more `teenage' by the day, including having little sulks if he didn't get his own way. I supposed I must have done the same when I was his age, but still found his petulance amusing.

"He does, babe, you just need to try harder," Paul scowled and I tried to start a snog to cheer him up.

"He really doesn't," Paul's cock had become instantly hard as we tongued and I stroked it gently, feeling it twitch under my touch.

"If I do something special for you, babe, will you try again?" Paul had been pestering me to take his virginity, and while I wasn't totally sure he was ready, I wondered if losing it might give him the confidence he needed to ensnare Rich.

Summer was hot, hot enough for Mini-Ariel to leave his horrible track suit bottoms where they belonged, which was anywhere that wasn't on his body. He was five months older now than when I had first set eyes on him, a little taller, his legs longer and with a bit more shape to them. `If you were mine,' I couldn't help thinking, `I'd let you wear those shorts but burn all your underwear.' Not a thought I should have, I know, but he really was developing very nice legs.

There was a difference about him now, more confidence, and I couldn't help thinking that my lovely Brat had not made him wait, certainly not the two long, frustrating years as I, in my foolish ignorance, had made poor Brat wait.

I smiled to myself, both happy and sad that my lovely boy had found an outlet for his lust, a lust he no longer had for me.

Late August, seven weeks of my time with Brat left, seven weeks to kiss and cuddle him, seven weeks to feel the glory of his body, still a delight if not now the same delight as it had once been. Brat was on the way towards eighteen, not fourteen anymore.

"You won't be going to London, will you," I said one evening as September dawned, "It'll be a different show there anyway, and I've no doubt you're thinking of other things, things that pay better than Shakespeare."       

"Are you angry?" I knew he wouldn't be, sad maybe, and not following the show with him to London felt like a betrayal. "It's just I've been offered stuff. Malcolm Garcia wants me for his new film. They say he might finally win an Oscar this time." A leading role in a film by a famous director was a big deal, and while my agent told me I could think about it for a while, she had also made it clear that they wouldn't wait forever for my decision.

Still, I had been putting off the act of telling Rich the news for as long as possible. "It's got a great script," I told him, trying to convince him more than myself, "He's remaking `For Whom the Bell Tolls' and they want me for the lead.

"Of course I'm not angry," I gave his thigh a squeeze, "You won't be the only one not going there. It won't be the same show and I won't be doing it either. Goes to an assistant director to sort out, not me. My Tempest, our Tempest is this one, not any other. And anyway," I put an arm round his shoulder, "I've taken you about as far as I can now, time for you to do your own thing, be in things you want to be in."     

My eyes prickled as I held him tight. This wasn't a `farewell' but it was the first letter of that hateful word and we both knew that.

September brought with it an icy blast that threatened to destroy the rose-tinted vision of the future I thought I had created for my Brat. In that vision he had gone to California, and with him had gone the Caramel boy, a boy he could share his lust with, a boy he could love and mentor as I had done him. It was a sun soaked vision and never a cloud in sight, but it was a vision that took no heed of reality.

Caramel Paul was a boy of thirteen in the care of a Local Authority; he needed a foster home and he had to go to school. He was not a free spirit able to head for California, hand in hand with Brat. That reality came to me when I opened a letter the Council had sent to me, a letter from Child Services. They wished to talk with me about the boy's future, a placement and a school for him, a school he could be registered with in the next week, two weeks at the latest. California with Brat was no longer an option.

The insubstantial pageant of my vision crashed in ruins around me.

Numbly I showed Brat the letter. "My dream was for you two to be together," I muttered. "Now I don't know what to do."

"But how could he come with me?" I was utterly baffled by how Rich could have even come up with the idea, clearly my leaving had upset him more than he'd let on!

"I'll be living on my own out there, Rich," I told him gently. "Mum might come out for a bit, but there's no way a kid could come and live with me."

 I looked at his sad eyes and was worried that without me he would regress to his old, lonely self. Part of me wanted to stay and make sure that didn't happen, but in my heart I knew that was not an option. "Why don't you take him, Rich?" I smiled at him reassuringly, putting of a hand on his arm.

"Not a possibility," I put a hand over his as it rested on my arm. "I'm selling Arden House, going somewhere like Italy. I can't stay living there without you, too many memories. I'd drown myself in a malt bottle. Oh, I'll hang onto the memories, no worries about that, but I couldn't face sleeping there alone and cooking breakfast for one."

I knew my eyes were wet, my voice not properly under control, but I had to say what had to be said. "I love you, Brat," I tried to smile. "Always will."

 

"I understand your problem," I said to the really quite nice man from Child Services, "But I don't see how I can help. I appreciate that the boy needs a sympathetic placement and that an ordinary school would be no good for him at all, but I really don't see how I can help. I'm a single man, not what you're looking for as a foster parent. I also know nothing at all about musical theatre, which is what I believe the boy has some small talent for, so I can't see how I can be of any help at all. And," I said by way of a concluder, "I'm moving to Italy soon anyway."

That didn't seem to make the slightest difference. Italy, the man said, was part of the E.U. and we still just about were, so of course I could move there and take the boy with me. All I'd need to do was find a tutor for him and they'd pay the fees.

"All they want," I said to Brat, `Is to get the boy off their hands because they don't know what to do with him. And it's not as if he even likes me or anything. He'd be at a total loss living with me."

`He's okay I suppose." Paul sounded far from convinced as I tried once more to extol the virtues of Mr Williams. We were naked in bed, his head resting on my chest as mine used to rest on Rich's, and I stroked his back reassuringly.

"He's nice underneath, you just need to get to know him better," Paul smirked, getting the hidden meaning in my words and I ran a finger through his hair.

"Are you really going to be in a movie in America?" Paul made it sound like I was flying to the moon, and I suppose his idea of making a film with a famous director was equally fantastic to him.

"Yeah, going to go over as soon as this run is over," I confided in him, feeling a bit guilty as I did so. I still hadn't told Rich, but I knew I had put off breaking the news to him of my final decision as long as possible.

I'd made my decision and nothing would change it now. A buyer had been found for Arden House, and though it would hurt almost as much to leave there as it was going to hurt when Brat left, I knew it was the right thing to do. Even Sis agreed with me, saying in her kind and gentle way that I'd be reduced to pints of supermarket blended grain if I stayed there. Italy would do me good, she said, be a hell of a job getting Dalwithie there, so unless I developed a taste for Italian fire water I may even stay sober.

Staying sober was, I knew, going to be hard. Brat would be in my mind all the time; memories of evenings with him on my lap, sharing a joint and stroking his thighs would fill me with longing for time past.

"Find a curly haired Italian boy," Sis said, "Be plenty around to pick from."

`Oh that I could!' I thought. Brat had made me understand that I liked boys, I could no longer hide from that as I had hidden for so many years before Brat came to me, but I knew as well that I didn't have the courage to go out and find one, and, even if I had, I could never betray Brat by doing that.

Into September now, and the show had only sixteen performances left. Normally, once a show is bedded in the Director leaves it alone, doesn't usually go anywhere near the theatre, but I had an urge to see it before the final night when I would put in a traditional appearance to thank the cast for their efforts, a `thank-you' that almost always came reluctantly through clenched teeth.

I should have been outraged by what I saw! Yes, I know actors frequently introduce little modifications, small bits of business or a slight change to a blocking or two as they find something that seems to work better, but what I saw was more than a minor adjustment! Ariel and mini-Ariel sang the Ariel songs as a duet! One line each, and without he slightest pause between them, in perfect harmony!

I knew Brat could sing passably well, but Caramel Paul outshone him by miles! The underlying meaning, for those in the House who had any real idea what was going on, was as plain as a pike staff. Mini-Ariel couldn't yet fly, he could only spark and sputter where Ariel bloomed into flame, but in one aspect the apprentice had overtaken the master; the Magic Island would be in safe hands when Ariel's time was done.

I wanted to be angry, should have been angry and tried to be angry when I confronted Brat about it when the House lights were up.

"Yeah, I know," Brat said. "It was Paul's idea. We did it for a laugh in the Green Room before the matinee the other day and all the guys said we should do it in the show that afternoon. Only a matinee, so it didn't really matter if it didn't work."

"It worked," I admitted, thinking that perhaps, just perhaps, limp-wristed, effeminate Caramel Paul had a bit more to him than I had given him credit for.

"He's a really good singer, we would be crazy not to use it." Rich gave me one of his looks at the `we',  moments like this he was the Director and I was just another fumbling actor mangling his sweet bard's work by going outside his decisions.

"He just needs someone to encourage him, he could be really good if he was given the chance." I gave Rich my own pointed look, hoping he would, for once, take the hint.

"Once a show is running," I carefully gave Brat a lesson in the proper etiquette of such things, "It belongs to the actors, though a change like the one you have made should have had an assistant director's approval. I do, however, agree that the boy has a voice, though it hasn't broken yet, so next week he may not have. `Really good'? I don't know, but I do think, if he has a future at all, it will be in those dreadful things called musicals.

If you took him with you, I'm sure your agent could find a `Joseph' or a `Glums' somewhere he could get a minor part in."

I wasn't being realistic, and I knew it. Brat was out, doing his thing on stage and I was in Shottery, doing my thing with a bottle of Laphroaig, but instead of drowning unwanted thoughts, the peaty, smoky, pale malt was doing the exact opposite.
Brat could not take Caramel Paul with him, couldn't even if he'd wanted to. A thirteen year old homeless boy wouldn't get near getting a visa, so my plan of them being together had never been in with a chance of becoming a reality. Not that it mattered, I thought as I glugged more malt, and though the malt was pale, my thoughts were darker.
I'd had dreams of providing Brat with a boy he could have to satisfy his lusts, a boy for sex. That was foolish, foolish and unnecessary; California would be packed with boys desperate to lose their virginities to a young star like Brat. If he needed sex, a boy to indulge himself with, all he'd need to do was snap his fingers and he'd have dozens lined up for him to pick from.

I wouldn't.

I'd be alone with a malt bottle.

I didn't have to be alone. I could have Caramel Paul with me. The Council still wanted me to take him. Didn't they have any idea of what they were doing? Trying to get me to take a thirteen year old boy? Shouldn't that have been the last thing they should want to do? Didn't they understand that Caramel Paul had lovely legs or did they think he was still a toad?
He wasn't a toad any more, he was a freshly emerged boy, a boy of thirteen with long, slender, smooth and delightful legs.

I poured another malt; I shouldn't be thinking of long, slender, smooth, caramel thighs; thighs I'd long to reach for and stroke if he was near me day after day. Thighs I'd long to stroke and kiss and be far too terrified to touch. Thighs that would drive me to more and more malt, and however hard it was to get decent malt in Italy, it would be far, far easier to lay my hands on than those long, smooth, slender, caramel thighs.

It was all Brat's fault! If he hadn't appeared on my doorstep, taken off his clothes and forced me to understand that I was terrified of boys because I wanted a boy, wanted sex with a boy; if he hadn't shown me how wonderful it was to have sex with a boy I wouldn't be drowning sorrows in malt now.
I would, of course, but I wouldn't have known exactly what those sorrows were!

Why did Brat have to grow up? Why couldn't he stay fourteen?

I wasn't sober when Brat came home, and, because I wasn't sober, I told him why I wasn't sober. Told him everything, and forgot to pretend that I didn't care that I was going to be boyless in Italy.