Date: Sun, 12 Feb 2017 22:12:27 +0100 (CET)
From: monkeyprince@tutanota.com
Subject: Wonderland, Part I - The List, Chapter 3 - Prospects

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This story is a fantasy. It did not happen in real life. The characters
portrayed in this story do not exist in real life and any resemblance to a
real person is coincidental. This story involves friendship and a romantic
relationship, including sexual encounters, between an adult man and a young
teenage boy. If you are not allowed to read it or don't want to read it,
please don't.

This story is my original work. Please do not copy or reproduce this. Nifty
Erotic Stories Archive has a non-exclusive license to display this work. I
retain sole authority, copyright, and other rights and title over this
work.

I enjoy chatting with new people and welcome new friends. I'm also happy to
receive, and will respond to, comments about this story: thoughts,
suggestions, critiques, questions, etc. But please no hate or meanness.

I am hoping you may consider making a donation to Nifty. This a place where
you can read to share in others' beautiful fantasies, knowing that those
others share the same thougths and feelings you have. This is also a place
to read to express some part of your inner self, perhaps a part you might
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Lastly, to set a proper expectation, this is not a quick sex story. It does
have sensual and sexual scenes, but it is also about a relationship; it's
about love. I hope you stick with it, and I hope you like it.

Thank you and enjoy.

Peace,
-Monkey Prince
monkeyprince@tutanota.com

*

Wonderland

Part I – The List

Chapter 3 – Prospects

*

I write in my Journal:

I have never been seriously rejected. I've had several boyfriends since
coming out at the end of high school. I was not always the person to make
the first move and take a chance on asking someone if they wanted to go on
a date, but from those I did ask, I received a positive answer each time. I
broke up with each of my boyfriends after some time and I was never the
break-ee. I didn't necessarily end a good relationship because I was afraid
of rejection, though I think I did hasten the end because I could see where
it was going; I felt better being the one to cut the string that seemed to
be wrapping itself too circuitously around parts of my life I wasn't ready
to share.

Feeling wanted is a basic desire, a need more than a want. The feeling so
totally consumes me sometimes that I wonder if I befriend people or begin
relationships so that I will have someone to want me. I wonder, too, if my
need for others' want satisfies their need for feeling wanted. Are my
relationships mostly a series of events structured to ensure people will
continue to want to be with me? Perhaps it is with some, but I can't
believe that my desire to feel wanted is my only drive to start, build, and
maintain relationships. I must believe that I relate to people because I am
genuinely interested in them, that I empathize with their goals, that I
share their desires, that I feel something because they are with me and not
only because I am with them.

I want a boyfriend. I have had boyfriends, but I want a boy boyfriend. I
have had sex with guys, but I want to make love with a boy. I feel an
attraction to men in many ways, but my attraction with boys both fuels and
feeds from my lust. I have a vague and almost amorphous desire to marry a
man, but I want to be so totally and completely involved with a boy that
our love will transcend any societal construct and will remain even after
the unavoidable and unrelating passage of time, the great killer of youth
that takes the beauty in life I hold most dear.

* * * * *

I sign onto my computer in my effort to make another check mark on the The
List, this time for "have online boy boyfriend."

I type in some of the websites I frequent, including the blog I newly
created. I can find photos, but I am not sure how to go about finding boys
in real life, even if online. I can look at them, but I can't talk to them,
can't build a relationship with them. That has to be a metaphor for
something. Without an easy way to chat with boys or a situation to which to
apply this situation as a metaphor, I lean back in my chair and stretch. I
eat a fun-size Snickers. I throw the wrapper in the trash. I look back at
my screen and think what to do next.

I start searching for ways that teens interact online. There are many apps
that allow people to contact each other. Most support photos. All support
messaging. How to find boys, though? After searching, it seems one in
particular keeps popping up as the go-to in teen communication. "Tapp."

I download Tapp on my phone and create a log-in.

After more researching, I discover there are several websites whereat one
can post his or her Tapp name as well as some biographical information and
a short message. On that site I find something beyond what I expected. Tons
of boys and men post their Tapp names with sexually suggestive messages to
"hmu," and many claimed to be well under 18.

I am shaking a bit. I suddenly have to use the bathroom, but I resist,
knowing it is just from being nervous. I read through some of the postings
and open a few in new tabs on my browser to save the Tapp names and also to
buy time as I inwardly weigh the potential benefits of finding a boy to
talk to with the potential drawbacks of finding a police officer to talk
to. My dick wins. My brain, currently being controlled by my dick,
rationalizes that despite the sexual suggestions to get in contact, my
reaching out to these "boys" will all begin innocently with mere chatting,
during which time I can assess the situation and determine whether to
proceed further.

I say "hi" on Tapp to several boys. Some don't respond. Some immediately
respond with various greetings and questions about what I'm doing. One
immediately responds with a picture of a hairy penis that seems like it is
either from someone who is older than the 14 years as this person claims to
be or is just a very hairy 14. In either case, I delete the photo from the
app and block the user, feeling like I used to when I didn't want to eat my
broccoli when I was little and hiding it in a napkin, not wanting to get in
trouble.

I pursue the other responders. I find my dick getting swollen in my
sweatpants as I start enticing discussions with a few of the boys. I get a
few G- to R-rated photos from a few of the boys whose chats I decide I
won't delete.

One of the boys, 14, with short, curly brown hair, very fair skin, and a
sultry look starts making my dick really hard.

"Real-Pringles: Ima bottom"

"BoiFan3: You been with a guy?"

"Real-Pringles: No"

"BoiFan3: How do you know you are a bottom?"

"Real-Pringles: I put my fingers in my hole And I want to be fucked"

"BoiFan3: I wish it was my fingers And tongue"

"Real-Pringles: I want your cock inside me"

"BoiFan3: I want to make you feel so good I want to slide my tongue inside
you as far as it will go Then I will slip my cock head inside Just the tip
at first"

"Real-Pringles: You can put your cock deep inside me Fuck me daddy"

My dick is so hard.

"BoiFan3: I want to feel your hole around my dick as I cum balls deep Watch
your face wince and your eyes close tight as I thrust inside"

"Real-Pringles: Oh yeah fuck me daddy really hard"

"BoiFan3: After I fuck you and cum inside you I will lick it out and lick
all the way up your balls and dick and suck your sweet boycock until you
cum in my throat"

"Real-Pringles: Ya daddy Ima face fuck you"

"BoiFan3: Give me your first cum little boy"

"Real-Pringles: Yes daddy your mouth feels so good around my little cock I
want to cum in you so bad please daddy"

I jizz all over myself from seeing his shirtless pic and from reading this
kid's words.

I keep talking with a few of the other boys. They trail off similarly to
the precious Real-Pringles I had cummed over, but one boy sticks out. He
messaged hot and heavy then trailed off, but then starts chatting me back
just minutes later.

"Aron-wantsD: Wat u up to"

"BoiFan3: Just relaxing"

"Aron-wantsD: Same"

"BoiFan3: Cool"

"Aron-wantsD: Where you from?"

"BoiFan3: USA"

"Aron-wantsD: Where?"

I am intrigued by this turn. I had admitted the state I lived in to a few
of the boys with nothing to show for it, but I try again with this boy and
tell him the state.

To my surprise, "Aron-wantsD" responds:

"Same"

I have a renewed sense of vigor for chatting with this boy. I neglect other
conversations and recall that he is a 15, did not yet send me a photo of
himself, and has a six inch dick. How can I casually and with suave and
tact find out how close he lives to me? How can I get him to send me a
photo? How can I get to be friends with him? How can I get him to want to
meet with me? How can I avoid getting arrested?

One step at a time, I think, calming myself, breathing out slowly to lower
my heartrate.

"BoiFan3: Cool"

I am so lame. I can't think of anything else to say. What else do I say? I
realize suddenly I'm asking questions to myself instead of thinking of the
answers.

"BoiFan3: Would be cool to hang out sometime"

I'm not sure if that's too forward or if I will go to jail, but I typed it
almost without thinking.

"Aron-wantsD: Ya would be fun"

I sat with my dick hard sticking through the hole in my pajama bottoms,
thinking of what I should say next. The words across the top of my app
saved me: "Aron-wantsD is typing . . . ."

"Aron-wantsD: Wat wud u wanna do"

I thought about whatever I would say getting saved in some mainframe
somewhere, stored until such time as the police or worse had some desire to
prosecute me. Anyway . . . .

"BoiFan3: Hang out Cuddle Put my arms around you Smell your neck as I play
with your hair Slide my hand up your shirt and play with your nipples Pull
you on top of me as I rub your butt over your pants Take off each piece of
your clothing one by one Pull you back on top of me and rub your sweet ass
Strip for you Pull you back on top of me, lick my finger, and play with
your hole Lay you face down on your bed Put my face in your crack See how
far I can slide my tongue inside your hole Flip you on your back Lick from
the top of your crack down your crack into your hole then up your taint and
over your balls and slide my tongue up the base of your dick and lick
slowly around your dick and keep licking until I reach the tip of your dick
then take your dick inside my mouth slowly and all the way until your dick
is in my throat and my nose is smelling your fuzzy pubes I want to make you
cum"

My dick is rock-like, precum leaking down of the front of my dick and onto
my pajamas. I don't dare touch my dick because I don't want to cum yet and
I think I might cum if I touch it.

I wait for a full minute, which felt like an eternity in this state before
I finally see "Aron-wantsD is typing . . . ."

"Aron-wantsD: I need u rn"

I struggle just for a moment to remember "rn" means "right now."

"BoiFan3: I want to make you feel good"

"Aron-wantsD: Wud u wanna fuck me"

I think for a moment how to respond.

"Aron-wantsD: I want u to fuck me"

I don't need to think anymore.

"BoiFan3: Yes After I make your hole wet with my tongue I want to slide my
dick head just inside your hole Take your sweet virginity Then fuck you
sweet and slow deeper and deeper Then when it feels good for you I want to
slide my dick all the way inside you I want to fuck you until I cum inside
your tight hole balls deep"

My dick is leaking. My hands are shaking. My heart is beating very quickly
and I can feel it bouncing around my chest. "Aron-wantsD is typing . . . ."

"Aron-wantsD: I love u"

I stop.

I feel warm and yet somewhat hollow knowing it is probably more like lust
rather than love. But this is a jerk off session and I want to make this
kid feel good. This moment has me entirely wrapped within it, the boy of 15
years on the other side of this app but not so very far away has me
entirely entranced.

"BoiFan3: I love you too"

"Aron-wantsD: Noone is ever this nice You want to make me feel good I love
that I want to make you feel good"

"BoiFan3: I want that too I want you"

"Aron-wantsD: Please can we meet Please"

The swimming butterflies come back and my heart starts pounding through my
body.

Think think think what do I say?

"BoiFan3: Yes"

I don't really remember typing that, but I clearly did.

"Aron-wantsD: When"

"BoiFan3: Soon"

I realize how late at night it is. I think about the wonderful and dreadful
possibilities of meeting this kid. I think about how perhaps this kid is
not a kid at all and rather a cop. I wonder, if this person is a cop,
whether he or she enjoys getting off talking with perverts and pedophiles,
or is sickened by the whole affair. Does this proverbial cop consider this
a dark and nasty deed that must be done to save the world? Does this person
find pleasure in capturing people like me who are displaying signs of a
natural biological function that they can't control and that leaves them
very little outlet? Does this person get off on getting guys who love boys,
twisting love into needless hate? That sick fuck.

I realize "Aron" hasn't responded in a few minutes.

"BoiFan3: Maybe we can chat again here later this week and plan it out"

"Aron-wantsD: Ok Tomorrow?"

"BoiFan3: Maybe It's so late I need to sleep"

"Aron-wantsD: Me too"

"BoiFan3: We'll talk soon"

"Aron-wantsD: Ok I'm Aaron by the way"

"BoiFan3: Hey Aaron"

I think again. Think think think. Give my real name? To catch me from this
app, I figure with not a lot of surety that they could track me to my IP
address anyway. My name is just icing on an already sweet honey trap, if
indeed that is what this is.

But somehow I have a feeling . . . . Perhaps I shouldn't rely solely on
feelings or intuition, but in my experience, the gut knows. I have a
feeling this is real.

I have a feeling this kid is real.

"BoiFan3: I'm Nate Goodnight Aaron"

"Aron-wantsD: Wait"

I wait.

"Aron-wantsD: I cummed when you said that about rubbing my ass and licking
me and making me want to cum and feel good I cummed really really hard"

My dick is getting hard again.

"BoiFan3: I'm glad I really do want to make you feel good"

I really do.

"Aron-wantsD: Me too And I want to make you feel good too"

"BoiFan3: Goodnight my sweet boy I will dream about you"

"Aron-wantsD: Me too"

"BoiFan3: Talk soon"

"Aron-wantsD: Ok"

I put my phone down and stroke my dick about three times before cum squirts
all over my shirt. The release was intense. Streams of cum jetted onto my
chest and my chin. I feel nervous and giddy.

I hear my phone buzz. I look at the app.

"Aron-wantsD: I can't wait"

* * * * *

I am stacking books away this time when Robby walks in. I see him walk
through the front door, the door where my eyes seem to wonder often
whenever I'm at work now, hoping he'll come in. I see him look at the
reference desk and, not finding me there, turn his head quickly to
different areas of the library as he searches, ostensibly for me. His head
moves in short jerks, not panicky but also not calmly or, I notice,
discreetly.

After a moment of hesitation on my part, I move books in my hands to put
back into the stacks and step slightly into the room as if contemplating
something, hoping the motion would catch his eye. It worked. He doesn't say
anything that I could hear, but I can see him moving toward me from the
corner of my eye. I don't know why I didn't waive to him or let him notice
that I saw him walk in. Perhaps it was a way for me to let him be in
control, to seek me out rather than I be the one to find him.  Perhaps it
was important for me to know that he actually did want to seek me out. It
seems to me a bit like playing hard to get, but it was rather showing me,
or showing him, that it was he who wants me. Whatever that means.

"Hi Nate," Robby whispers when he is almost at my side.

I feign a subtle start and move my head up to his direction to look
directly into his bright eyes.

"Hi Robby," I whisper back.

"Sorry if I scared . . . " Robby started to whisper, but I cut him off with
a quick motion, putting my index fingers to my lips.

I smile with my finger still in front of my lips and gently grab his
coat-covered wrist and pull him down the aisle. I let go of his wrist but
still lead him toward the back area where the tables were we sat last
time. This surreptitious activity making me feel excited, like we are two
star-crossed lovers, our own Romeo and Romeo, running away together. But
alas, out we pop from the aisle where there are several other people, two
sets of couples studying and talking quietly, at the tables where we sat
before.

Standing between the end of the aisle and the area with the tables, I ask
Robby, "Did you bring your papers from last semester?"

"Semester?" asks Robby. I had forgotten that there was no semester system
in his school.

"You know, the papers you're going to rewrite."

"Yeah," says Robby. He slips one arm out of his backpack strap and uses the
momentum to swing the bag off his other arm, catches it, and places it
gently on the floor. He unzips the bag and pulls out a folder. "They are
both in there."

I take the folder from him and motion with it over the tables, "Take a
seat."

Robby starts off walking toward the tables and, realizing that I am not
following him, turns around and asks, "Are you coming?"

"Not yet," I reply. "I like to read walking around." This was not
necessarily a practice of mine, walking around as I read, but I thought it
made me more mysterious seeming, or at least quirky. I thought of it on the
fly and I hope I am not making him feel weird about me.

"Oh," Robby says with a somewhat generally puzzled look. But the puzzled
look quickly transformed into understanding, or at least acceptance, and he
says, "OK," before turning and walking to one of the free tables, tosses
his bag on one of the chairs and takes his coat off in one motion and
places the coat on the back of the chair.

I take out both papers and, true to my word, I walk slowly around a few of
the book stacks as I read his papers. They are not terribly written, and I
admit to myself that I would need to brush up on the content, but I can
definitely see some areas that need work. His organization skills will need
the most work; the papers are not inductive, deductive, or in any
particular order, as if he was writing stream of consciousness. But Joyce
he should not be—though fictionalizing Robby as an artist coming to
terms with himself despite all odds is a pleasant fantasy. I decided to
reinforce the idea of the annotated outline to help with
organization. Also, he used too many commas in unnecessary places. And he
went on too long about things that didn't seem to matter to his thesis and
spent too little time explaining the importance of those things that did.

While I was pacing with his papers, I would periodically come out of the
aisles and peek at him. Each time I appeared, he would look up, potentially
nervous or just curious. I looked up at him once, smiled to show everything
was alright, then went back to reading. I would have preferred to stare at
his boyish face hung inquisitively under his dark brown hair. Instead I
complete my reading of both papers.

I walk to the table with Robby. He watches me approach, pencil in hand held
unmoving over a notebook, his other hand keeping his place in a book, his
eyes looking on me in anticipation of my verdict. He watches me sit down at
the chair next to him. I place the folder and papers on the table and look
at him.

"We can work with this," I say, nodding my head. "There are some clear
areas where you can improve."

Robby groans almost inaudibly and looks down at this notebook.

"No, this is a good thing," I say.

He looks up at me, "How?"

"I know exactly what you can do to get better," I say, then correct myself
by adding, "What we can do." I also add, for encouragement, "There's a good
writer inside you. We can work together to bring him out."

The idea that there is a secret boy inside this boy is enticing to me. What
are his secrets? What does he think about me?

"OK. That's good," Robby says.

"Yeah, that's good," I agree nodding, then smiling.

Robby looks at me, then looks away for a couple seconds, then looks at me
again. "So, now what?" he asks.

We spend some time going through the notes he's taken. We talk about what
he might think of as his thesis, or centralizing thought, and then group
the notes he's taken into similar supporting thoughts to support his
thesis. We number them, and then we develop a plan for him to go home and
work on his computer to put this into an outline. I then explain to him how
to make an annotated outline and the benefits of doing so even before he
starts writing.

I watch him as I talk to him and as he talks to me and asks me questions. I
watch his mouth as he talks, his lips parting and coming together. I watch
his fingers hold his pencil, with a tight grip while he is writing quickly
to keep up with my voice. I listen to his voice, with an easy lilt and
raspy almost-teen timbre.

"So, bring me your annotated outline next time you come," I say.

"OK, sounds good," says Robby. He sighs, resigned, and then closes his
notebook. Then says, "Thank you so much for helping me." Then sighs again,
but more hopefully, refreshingly, like he finished a cold glass of fizzy
water with lemon.

"No problem," I say simply, not knowing what else to say.

"I don't want to do anymore right now," he says, almost like pleading, in
the way a child would to his teacher or parent, being so bold as to provide
them with his opinion but knowing that he would have to listen to their
edict whether it was agreement or contridiction.

I don't want to be his parent or his teacher. "Then let's not," I say with
shrug. "We'll only do what you want to do. I'm not your teacher. I want to
be your friend." I was intrepid with the last word, I think to myself, but
I want to see how it goes over. And maybe, if he hears it, he'll allow
himself to think it.

Robby smiles, "Yeah. OK, cool."

Robby stretches like he did the first time I saw him, shirt lifting up,
exposing his belly. From this close, I can see he has just a hint of fuzz
where his happy trail may be later in his life. Robby begins his stretch
with this arms in front of his face, but when he moves them above his head,
I notice his eyes are open. I am fairly certain he watches me watch his
belly at the height of his stretch. He makes no move to pull down his shirt
or shorten the duration of the stretch.

After he finishes his stretch, Robby looks at me and smiles and says, "What
now?"

I look at my watch. "Well," I say, "I'm getting off work in about 15
minutes. Want to hang around the library until I get off and I can walk you
home."

I realize as I say this I don't actually know if he is walking distance or
if he takes a bus or taxi or Uber or if his mom or dad or someone else
drops him off.

"OK," he says.

"I actually don't know where you live, though. Is it close?"

"Like a 15 minute walk," he says. "You don't have to." I think he says this
because he doesn't want to inconvenience me, letting me have an out from
the obligation.

"No that's fine, I want to," I respond. "You could walk around the library,
look at some books or something for 15, and then we'll head out."

"Great," he says, standing up. I notice the bulge in his pants, but I know
it was likely caused by his pants bunching up since we've been
sitting. Robby puts his notebook and books in his bag and gathers his
stuff.

"Actually, I could hold this all at the reference desk for you so you don't
have to walk around with it," I offer.

Robby thinks just a moment. "Sure. Thanks," he says as he starts handing
everything over to me.

I really meant for him to walk his stuff over to the reference desk with
me, but as he hands his bag and then his coat over to me, I find him even
more endearing.

I carry his items over to the reference desk with me where I finish out my
shift. I think for just one moment about discreetly rummaging through his
bag and coat pockets, perhaps because those are secret areas and prying
into this boy's otherwise hidden personal areas seems exciting. But I
don't.

After I finish, I don't have to look hard to find Robby, who at the
appointed 15 minute interval is waiting for me at the reference desk. He
collects his things and we both put on our coats and head outside.

Mercifully, the weather had taken a turn for the warmer this mid-January,
and we walked outside without the need to buddle in hats and scarves and
gloves and were comfortable in a medium thick coat.

We start down the sidewalk in the town center, me with my hands in my
pockets and Robby with his hands on the straps of his backpack, walking
forward together and not talking. I am suddenly aware of the other people
on the streets. Because this is an inner suburb of the city, there are
often people walking here and there on the streets of the town center, but
I can't help but feel, if not fear, the eyes that could be staring at us,
wondering why a man and boy would walk together, why the man is too old to
be the brother and too young to be the father. I dismiss the thought.

"Which way," I say, realizing that it feels like I am the one leading us
but, of the two of us, Robby is the one that knows the way.

"This way," Robby says and gestures forward, and then following up with a
set of directions that more or less conveys the path.

We along in silence for a few moments. I try to think of something to say,
but my mind is blank.

"So," I say. "Tell me something."

"Like . . . ?" says Robby, drawing out the word.

"I dunno. What grade are you in?"

"Seventh."

"You are pretty advanced in your writing for seventh grade," I say
honestly. I'm not sure I had to write a paper like this in seventh grade.

"Thanks," he says casually. "I'm in honors," he says, trying to be casual.

"Is it hard?" I ask.

"No," he says quickly.

"But you're having a tough time with the papers?" I wanted to take it back
immediately after I said it.

Robby looks at his feet as he continues walking. We stop at a street corner
to let cars go past and wait until the light turns red to cross. "Yeah, I
guess it's hard."

"OK," I say. "Other than school, what do you like to do?"

Robby thinks a moment. "Play video games."

"Of course," I say, mockingly exasperated.

Robby giggles. This sound makes me jump because of the jolt of pleasure it
gives me.

"Do you?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. "I play some computer games."

"I like computer games," says Robby. "I also have Playstation, Xbox, and
Nintendo Wii U."

"Cool. I don't have any of those game consoles."

"That's OK," says Robby sincerely. "How do you get your computer games?"

"I use Grime," I say, referring to the free software that supports games
and developers and offers a platform to buy and download games.

"Me too!" says Robby excitedly. "We could play a game sometime on there."

My mind starts rushing through scenarios where we would meet online playing
video games together. It seems like an interesting connection.

"I'm not sure I'd know how to connect like that," I confess. "I've only
played one-players."

"I could set it up for you sometime," he says, putting an extra skip into
one of his steps, making him seem at once playful and young, and causing
his wavy hair to sly up and flop down into his face. "I'm good at that
stuff," he says as he flips his hair out of his face by flicking his head
to one side.

I contemplate his meaning. Can he do this remotely somehow? Does he mean he
would come over my apartment to do this?

"What about you?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"What do you like to do outside of work?"

I think a moment. "I like to hang out with friends . . . ."

"I like doing that, too," Robby interjects.

". . . I like to eat . . . ."

"And that," Robby interjects again, with another giggle that sends another
jolt through my body.

"What's your favorite food?" I ask. I love the "favorite" game with new
people—ask them what their favorite anything is; it's an easy
ice-breaker.

"Cookies! And cheeseburgers. Also pizza. What's yours?"

"Yum," I say encouragingly. "I really like to go out for good sushi."

"Yuck," Robby says instantly. I look at him as he makes an overdramatized
disgusted face.

"Have you tried sushi?" I venture.

"No," he confesses, "but I won't like it."

"I want to take you out to try sushi, because when you like it, I want to
be there to say 'I told you so.'"

"Ha! No way," he says, emphasizing the "no" with a wave of his hand in
front of my face, a bit of spirited bravado that yet further endears him to
me.

I watch him walk beside me, bouncing slightly with each stride, dark brown
hair bouncing along. I notice his ears as his hair bounces around them,
small and sticking out, but not as far out as Jack's.

"I also like acting and singing," I say, somewhat randomly continuing my
answer to his "What do you like to do outside of work" question.

"You're an actor?" he says a bit astounded and skeptical.

"Well, not really. I have been in musicals and plays around here, just
community theatre productions. I haven't been paid for them or
anything. It's just for fun."

"That's cool," says Robby. "I used to be in musicals when I was younger."

"Wow, that's really cool," I say, genuinely enthusiastic about this, mind
racing about how we can be in a musical together. "We should be in a
musical together."

Robby laughs, "I haven't been in a musical in a long time. I played Chip in
Beauty and the Beast."

"No way! I was in Beauty and the Beast!"

"Awesome. Who were you?"

"I played Lumiere," I say.

"You must be really good," says Robby, nodding his head forward on "really"
and "good," emphasizing the point.

"I guess I'm OK," I say, hopefully humbly. "I bet you must be really
good. Do you still sing?"

"I'm in choir."

"I bet you have a great voice," I say. "What part do you sing?"

"I'm an alto right now," he says, but almost defensively adds, "I'll be a
tenor soon."

"I was thinking of doing the winter musical at this theatre company I was
with before, but I didn't."

"You should," Robby says, matter-of-fact. "It's good to do that. I would
see you in it."

I smile at him, touched. "I missed the audition, they started rehearsing
already."

"When is the next one?"

"They do a summer show. I think it's Into the Woods this year. I might do
that . . . ." I say, trailing off as I think about whether I might be able
to get Robby to do it with me.

"Cool. You should definitely do a musical again. If you don't use it, you
lose it. Not like riding a bike, you know."

I can't hep but laugh.

"It's true," he says, seemingly aiming to bolster his statement with
earnestness.

"I guess so," I say, still laughing lightly.

We leave it at that for a moment.

Then I say, in a light joking way, "You're wise beyond your years."

Without missing a beat, he says, "Much to learn, have you," in a mediocre
Yoda impression.

I laugh, incredulous but also legitimately humored. "You cheeky bastard," I
say playfully.

Robby giggles. I notice as he giggles and laughs how his eyes crinkle
together, his right eye pinching tighter than his left and the right side
of his mouth smirks higher than the left. His lopsided laughter gives the
impression of an almost-wink and makes me want to take him in my
arms. Instead, I playfully and lightly punch him on his shoulder. Robby
punches back. I try to return the return punch, but Robby grabs my hand and
pulls hand over hand up my arm until he has my whole arm in his grasp, an
impish grin on his face about six inches away from my own.

I am forced to stop walking from Robby's strong grip and, because of my
desire to touch him and also to continue the game, I put my other arm
around his neck and back and then reach under his belly and pick him up
just a couple inches off the ground before letting him back down again. He
is smaller than me, but not small enough that I can easily pick him up with
one arm at this awkward angle. Robby yells in glee and lets go of my arm,
grabbing onto my other arm that was lifting him up. I reluctantly pull away
and almost back into a woman walking past us on the sidewalk.

"Sorry, Miss," I say.

She smiles at me, not unkindly. Perhaps she thinks I am related to the
boy. For half a moment I try to think of a defense about why Robby and I
are walking together, but then realize the woman is neither looking for a
reason nor at all concerned about our existance. I will myself to forget
about it.

Robby is panting very lightly from the exertion, as I am, though I try to
hide it to appear like I'm not winded. We continue our walk for some ways
down several side streets, continuing our discussion of favorites.

"OK," Robby says suddenly and loudly in front of a triple decker. "I live
there," he says pointing.

"Great," I say, a bit caught off guard from the sudden stop.

"So, see you next time?" he asks, turning up the walkway to the front
door. I have a sudden and strong pang of sadness as I watch Robby walk away
from me, leaving me on the sidewalk with my hands in my pockets.

"Yeah, sounds good," I say, as he walks backwards, waving goodbye to me
with a smile. I wave back and watch him turn around up the walk way, bound
up the steps, not unlike I saw Jack do several weeks ago, and enter the
front door, shutting him inside and me outside.

I watch the front of the house for a moment, then look around. I start back
toward my apartment. I think, but only for a moment, that I wished we had
hugged when we said goodbye. Or kissed.

* * * * *

I write in my Journal:

I have seen Robby a handful of times now since walking him home. I have
enjoyed every moment with him, reading with him, writing with him, leaning
over his shoulder as I read what he wrote, smelling the shampoo in his
hair, putting my hand gently on his small, bony shoulder, noticing he
doesn't flinch when I do that.

I like that he wears his feelings on his face. He could be a particularly
expressive actor if he wanted. Also, it is easy to tell how he truly
feels. If he's disgusted or bored or silly or devious or amused or
happy—it's all on his face. I especially like when he is happy. The
electric buzzes that zip through my body every time he laughs, the longing
for an embrace that grows in my heart when he grins his lopsided grin, the
bulge that grows in my pants whenever I watch him stretch or walk in front
of me, the intense feeling of happiness I have just watching him read;
these feelings have grown each time I am with him.

I feel like we are more like friends now, not teacher and student. We spend
about half the time writing and the other half learning about each other.

He has talked about his mom, Paula, his older sister, Lauren, and his
younger brother, Alex. He lives with these three in a three bedroom condo,
with their mom in the first bedroom, him and Alex sharing the second
bedroom, and his sister in the smaller office space when she is home from
college. He loves playing video games with his little brother, who is
eight. He hasn't talked about any dad, but that doesn't necessarily mean
anything.

He had his birthday the day before one of our get-togethers. He turned
13. The next time we got together, I had made him cupcakes. Despite our
"favorite" game that we played when I walked him home, I didn't know his
favorite flavor of cupcake or frosting, so I made chocolate cupcakes and
cream cheese frosting, both from scratch. He had never had cream cheese
frosting, but he liked it very much. I didn't light a candle, but I
whispered (we were in the library) instead of sang the whole Happy Birthday
song to him, which made him laugh much too loudly, so I covered his mouth
with my hands, which made him laugh even more loudly. He covered my hands
with his hands and still bits of giggle shot out from the sides of our
hands and through our fingers. I remember vividly that I could feel a bit
of his spit and hot breath as he laughed on my hands, and I also remember
his crinkled eyes and extra squinty right eye even though I couldn't see
his lopsided smile under our hands.

He did finish his papers and had his teachers "grade" them, even though the
grade didn't count. The "D" on his English paper became a "B" and the "F"
on his history paper became an "A." He was particularly proud of the jump
in history, but I told him that he should be proud of both, and not to be
proud of the grade, but rather be proud of all that work he put in, and how
much it will help him in the future. I said it's not about being
smart—anyone can just happen to be smart—it's really about the work
he puts in that matters. He seemed to get quiet at that point and really
think that over. I read somewhere you should encourage children not by
praising them for inherent traits ("you're so pretty" or "you're so smart")
but by the work they did ("you must have worked really hard on that") or by
the positive personality characteristics they display ("you are very sweet
and thoughtful").

After he received his new grades, even his mother came to see me. When
Robby walked in with her I was instantly, but only momentarily,
petrified. But she was smiling, which alleviated my fears. Robby introduced
me as "the friend that helped me." I must have been beaming and bright red
at that comment, but Robby and Paula either didn't notice or pretended not
to. She was grateful for my helping him, and thanked me graciously several
times. I said it was my pleasure and that Robby is a great and thoughtful
guy. I actually used the word "guy" in Robby's presence because I didn't
want to use "kid" so Robby wouldn't think I wasn't talking down about him.

I realized that I stupidly did not get Robby's number. He already completed
his papers, so I wonder if he still plans to come back to me at the
library. I appreciated very much our time in the library together, but I
want more than that. I was starting to feel claustrophobic in the
library. I want to see his home. I want to rehearse for and perform in a
threatre production with him. I want him to see my place. I want him to be
in my bed. With me.

We'll see.

I do know where he lives, though. Maybe I can make up a reason to go
there. See how he's doing, or something else equally creepy that I'll have
to figure out how to make not seem creepy.

In other news, I have been talking on and off with Aaron on Tapp. He is a
horny, horny kid. He loves to talk dirty. He did send me a few photos,
mostly of his face and shirtless, hairless (he shaves the bit of hair that
does) body, and just two of his butt, one of which is a very enticing photo
of his butt hole, to which I instantly shot my cum all over myself when I
saw it. It was a lot of not-so-innocent talk about the different things we
would do with each other, and some talk about some more mundane life things
as well. We never did meet up.

But now we are supposed to.

It turns out Aaron is only a bus ride away. In fact, I am nervously
awaiting the time today that I am supposed to meet him, and because I have
butterflies in my stomach and keep having to go to the bathroom, I thought
to ease my nerves by writing. I really do want to meet Aaron and have sex
with him, but I can't help but think I'd rather have Robby. But in the
meantime, I want to have a little fun.

I've never been with a boy before. I want to try.

Almost time. I should go.

* * * * *

I close my Journal and put on my coat and hat and scarf and shoes and head
out into the mid-February cold. The sun is already low, almost dark. We are
supposed to meet at a coffee and tea shop opposite the post office. It is a
bit of a bus ride for him, but it is only a 10 minute walk for me. We had
planned to come back to my place.

I walk in silence, not meeting anyone, on my walk down my street. I feel
numb, but more from being nervous than from being cold. I feel excited and
freaked out and happy and scared. I think of the possibilities of being
arrested. I think of the possibility of fucking a young teen boy.

My dick wins, as it usually does.

I pass by a few people along the more public road toward the coffee and tea
shop. I am acutely aware of the type of cars around, and I try to
especially spot police cars and black SUVs or unmarked vans. I don't see
anything quite so suspicious.

I reach the coffee and tea shop just about on time. I enter right away and
wait in line. I know I'm supposed to be meeting a kid who is 15 with black
hair, just a little shorter than me, and with a blue beanie. No blue beanie
yet.

The lady at the counter takes my order—a cortado, please—and I go to
the pick-up counter to wait for it, looking around, then looking around
again. I get the cortado and sit at the other counter in the shop that
looks out the window, hoping to see Aaron walk by. It's 15 minutes past
time. I think of the things that might have gone wrong, I think of the
things that could still go right if he comes here. I check my app on my
phone, but no message. I sip my coffee. I resist sending him a message. I
think of getting caught. I think about what prison would be like. I sip my
coffee. I think about what Aaron's hole will taste like, which brings a
rise in my pants that I hope others can't see. I eye the lady at the
counter suspiciously, wondering if she is in league with the cops. I look
at my phone again—no message.

I do that routine several more times. 35 minutes past time. I sip my now
cold coffee. I decide to message Aaron.

"BoiFan3: OK, here"

I try to be casual about it, like I was just arriving as well, so he
doesn't feel bad about being late. I wait some more. I sit a few more
minutes just staring outside. I have long since run out of the small
cortado.

"Done with this?" the words spoke so closely to my ear startle me so deeply
that I jump, turn around and actually yelp a little, which causes the lady
who spoke to me to yelp as well.

"Oh my god," I say automatically, in alarm.

 "I'm so sorry I scared you," says the lady who was behind the counter but
who is now next to me, putting her hand over her heart, also in alarm.

"I'm sorry," I say, shaking my head in emarrassment. "I was in my own
world, I guess."

"It's OK, no worries," she says. "So sorry I startled you."

"It's alright."

The lady continues to stand next to me. Then she gestures to the mug, which
I have inadvertently held onto when I was startled.

"Oh, right, yes I'm done, thank you," I say, handing her the mug.

"Can I get you something else?" she says, eyeing me, though not necessarily
suspiciously.

"No," I say. "I think . . . . No. I should leave." I look at my the clock
on my phone. 45 minutes past time. I notice a message on Tapp.

"Aron-wantsD: I'm sorry I couldn't come"

"I'm not kicking you out," the lady says with a smile.

"I know," I say, managing a light laugh. "Thanks again."

"Sure," she says, taking the mug behind the counter, depositing it into
some unseen container behind the counter with a clink.

I think of what to type back to Aaron.

"BoiFan3: It's OK We can chat later"

I walk out of the coffee and tea shop. I breathe the cold air deeply then
let out a long sigh, releasing my tension. I walk home in disappointed
relief.