Date: 10 May 2000 10:21:33 -0700
From: poondu@members.gayweb.com
Subject: Sheriff's Boy

                    Sheriff's Boy's Ranch Boy

            by Thole <poondu@members.gayweb.com>

Several miles east of where I camped last night way deep in the
southeast corner of Alabama is the Sheriff's Boy's Ranch--lots of
states have them. Sometimes its a cattle baron who collects cows,
other places it's the sheriff collecting boys.

It was late afternoon along the county road, I was off to my usual
late start from the camp, after laundry and shower, washing windows,
writing letters, and checking the oil. The sun was at a low angle
behind me and the road was well illuminated in high relief; I was
headed for the free beaches of Florida and maybe a Rainbow gathering
in the Ocala forest if I could find it in time.

CR 32 through these low rolling hills is a smooth road, two narrow
lanes, not much shoulder rolls off into deep weed choked drainage
beyond which thick vines make almost a wall of the swampy forest
between the hills. Wherever the land is firm enough there are homes
and barns; horse pasture alternates with small plots of crop land,
fallow at this time of year. Its winter by the calendar but the
weather has been spring like, leaning toward summer.

The sign on the south side of the road said Alabama Boy's Ranch. I
read that much for sure but then immediately scanned for boys--next
to cats, my favourite animals--so I missed the next line, something
about somesuch unit. There was a corral and some colourful playground
equipment, several frame houses nestled back against the far side of
the clearing. The road at that point was through a shallow cut I was
not able to see over and beyond it dropped into shadow. As my bus
passed through the transition between cut and whatever it is road
builders call the build up where they put the earth removed from a
cut I strained to look back into the compound.

When my attention returned to the road an instant later it was
attracted by movement in the shadows ahead. Something ran from the
wall of forest into the shallow drainage. Deer? It was too big to
have been armadillo or skunk. The thought of human never crossed my
mind. But I slowed in any case. A deer would wreak havoc on the
bicycles racked on the front of the old bus. Deer have a bad habit of
waiting by the side of the road until it is too late for you to stop
and then they jump out onto the pavement, as if to play chicken. I
slowed.

What jumped up from the ditch tho was not a deer but a boy. Wet,
bedraggled, arm waving, filthy, but no doubt a boy. In an instant any
of several fantasies unwound behind my eyes and I slowed further. The
boy had chosen well--there was no traffic, it was dusk, hounds would
not be able to track him in the swamp. He grabbed at the handles and
swung up inside as I rolled past. I was not sure I would have stopped
but the door was unlocked and now it didn't matter. I had a
passenger.

--Don't stop, he begged. Please, just keep going.


-----------


He sat in the stairwell and dripped muddy water. As I accelerated
away from his nemisis he peeled off layers of mud and leaves from his
torso and made a pile of debris at his bare feet. The lad was naked!
But for a silver chain round his neck he had not a stitch on!

We continued along in silence for a few moments, a few miles, until I
realised he was asleep--huddled over, arms around knees, slouched
against the side of the stairwell, head down, water from his long
matted dirty hair dripping down his back and legs streaking the
remaining ochre mud--asleep.

At the next four-way stop I set the brake and quickly retrieved a
large towel to cover him where he sat. He didn't stir. Miles more
went by. When I began this leg of my journey I was not sure how far
I'd drive but now it seemed imperative I go as far as I could: out of
Alabama at least.

The road around and about and through Pensacola would have been hard
enough in the daylight; what with the dark, tight corners, and a
constant concern about how much of an effort a southeast Alabama
sheriff might mount to recover one dirty young boy, that road became
arduous to say the least. The kid continued to sleep through all the
corners and stoplights but it was not until well past midnight that I
stopped in a rest area along the coast. There would be a fine beach
here in the morning. I left the lad a light on and a basin of warm
water with a washcloth and a note: Come to bed when you're clean
and dry.

In the morning I woke to a bed still all to myself and after a pee
and a flush I looked in the stairwell. The basin of water was cold
and the boy was still there. His hair, long and matted with dirt, was
dry; I wondered what it would be like to run my fingers through it
clean. He had lain back, his head was pillowed in one arm whilst his
other hand, thumb hooked over a fine upstanding penis, was in his
crotch. His skin, still largely caked with the reddish-orange mud,
was brown, but his hair seemed too light to go along with it. He was
well formed, pubescent or pre- I couldn't tell for sure. Young in any
case, tho older than the boy I'd left behind a few states to the
west.

I thought to wake him and get him cleaned up, see what he really
looked like. I eagerly anticipated his storey--how did a naked boy
come to be sleeping in my stairwell--but for now it was enough that I
was not dreaming. Waking him might result in a fright; if he was that
tired let him sleep. There were other ways.

In the galley I started to perk coffee and slowly fry bacon. Those
two odours are just about guaranteed to wake any young lad, hungry or
not, and by now I suspected this one should be ravenous. Bingo! The
coffee was near ready when I heard him stir. --Where are we? he
asked.

--On a free beach in Florida, I said. Take a quick run to the ocean
and wash off all that mud and I'll ready a warm rinse and a mug of
hot coffee for your return.

He seemed not to bat an eye about running naked across the sand, nor
about the certainty of cold surf awaiting him, but dashed out of
sight beyond the dunes in a trice. I fetched him a clean towel and
readied the sun shower outside. At this hour of the morning little
traffic was to be expected and besides, this was a so-called free
beach, nudity was ok, especially with children, tho perhaps we were
at risk this close to the street. But the bus blocked that view once
you were close enough in to her side. He came running back now,
sparkling in the morning sun and I held the shower head for him as he
danced about.

--Man that feels so good. Thanks for picking me up last night. Do you
have any clothes I can have? How far can I ride with you? Where are
you going? Are the cops looking for me? How come you're naked?

--Well, let's see if we can take all those questions one at a time,
eh? But first we need to get a bit better acquainted.

We exchanged names at least and I told him I was nude cos he was but
more so cos I like to be that way whenever I can and this beach was
one of the best places I knew of to be that way. Besides you don't
need clothing, your skysuit is beautiful, why cover it.

--You're not after my sex are you? he asked bluntly.

--Not really after it but if you offer it I will gratefully receive.
But let us let that wait until after we breakfast and talk of what's
next. We need to know a little more about each other before we travel
much more together.

--You're not like the others, back there, he said.

With the dirt off he was no less handsome, even more attractive and
beguiling; after he was dry I ministered to his scratches with bag
balm and watched entranced as his penis responded. At one point he
started to cry--from a mixture of happiness and fear perhaps--I
hugged him and kissed his forehead. We refilled the sunshower and set
it out to warm again and then went inside to fried eggs and bacon.
Tomato and shrooms and potato too. Not to mention coffee and banana
bread.

Once he started talking he went on and on. The boy's brown skin and
light hair were the mix of a mulatto complicated by oriental eyes. A
strange combination. He'd been involved in a sexual relationship with
his best friend a year ago, a relationship gone sour when the boys
were caught with their pants down so to speak, flagrante delicto, in
their treehouse by a neighbor spying on them. The friend, a boy
younger by a year, renounced him and so this boy, not yet a young
man, was condemned to the care of the sheriff for corrupting a minor.

Been there-done that-got the t-shirt I thought as his storey went on.
Being of mixed breed did not do him well at the ranch. He was not
black nor white, nor indian, or spanish, or whatever, and there
weren't any other slant-eyes to stand up for him. He fought off those
he could and succumbed to those he couldn't until he finally sorted
out that his sanity, maybe even his survival, depended upon his
running away.

I set him to washing the dishes whilst I wrote some letters and found
some things we could take out to the beach. It was mid morning, warm
and sunny, when we were ready to go for a walk and fly a kite. We had
the whole ocean to ourselves and all the air for our kites. Running
up and down, playing tag with the waves, and finally, laying in the
warm sand just listening to the surf. Then he started talking again.

--My friends name is Peter, he said. Imagine me, eleven years old
then, holding hands with a boy. We use to giggle at the girls at
school when they were holding hands at the bus stop and then him and
me we would go off into the woods and do the same thing, and more. I
used to wonder--were we the only ones? We used to sleep over at each
other's house. We would undress each other and sleep nude in the same
bed. I don't remember, really, who did it first; which of us touched
the other first. It was stuff that just seemed like we should do so
we did. I don't know if our parents ever knew anything. They didn't
seem to mind when we showered together. We often ran around my house
with nothing on. Then last summer we built that tree house.

--You should write your storey, I told him, writing clears the mind.
Just write it all out, don't worry about getting it in order, or
spelling correctly, or anything like that; you can always polish it
later if you want. Just write. Write it all. Do you prefer computer
or paper?

We started to walk back to the bus, the kites following along
overhead at the end of the strings we carried.

--Can I hold your hand? he asked.

--Sure.


--------



Next on the agenda had to be what to do beyond that morning. I
couldn't leave him naked on the beach. Firstly, I suggested, we
should cut your hair. It will be a shame to do that, I love long hair
on a comely boy, but it will grow back, and maybe we will be
travelling together long enough for me to see that. And we should
maybe dye it black and get you some sunglasses. That will change your
appearance enough to get past any casual observer if there are
missing kid posters out. There are plenty of shorts and t-shirts
aboard so we've no need to shop for clothes.

The road goes ever on and on, from one beach to the next. We drove
and drove and talked and talked. He was a different boy now with his
hair short and black but we both stayed nude most all day. More often
than not, it seemed, he was erect but no longer seemed as
embarrassed.

--My friend's name is Kevin, same as yours, I told him as we cruised
along between truck stops, and we did all the same things you spoke
of doing with Peter. Boys are like that, have been for a long, long
time; you and Peter are not the only boys to love one another. Me and
Kevin used to play together just the same. Wrestle, suck, lick, rub.
Kevin was kind of strange in some ways; he would only suck me in the
shower, on his knees while I held his head, and he would only let me
suck him when he was laying down. We would ride our bikes along the
streets, nothing on but t-shirts, holding hands. He liked to sleep
laying on top of me, his head between my shoulders, his erection
plugged into my butt crack--he wasn't big enough to actually
penetrate but he always tried.

--You miss him a lot, don't you? Why did you leave him?

--For many of the same reasons you got thrown to the sheriff. A nosy
neighbor, a jealous father, I don't know for sure. But I caught wind
of the upset and left town. It was hard to do, emotionally, and I
still don't know if the kid hates me now or if it was he who said
anything to start with. Its hard to ask questions like that when you
are not sure who's listening or who's reading the mail. Maybe I don't
really want to know.

--My friend and your friend. Its the same storey, isn't it?

--Same storey. We share a love as old as history but for all its
strength, or maybe because of that strength, most people are afraid
of it. Its not normal they say and so they brand it evil. Too many
folks believe it is better kids should share drugs and violence than
to love one another.

-----------------

--That's the way it was at my school. We weren't even allowed to hug
our goalie on our soccer team. You could get kicked out of the game
for what they called inappropriate behaviour--but it was only a
penalty if you punched somebody. Peter got so he was even afraid to
hug his mom; that's when we started going out in the woods together.
It was the only place we could go and be safe. We knew some kids
doing drugs but I told him we could get high on each other. We built
the treehouse out there when I was 12. It was only a little ways out
behind my house and at first it was pretty much alone. The woods were
thick in the summer we built it. But some developer came and cleared
some trees for a new house and that old witch next door started
spying on us. One day me 'n' Peter were naked up in the treehouse,
we'd been 69'n on the floor, and then we went out and climbed higher
in the tree. I remember thinking how beautiful he was with the late
afternoon sun shining golden on his butt. We did some things up there
until it was near dark and then we came down and went back to my
house. That's when the shit hit the fan.

That lady had watched us with a spy glass when we were climbing
around naked in the tree. She called my folks who told her boys will
be boys, not to worry they'll out grow it. But she was mean so she
called my friend's parents and they were not so cool. Then she called
the cops and that made a big scene. Peter told everyone I made him do
it, the things that woman said she saw, but I could tell it was his
parents that made him say it.

So then the sheriff took me to the ranch, said if I was that kind of
a boy I'd get my fill of it there.

The first thing was to strip and shower. They made me leave my
clothes on the floor, said they wouldn't fit me any more by the time
I got out. How can they do that? I mean I didn't even have a trial or
anything. Then they gave me some orange ranch clothes, a jumpsuit--
jump in and jump out, and some old sneakers. No socks, no underwear.
That first night I didn't want to undress for bed. That was when the
other kids did it, and the next day too.

I been there for months now... that was the end of summer now its
almost spring.

I been sorting things out for all that time how to get out of there.
Running away was my birthday present to myself.

I went the other way first and left my jumpsuit a mile up the road so
maybe they'll think I went that way. My sneakers too.

Then I worked my way back through the drainage ditches to where you
found me. I'm really glad it was you.

------------

Three days later he is still writing. When he is not sitting up front
with me as we drive he is back at the computer typing his way through
a very difficult storey. He hasn't had anything on since he crawled
out of the swamp. Sometimes when I am watching him, writing or just
sitting beside me, he will be erect and I want ever so much to reach
over and help him with it. But no, not till he offers.

--I rather like being naked now, he said when we stopped on a gravel
road in the Ocala National Forest. At first, when they tore off my
clothes at the ranch I was ashamed. Then I thought about all the
times I was naked with Peter and then I was only angry. And what they
did to me, the same things me and Peter did, but different. We did
_with_ each other--maybe we really loved each other, I don't know--
but they only did _to_ me. Tore off my clothes, tied me to a bed with
a dirty rag stuffed in my mouth.

--Let's go for a walk.

We held hands again and walked a few miles on sandy forest roads. Hot
and sweaty by the time we got back to the bus we took turns giving
each other a rinse with the sun shower. Up until now he had been
careful to keep to his side of the bed and I had been careful to not
invade his space. But now he was getting more comfortable, not only
to allow himself to touch me but more importantly, to allow me to
touch him. And to allow himself to enjoy the inevitable response my
touch produced in him.

--When you touch me like that I miss Peter like you talk about how
you miss your Kevin. Do you think Peter misses me? Do you think I
will ever see him again? Will you ever see Kevin again?

--I don't know the answers to any of that. Maybe someday I will go
back there and look for Kevin. I want to believe that Peter will wait
for you and that Kevin will wait for me, but I don't know.

--Well, in the meantime, he said as we got back in the bus, since
we're both missing our best friends maybe we can play with each
other. Where are we gonna go next?

-----------

We drove out of the forest and headed west for a nudist place in
central Florida; not much more than a trailer park with a subdivision
attached, but everyone there lived sans clothes. Except when they had
to go out shopping. Even the cook at the short order grill was nude.
Kevin was impressed and tho he'd been a little leary of getting out
of the bus with nothing on he was instantly at ease when he saw the
nude cook.

I had some writing to do and phone calls to make so I set him to
exploring and then doing a laundry. That night we slept closer and
got better acquainted by telling each other more of our own histories
but I still did not touch him more than to muss his hair and to hug
him when he let me.

That weekend marked the beginning of the local schools' spring break
and suddenly, friday evening, there appeared a passel of kids as if
in answer to his wish that there would be more boys around for him to
play with. Kevin went out to mix with them; they played seek and hide
and he returned glowing with exhuberance and covered with dust. We
went for a shower and that turned into a party of its own with the
several other boys he had just been playing with all there splashing
and groping and eventually washing each other.

On saturday there were lots of kids around playing volley ball,
playing in the pool, just general roughhousing on the sandy beach. He
played hard with the others and took a lot of sun.

That evening part way through the campfire he got a hot marshmallow
tangled in his hair when he couldn't find his mouth. He was tired and
fell asleep in the dirt by the fire.

Later another boy, older, late teens, helped me carry him to the
shower, helped me wash him. We were all aroused before he was clean
enough to take to bed. The other boy helped me carry him back to the
motorhome. He said that I was really lucky to have such a fine young
boy as a travelling companion, he told me he regretted not having a
friend such as I during the prime of his boyhood.

We lay'd Kevin on the floor of the stairwell and the older boy left
with goodnights and thankyous. I went back to put water on to heat
for my sleepytime tea and turn down the bed clothes. When I returned
forward Kevin was awake and sitting up.

--That boy really wanted to suck me. I could tell the way he washed
me that he wanted more. Now I wish he had.

I extended a hand and invited him to stand and when he did I hugged
him close. He was still erect of penis.

--Would you like me to pick up where he left off?

--Ya, I guess I'm ready now.

We had tea and then retired to the bed where I gave the lad a
thorough rub down with warm lotion. He stayed awake for a while but
was asleep by the time I finished. I let him be whilst I cleaned up
the galley and brushed my teeth and when I returned he was still
laying on his back but detumescent. I knelt over him and picked him
up with my lips, like drawing in a long strand of spaghetti. He
swelled up in my mouth as I kneaded his balls and sucked him hard
until I drank of his fountain of youth and grew sleepy myself.

In the night I felt him move around and settle in a 69 position but
if he did any more than that I know not. I doubt it, we were both
pretty tired.

The next morning he rubbed me, down and up, with the warm lotion. At
the end of his effort he was squatting over my chest, knees either
side of my head, offering himself anew.

--You want to suck me, he said, you know you want to.

Young Kevin said as much I remembered when I crossed that Rubicon
with him; now this boy too knows what I want and wants it as well
himself.

He poked his penis at my nose, rubbed it across my lips.

That says a lot to be sure. But I have to try and tell you how a
young boy wriggles and squirms when you lick him in the right place.
He moans and sighs, begs for more, and then, as Davenport writes, his
eyes become glassy with ecstasy as spasm after spasm exhaust him only
to bounce back moments later. More! More!

How many mornings did I wake to those cute tan melons on either side
of my nose as the lad lowered himself, belly to belly, to commence
his breakfast?



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