Date: Fri, 22 Feb 2002 20:06:32 +0000 From: Java Biscuit Subject: Back to the Playground, finale This is a story involving boy/boy, teen/boy, male/male graphic sex and not intended for reading by minors. If you are underage, or this type of material is illegal where you live, please stop now, and go read something else! This is a completely fantasized story meant only for the purpose of pleasurable reading. It explores themes which some readers may find offensive or disturbing. It's not meant to encourage unsafe, unprotected sex, or to condone sex with minors. Feedback: javabiscuit@hotmail.com Back to the Playground ~ Finale by Biscuit Technically speaking, the damn thing wasn't a dress. I was jumpy as a cat, and shivery, in spite of the flickering gas fire burning in the room's antique fireplace, staring at the clothes I was about to get hitched in. There wasn't a soul who could have calmed me down but Helen was doing her best. So strange, in a way, that she should end up being the one to hold my hand, so to speak. Efficient as ever, it was Helen who found the beautiful guest house, with eight distinctive suites and a grand Victorian parlor, to host our wedding. In essence, we'd rented the entire place, occupying a Boston brownstone hotel for Christmas and the wedding. Helen had been corresponding with the owner since fall, coordinating the room rentals, locating the Unitarian minister, hiring the caterers. You name it, she did it. With her own brand of anal retentive attention to detail, that made me feel like a blithering, scattered fool by comparison, she had once again produced brilliant results, on my behalf. We'd been out to my family since Skyler moved in with me. Impossible to hide it. I won't say they embraced it with open arms--they didn't. But the lectures were few, and in time the boy that they'd seen as an odd part of my life for so many years, became ingrained in their minds and hearts as part of our family. At eighteen, a sophomore on scholarship at NYU, Skyler turned heads like a model on a runway, a fact to which he seemed unbelievably oblivious. He was adorable in an unstudied way, more concerned about his burning ambition to study veterinary medicine than how he looked walking out the door in the morning. On the other hand, why worry if you look like he does? Trent and Daryl were there for the wedding, along with my sister, and both of my brothers. It was a turning point for all of us with Greg. He'd kept distant, seeming most comfortable with a continent between himself and the rest of us, but Helen had insisted on inviting him, and it turned out to be a good thing. The four of us were together for the first time in fifteen years, since our mom's funeral. Only Helen could've made it happen. Greg wasn't with Marvin anymore. His current guy was a hell of a lot more likable. An accountant, Jeff was as straight laced as my brother, but very sweet, and touchingly eager to see him renew contact with us. We were all grateful to Helen, in the end, for bringing us together. Odd, how often that happened. For all that he was whipped, I'd come to appreciate what Karl had found for himself with her. If anything, what the kids in my family had in common was a craving for stability. Lisa had yet to find it. She was with yet another guy. He seemed nice enough, but God only knows what he looked like. I still didn't dare lay my eyes too long on any guy she dated. Trent's mom, and Charlotte were both there, too. Charlotte was with the latest love of her life. She'd fallen for a woman this time around, Josie, a karate teacher whose class Charlotte took. Her foray into being a lesbian seemed to suit her. They'd been with each other for two years by then. I liked Josie okay, though Skyler was cautious around her. You couldn't really blame him, with Charlotte's track record. The final guest at my wedding was Roger Carr, my tailor/dressmaker, and now, after way too many fittings with me on the verge of hysteria, a close friend. To both me and Helen. He and his lover David were there, a pair of dark haired, dark eyed, costume designers from Toronto. They were trying to make some kind of name for themselves in New York. I found it hard to believe that my wedding outfit was going to be a selling point for their portfolio. "You're spacing out," Helen said. "Did you do your nails like I told you?" The key to wearing stockings, she'd said, was making sure there was nothing rough to snag them on. Good God. Was I really going through with this? She'd taken us on, typically, like clients, sitting us down for talks about what we wanted for the wedding. Skyler did most of the talking, with me begging them, "Simple, keep it simple." "Clothes," she'd said, at one of our meetings, and I'd stared at her, dumbly. "I've always dreamed about Brandy wearing a wedding dress," Sky said, straight out. Helen's eyes had gotten wide, and I'd come dangerously close to snorting coffee through my nose. Karl Jr., a pushy squirt of seven, had laughed out loud. I shot him a look like I'd strangle him and he shut right up. I swear to God, looking at my nephew, I couldn't conceive of ever having felt desire for a seven year old kid. Yet memories of Skyler, at the same age, were as hot for me as ever. Maybe it was some kind of incest taboo kicking in, or just the passage of time, but the thought of my nephew and sex in the same breath was about the biggest turnoff I could imagine. Skyler was smiling at me across Helen's table, the same table where he'd used to do his homework after school. He was looking at me like he was picturing me in the gown. I shook my head. He shrugged and said, "That's okay, you don't have to." But Helen had gotten the message, and like I've said, she was nothing, if not efficient. Now I was trying to roll a pair of white silk stockings up my goose-bumped, freshly-waxed leg, with Helen overseeing the operation like a mother hen. I was losing my nerve, big time, wondering why on earth I'd ever agreed to appear in public like this, even if it was only in front of a handful of friends and family. Not everyone who would see me knew me well enough to know that I'd never worn a dress before in my life. There were caterers, florists. The minister and his wife. The guy taking photographs, and his assistant. Helen had hired him, and I don't think any one had shown up without a video camera. The couple who owned the hotel, truly wonderful and more than helpful, would also be there. "Well, you've definitely got the legs for it," Helen said. She'd said it to me before, and would say it again, in a vain attempt to make me feel better. Steady as anything those hands of hers when I faltered, fastening the top of my stocking to the belt for me. Jesus. By then Helen had seen me in every state of undress and all I felt was gratitude for the the help. She must have thought I had the world's smallest dick the way it hid in her presence. On my wedding day, Christmas Eve, as Skyler had always envisioned, my cock was in major retreat, hiding in my satin panties. Men wear kilts. That was Helen's solution to the matter of a wedding dress. She announced it to me the day I met up with her at Roger's studio. Kilts? Yeah, well they don't usually wear ones made of pleated white satin that barely cover their asses! God, how Roger and I fought over the length of that thing. He said I'd ruin it if it extended more than halfway down my thighs. What guys actually wear under kilts is a still a mystery to me, but I'm damn sure it isn't lacy slips, stockings and garter belts. Helen had brushed out my hair herself, until it shone, and made a few thin braids here and there that she'd woven little bits of flowers into -- they'd end up later, scattered through the bed. Then, without warning, she whipped out her makeup case and my eyes bugged out in horror. "Shut up, and purse your lips," she said, though I hadn't gotten a word out yet, her hand in a firm grip on my jaw before I could even gasp out a protest. "No one will even see it," she assured me, dabbing my mouth with tinted glossy shit. She dusted my eyelids and cheeks with God only knows what, and then blew in my face to set the effect. At least no one suggested I come tripping up to the altar in a pair of heels. The boots were okay. I told myself I'd dye them black and be able to wear them with jeans. The slip was a sexy thing, the blouse was filmy and dripping with lace so delicate, they'd forbidden me to touch it for fear I'd rip something. Heaven help me if anything started to itch. Roger appeared to check on our progress. He ignored the daggers shooting from my eyes and studied me with a proud critical eye. At least he'd brought me a drink, complete with a straw. He wouldn't even let me hold the glass, afraid I'd spill something on my outfit. They'd done me up good. Looking at pictures, after the fact, I was amazed. You'd never think the angel in those photos was muttering obscenities under his breath. Skyler's got a wedding picture framed on his desk. I wouldn't be surprised if he had a few more, stuck together from heavy use, hidden in the back of the drawers. "You're perfect. Exquisite," Roger said. Then, like an afterthought, "Everyone's waiting." I hate scotch, but I sucked down a slug of it, gasping from the burn. When the burn faded, there was a nice warmth spreading through my chest. "I've got to pee," I said. "You can pee later." Helen's tone brooked no argument. She nudged me in the direction of the door. I'm sorry to say that most of my thoughts of Skyler that day were bleak, resentful, bordering on angry. It was his fault, I swore to myself, that I was about to parade like a clown down a grand staircase, on my brother Karl's arm, with my snotty nephew following us, scattering flower petals. Oh God. I'd told Helen, in no uncertain terms, that they were out of their fucking minds if they thought I'd waltz in to the tune of "Here Comes the Bride." "Of course you will," she'd told me. I'm not the bride, I'm not the bride, I chanted to myself like a mantra, shaking like a leaf when the time came. My brother Karl held his arm out to me to descend the grand stair that wound down through the heart of the hotel. Over the years, how many times had our eyes met in silent sympathy as we did Helen's bidding? Meeting his kind eyes then, seeing him smile, I suddenly saw my father in him. I hardly remembered the man. He'd died when I was eight years old, somehow launching me into the arms of a rough, almost loving, kid of twelve named Josh. I rarely thought of my father, unless forced to by my shrink. But there was something, a shred of memory, and I saw him in Karl. Fuck it all, my eyes started tearing up. "It's okay," Karl whispered to me. "You'll get through it." I'd have killed myself before asking him if I looked all right, but he must have known I was panicking. "You look ... great," he said. "I feel really proud." God bless him. The only thing I'd gotten my way with was the veil. Absolutely. Fucking. Not. What a fool I was not to listen to Helen. When I felt all those pairs of eyes on my face, I realized what a disastrous mistake I had made. There's a mighty good reason for a bride to wear a veil, and dear God, what I wouldn't have given for a scrap of cloth to hide behind. Too late. I had to brave it out with my naked face. Then I saw Skyler. God damn him. Breathtakingly handsome in his sleek white suit. I admit it. Every second of torture was worth the look on his face. So what if I was done up like a Scottish Hostess Cupcake and the draft from the front door was whistling up my legs? Skyler was eating me up with his eyes, like I was the best thing he'd ever seen in his life. It was all I could do then, not to melt on the spot. A blur. All I really remember was hiding my hard dick with the bouquet of flowers and the clinch at the end of the ceremony. I was soaking my silk panties when Skyler squeezed me and got a good taste of my flavored lip gloss. The best part, of course, was after. We partied and posed and we ate and drank. Roger begged me, at one point, taking a glass of red wine from my hand, to go upstairs and get out of my duds before I trashed them, you know, indiscriminate scratching of itches, and swilling of drink. I said sure. The look on Skyler's face was priceless when Roger made to follow me up, saying he'd help me out of the clothes. "I don't think so," my groom said, laying his hand on Roger's shoulder. Roger blushed as red as the wine he'd snatched from my hand. "No, well, of course," he muttered. Poor Roger. The pretty little things he'd created for me were in a lot more danger up in our room than at the party. Skyler could have carried me over that threshold on his cock. All he wanted was to crush the satin in his hands and start fucking. The kilt disappeared in a Highland fling across the room and my delicate blouse just escaped getting torn to shreds. Well, I didn't start a craze of gay weddings in kilts, but I made good on the dreams of the one guy who mattered. Now we have Christmas for our anniversary. Makes it easy not to forget the date, not that I think Skyler ever would. He's not made that way. Marriage doesn't mean much to me. Skyler does. You can do like his mom did, marry all over the place and what does it matter? The truth is, I made my commitment to him a long, long time before. The wedding was just another milestone along the road for me. For him it was an end and beginning. He'd made it through the treacherous days of his childhood, far from idyllic youth. I think that's why it was so important to him, like a Jewish bar mitzvah, or graduation ceremony; the day he announced to the world that he'd become a man. Skyler shed childhood like a butterfly emerging from a stifling cocoon. The day I commemorate in my heart, is one that can't even be pinpointed on a calendar. Mid July, hot sun through the branches of big leafy trees. Me kneeling beside Skyler, taking off my tee-shirt and tying it around him to hide his wet shorts. Carrying him in my arms that day was a procession that nothing in the wedding could equal. I mark that day as the start of loving him. I love the man he is now, but I've never forgotten the boy that he was. Now and again, I see glimpses of that kid, in his eyes, in the pout of his bottom lip, and it makes feel like crying. I want to crush him in my arms, reassure myself that we really made it through all those anguished years. Well, we did. City kids who turned into bumpkins. The place where we live used to be a small farm, in a town called Truro at the end of Cape Cod. Our cats and dogs are our kids, I guess. Skyler's a soft- hearted vet who makes house calls and brings home strays. I never say no, I just order more bags of wholesale kibble. He works at a clinic a few towns over and pulls out of here in a truck every morning. More handsome than ever, the welcomest sight in the world, driving over the hillside home in the afternoons. I still love to feed him and pet him and fuck him. It's private enough out here, that I get him to pose for me, bare assed out in the overgrown garden. I've got a mighty crop of weeds that sprout flowers, like clockwork for me every spring. I paint pictures of them, of him, and our burgeoning furry family. Every once in awhile I get a batch framed and put on a show at one of the coop galleries in Provincetown, the infamous gay resort, next town over. I learned well from Helen. It makes life better to be near people like ourselves. That blending in thing. Provincetown sizzles in summer and satisfies what's left of the urban impulses; restaurants, galleries, and occasional strolls through a crowd rich in pairs of guys. Skyler, still steady as the sun and shining more brightly than ever. What can I say about a man who still watches me take my shirt off like he's going to see something great? Who thinks I wash lettuce so he can stand behind me and rub his cock against my ass? His latest wet dream is a renewal of our wedding vows in the warmth of summer. A kind of flowery extravaganza set in our garden, with dogs and cats dancing around our feet. Of course, it features me in something filmy and white. I got myself a skimpy camisole at the local thrift shop last week, and I paraded around on the back porch, hoping to sate whatever lust he was building. It only whet his appetite for more. I groan every time he brings it up. Part dread, part desire, since his hand is usually wrapped around his hard dick by the time the subject comes up; his eyes dreamy with a vision of me as some kind of garden sprite he's fertilizing with his seed. I'll break down, I know it. Helen is restless with Karl Jr. at college, the kid hardly spends a moment at home in the summers. She's been casting around for some kind of project. It's the least I can do for her, after all that she's done for me. And what can it hurt to say, I do, again. After all, it's the God's honest truth.