The following contains scenes of sexual activity between males. If it is illegal for you to read this in your area or if you feel you may be offended by doing so, please do not continue. This story is complete fiction and any similarities between the story and reality are purely coincidental. There is no Madison, Oklahoma. Some of the characters in this story may engage in behavior which could be construed as illegal or unsafe. This is not an endorsement of such behavior. The author does not condone the violation of any law, nor does he encourage unsafe behavior. Please do not copy or post this story without the knowledge or consent of the author.

Please send any comments to my new address, chriswriter @ operamail.com. Thank you for reading my story. If you like it, please let others know about it!

A Curious Set of Misfits

by FreeThinker

“Sitting on the side,. Waiting for a sign. Hoping that my luck will change.

Reaching for a hand that can understand, someone who feels the same.

When you live in a cookie cutter world being different is a sin.

So you don't stand out and you don't fit in. Weird.”

Hanson. Copyright 1997, Jam 'N Bread Music

Chapter Three

"What's the score?"

Michael was sitting at his desk, looking out the window at the dusk settling over Western Hills listening to his alarm clock radio. His father stood in the doorway, his tie loosened and his his sleeves rolled up, a look of concern on his face.

"Six three, Cards. Its a double header. They beat the Mets four one in the first game."

His father nodded.

"Whose pitching?"

"Gibson."

"Home game?"

Michael nodded.

"You listening to KMOX?"

Michael nodded again.

"I didn't think I could get it here, but it comes in OK."

His father walked in and sat down on the bed.

"You missing St. Louis?"

Michael didn't turn around as he shook his head.

"Why?"

"You don't really listen to Cardinals games very often."

Michael didn't respond.

"Your mother says you came in this afternoon off your bike and looked upset."

Michael was silent.

"She says you wouldn't talk and that you took a shower."

"So? I was hot and sweaty."

A commercial for a car dealer in St. Louis came on the radio. Both Michael and his father were silent for a moment.

"Is there something, perhaps, that you would like to discuss?"

Michael spun around. Quickly, he raised his hands, palms up, to his father and declared, "I don't want to talk about The Talk anymore!"

His father looked at him in surprise.

"Well, that's not necessarily what I meant, but OK. I understand."

Michael looked downward in embarrassment and replied, "OK."

He turned back to his desk and his father stood. He placed a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder and said, softly, "Son, I know life is difficult for you right now. I know. Its hard for all of us, but its probably harder for you. I want you to know how much I love you and how much I appreciate what you're sacrificing for the family."

Michael looked up and smiled wanly at his father.

That night, as he lay in bed, his mind was a whirl. The events of the last few days were so confusing and upsetting to him. He couldn't understand or make sense of what had happened. He had discovered rubbing his penis. He couldn't call it beating-off. That sounded too dirty; exciting, but dirty. It felt so good, yet, when he had done it that afternoon in BJ's room, it had seemed so dirty, so wrong. And, the previous evening, when his father described sexual intercourse between a man and a woman, he said it was beautiful and wonderful and the ultimate expression of love between two people. Yet, everything BJ and Ricky said that afternoon as they rubbed their penises over the centerfold of that naked lady made it seem so... well, dirty was the only word he could use to describe it. It just seemed dirty. It was supposed to be beautiful. It felt good. It felt so good. Yet, they made it seem so dirty.

His penis was so hard again. He wanted to rub it again, to make that feeling again. God, that feeling was so wonderful. But, it had to be wrong, dirty, wicked. It just couldn't be right. His father had told him that sex was between a husband and a wife and that it was the ultimate expression of love. If he did it with himself, then, it must be wrong. The stuff he did with Ricky and BJ had to be wrong. He couldn't rub his penis ever again.

He lay there, his penis throbbing. He tried to think of something else. He tried to think of St. Louis and the things he did for fun there. He thought of his friend, Garrett. It was Garrett who told him that he had had The Talk with his father. He wondered if Garrett rubbed his penis.

Darn it! He was thinking about it again. He directed his mind to the upcoming space shot. In a couple of weeks, NASA would launch Apollo 11 to the moon. He wondered what it was like to wear a space suit. What if you had to pee? What if you got hard? How could you hide getting hard from two other astronauts in a space capsule? How could you rub your penis in space?

Geez!!!!

God, he prayed, closing his eyes, please make me think about something else. Please help me. I don't want to do it again. Please. I don't want to sin. Please.

But, his penis jumped in his pajama shorts. As it did, it pushed through the slit in the front and rubbed against the smooth sheet. It felt so good. Michael thought about how good that felt.

NO!

He kicked the sheet away so it wouldn't touch his penis. He lay there, angry, his rigid penis sticking up from the opening in his pajama shorts. The breeze from his window blew over him and he could feel it on his penis. It pulsed and flexed again.

Maybe, just this once...

NO! NO!

Please, God, I promise I won't ever do it again. I promise! Just make it go down! Please!

It flexed again. The feeling deep inside, between the base of his penis and deep inside his butt, was awesome. He needed to do it. He needed to do it!

His penis was flexing like crazy. Oh, he wanted to beat-off! No, rub it. No, beat-off. That sounded so nasty, so exciting. Beat-off. Oh, yeah. Beat-off.

He grabbed his penis and wrapped his hand around it. Oh, there was no way he could not do it. He began twisting and rubbing and pumping. He lost his mind as he writhed and twisted on the bed. Visions of Craig's and Ricky's and BJ's penises floated through his mind, so hard, so rigid, their hands working their penises so fast. He thought about the moaning, groaning sounds the others had made as they made their penises feel good, just the way he was doing just then.

It didn't take long and as the feelings exploded, he bucked and writhed in boyish ecstasy until, exhausted, he collapsed and stared at the ceiling in defeat and utter desolation.

He was evil. He was sick. He was wicked.

000

Michael stood at the front window, peaking around the curtain. He looked at the Patterson house; he gazed up and down Sequoyah Avenue. He sighed. Quickly, he ran out the front door, sprinted to the garage, hopped on his bike, and pedaled as quickly as he could down the street and away from the neighborhood. It wasn't until he was on Church Street and out of sight of anyone living in Western Hills that he relaxed. He was determined that neither Ricky nor Craig should see him. And, he was absolutely certain that under no circumstances did he ever want to see BJ again.

He rode west on Church Street until he came to St. Augustine's. The sign out front announced the pastor was Fr. McNally. He rode around to the side and parked his bike inside some bushes along the wall. He walked back to the front and entered the front door.

He suddenly felt safe and secure as the familiar smells, the still, heavy air, the silence, all enveloped him like a blanket. He walked up the aisle, genuflected, and knelt in a pew. He closed his eyes and brought his hands together.

It must have been several minutes before he became aware that he was not alone. He opened his eyes and looked around. At the edge of the Lady Chapel in the right transept, he saw a priest, a young man with a warm smile, watching him. He raised a hand and waived his fingers at Michael. The boy shyly smiled back. Slowly, the priest walked along the wall toward the pew and then sat down beside him.

"If I remember correctly, you're Michael Griffin, aren't you? James Griffin's grandson."

"Yes, Father."

"So, what brings you into St. Augustine's on such a beautiful day?"

Michael swallowed and turned away.

"Oh, I just wanted to look around and see what the place was like."

"Ahh. Well, I'm sure it looks pretty much the same as it did last spring."

Michael blushed as the transparency of his statement was exposed.

"Anything you want to talk about?" the priest asked softly.

Michael swallowed and looked downward in shame. He wasn't certain he was quite ready for confession, but he had to say something. He had to know what was happening. He couldn't, he just couldn't ask his Dad. Perhaps...

"Father," he started after swallowing again. "Um, if you do something that, um, you know is really, really bad and you don't want to do it, but... um, but... you just can't help it... um... "

Father McNally smiled and put a hand on Michael's shoulder.

"You are referring to something that you feel is a sin, that you don't want to do, but you feel the... the need to do it is so great that you feel you just can't resist it?"

"Yeah," said Michael with relief before he began to suspect that Father might know what he was talking about. "Um, maybe."

Father McNally nodded.

"Well, that's a toughy. Hmmm. Well, sometimes, you might try doing something that will take your mind off what you don't want to do. Something like, um, well, exercise, or taking a cold shower, or praying."

"What if praying just makes it worse? Its like... its like... if you ask God to help you not do it, you're thinking about it, which makes you want to do it."

He was blushing fiercely.

"You know what I mean?" he asked softly.

Father McNally smiled and leaned back in the pew.

"Yes, Michael. I know exactly what you mean. Don't be too rough on yourself. God knows what's in your heart. He knows if your intentions are good."

Then, in a hearty tone, he added, "And, if it makes you feel better when you're done, say a couple of Hail Mary's and an Our Father. It can't hurt."

He smiled broadly at Michael and stood.

"You feel better?"

Michael was thoughtful for a moment; confused, but thoughtful.

"Yeah," he replied slowly. "I think so."

"Good. See you Sunday?"

Michael nodded.

As he walked out the front door of the church, Michael suddenly felt as if a terrible burden had been lifted from him. He felt silly. Perhaps, he had just over-reacted to everything. Maybe he should talk to his father. Or, maybe, he didn't need to. Maybe, this was all he needed.

As he extracted his bike from the bushes at the side of the church, he saw an older boy, tall and skinny with bright blond hair emerge from a door in the building to the side of the church. He looked at Michael and seemed to freeze for a second. Their eyes met and then, he quickly turned and walked on. But, as Michael climbed on his bike and pedaled out to the street, he saw the boy, who was probably fifteen or sixteen, stealing looks at him. It was a lot like the looks Trevor and Tad gave him. And, it was making The Feeling start again.

Michael quickly pedaled up the street and said a fast Hail Mary.

000

"Hey, Michael! Where ya goin'?"

It was Thursday afternoon and Michael was just pulling out of the driveway on his Stingray. The sun shown brightly in a perfectly clear sky and he was already sweating after only a minute in the hot, Oklahoma air. Ricky was running down his driveway and there was no way for Michael to avoid speaking with him.

"Um, I'm going to the library."

Ricky stopped dead in his tracks, a look of unutterable shock on his face.

"The library?"

Michael sighed as he applied the handbrakes.

"Yeah. Anything wrong with that?"

Ricky looked as if Michael had slapped him.

"Well, no. Ya don't have to be a jerk about it. I was just askin'."

"Well, you made it sound like I was crazy or something for wanting to go to the library."

Ricky looked down at the driveway. He was standing barefoot on the sweltering concrete. He hopped over to the grass and looked at Michael with worry.

"Listen, I thought maybe you might like to go fishin' over on the river. I got poles and stuff and, well, you know, it might be fun."

It might be fun.

Michael looked downward. He didn't know what to say. He just wanted to be alone, to wander the stacks at the library and... be alone.

"Listen," Ricky continued. "About, what happened, you know, over at BJ's. Um, I guess that was kinda weird. Um, like, we didn't mean to like freak ya out or nothin'. I just thought you might like to look at the Playboy. I'm really sorry, ya know. I didn't mean..."

"Look, I gotta get to the library," Michael interupted. "I'll see ya."

Michael pedaled away, leaving Ricky alone, barefoot, in the grass. Two boys on battered older bikes rode past Michael from around the corner. Both glanced curiously at him as they passed.

"Hey, Patterson!" One of them called to Ricky. "Get your pole, man! We ain't waitin' all day!"

Ricky sighed as the others approached and wordless turned toward his garage. Michael, on the other hand, turned onto Thirteenth Street, to clear out of the neighborhood as quickly as possible. He turned right onto Shawnee and headed toward town.

It was, however, a moment before he realized that this would take him past Trevor's house again.

Darn, he thought. This really isn't working out. Not only had Michael totally embarrassed himself by running into the ditch in plain sight of Trevor, (while he was looking at Trevor!), but now he understood that he had looked at Trevor in the same manner and with the same excitement Ricky and BJ had looked at the naked woman in the Playboy.

He felt so alone, all of a sudden. Ricky made him feel uncomfortable, even though he was probably a really nice guy. Craig was just like Ricky. BJ was a jerk. He had never even met Trevor and he felt funny around him. So far, only Daniel and Tad seemed OK, though he wasn't certain if Tad maybe was looking at him the way Ricky and BJ were looking at the Playboy.

It was all so darn complicated. Man, things were so much easier back in St. Louis before they moved. As he rode along Shawnee, passing the cracker boxes and then Maplewood Park, he thought of Garrett and all the friends he had left behind. For a second, he felt himself well up as if he were going to cry, but he held him breath and silently yelled an angry 'NO' at himself.

The Madison Public Library was actually two buildings in the older part of town, a block from his grandparents' house, in the area with the large, old houses, "the rich" area as the boys had called it. The smaller section was the oldest, red brick with two Greek columns in the front. Carved into the keystone on the corner were the words, "Carnegie Library 1911." The other building was connected to the first and looked newer, maybe built after World War II, with concrete and steel and glass. It was plain and ugly.

Michael parked his bike in the bike stand in front of the newer section, locked the chain, and strolled over to the front door of the older section. He stepped on the crunchy shells of katydids that had discarded their old skins the previous night as he climbed the steps. Looking around as he reached the top step, he saw no one around, no kids, no bikes, no cars. The Madison Public Library must not be a very popular place, he thought sarcastically. But, as he opened the door, he realized he was actually pleased.

Michael blinked as a wave of cold air enveloped him as he entered. The air smelled of old books, a not unpleasant smell. The lobby of the building was quite fancy, in an ancient sort of way. There was an ornate light fixture of tarnished brass with five glass balls suspended from the high ceiling. Several old leather chairs sat around the walls and a large but battered globe stood to the side opposite an equally large and battered plant with huge, green leaves. Directly in front of him, as if it were a court room with a judge presiding over the room, was a huge desk behind which sat an elderly woman with a wizened face and blue hair. She looked up at Michael over he reading glasses, raised an eyebrow, and pointed to her left; the Children's Section. Michael smiled and nodded before turning to her right.

The large room was lined on one wall by ancient racks holding a dozen newspapers. On the other side were rows and rows of books. In the center was an ancient card catalogue of dull, yellow wood. A row of tables extended from behind the card catalogue. And, at the end of the tables sat a solitary figure.

Trevor.

He was leaning over the table, staring intently at a huge book. His blond hair hung down over his face toward the book, his slim arms resting on the table on both sides of the book. As Michael stood beside the card catalogue, Trevor turned a page and from the distance, Michael could see it was a picture book of some kind.

He swallowed. What should he do? He had made a total dork of himself Tuesday and Trevor probably thought he was an idiot. On top of that, Michael was having those sinful thoughts about Trevor and he didn’t want to do anything that might encourage his brain, (and anything else!), to follow that path. Yet, he really wanted to roam the library and explore it, check out what it had to offer and compare it to the neighborhood library back home.

“May I help you?”

Michael jumped and turned. An older woman, though not as old as the witch-looking woman behind the counter, was standing beside him with a kind smile. Her dark blond hair was cute in a sort-of page-boy cut. A pair of half-lens reading glasses hung from a gold chain around her neck and she wore no make-up.

“Um, no, thank you,” Michael replied nervously.

She saw his confusion and her smile grew warmer.

“I’m Mrs. Renfield, the new librarian. You must be new here, as well.”

“Yes, ma’am. I just moved here from St. Louis.”

“Did you?” she asked enthusiastically. She took him by the shoulder and started marching toward… Trevor.

“Well, maybe you should meet my son! We’ve just moved here, as well.”

Michael’s eyes were wide with shock as the force of nature moved him toward the edge of the room. Trevor looked up from his book and his eyes grew equally wide for just a moment and then closed as he sighed in resignation.

“Trevor!” the librarian declared in an excited whisper, “this boy’s just moved to Madison. You two should get to know each other!”

Turning back to Michael, she asked, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Michael was dying. He could feel his face flaming with embarrassment as Mrs. Renfield’s eyes seemed to bore into him.

“Um, I’m Michael Griffin.”

“Wonderful!” she declared with unqualified fervor. “Why don’t you two get to know each other.”

And, with that, she turned and hurried away.

Michael stood uncertainly beside the table as Trevor looked up nervously. It was only a second, but in that time, Michael realized that Trevor was the most beautiful boy he had ever seen. His hair was a golden blond and longish, combed back behind his ears. His eyebrows were slightly darker, his eyes, blue, his cheeks touched by a hint of pink. A couple of flat moles, little more than freckles, dotted his chin and cheek. When Trevor spoke, his voice was that of a choirboy, clear and sweet. Michael was entranced.

“I’m sorry about my Mom,” Trevor said softly. “She gets a little pushy sometimes.”

Michael didn’t know how to respond. He could hardly concentrate as he looked at the beautiful boy before him and listened to his musical voice. Too late, he realized he was staring when Trevor cocked his head curiously.

“Um, hello?”

“Oh, uh, sorry. Um, no, um, she’s not pushy. She’s cool.”

Trevor looked at him for a moment in a way that made Michael feel as if he were delving inside him, digging around in his brain and discovering all his secrets. He quickly looked away, aiming his eyes out the window at the old cottonwood tree beside the library, shedding its little tufts of white down in the hot, slight breeze.

After another uncomfortable silence, Trevor spoke again.

“So, you just moved here, too. Where are you from?”

“St. Louis,” Michael croaked, wanting desperately to escape or, failing that, to crawl under the scratched and scarred slats of the library’s hard wood floor. “You?”

“Norman. Dad just got his PhD from OU.”

Michael nodded. “What in?”

“Education. He’s the new school superintendent here.”

Michael swallowed, desperately trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t sound too exceptionally dorky.

“That’s gotta be tough.”

“What?”

“Well, your Dad’s the superintendent. I guess that means you always have to make good grades and you can’t get in trouble. I mean, it’s just gotta be tough.”

Trevor shrugged and looked thoughtfully across the room.

“I never thought about it, but I guess you’re right.”

He paused a second and then added, softly, “I don’t get in trouble much, anyway.”

It almost sounded to Michael that there was a hint of regret in Trevor’s voice.

“My parents are pretty cool, though,” Trevor continued. “They don’t get torqued up about much, anyway.”

An older man sitting in a chair near the newspapers and reading The New York Times cleared his throat and glared meaningfully at the boys. Trevor shrugged sheepishly and grinned at his new friend. Michael looked at the book before Trevor. It was picture book and on the page closest to him was a color print of a strange painting. There was an animal’s skull in the center with long horns extending outward. There was a flower floating in the air beside it and grey clouds in the background. It was a strange painting; interesting, but strange.

“What are you reading?”

Trevor smiled.

“Georgia O’Keefe. She’s my favorite artist. This is ‘Ram’s Head and Hollyhock. Isn’t that cool, the way the skull and horns have the same colors as the desert?”

Michael examined it and scrunched his face as the considered. Finally, he shrugged.

“It’s OK.”

Trevor frowned in disappointment, but tried to hide it.

“Oh, wow. I’ve seen that one,” said Michael pointing to the picture on the next page. “Its in the St. Louis Art Museum. I saw that last year when my class went there on a field trip.”

Trevor smiled.

“It’s called ‘Birch Trees at Dawn on Lake George,’” he read.

“They don’t look much like birch trees,” Michael commented. “I thought they were flowers.”

“Don’t you like the colors, though? Look at the way the leaves fade from green to that grayish-white and the violet tint of the trees.”

Michael heard the enthusiasm in Trevor’s voice and realized the boy was sharing something with him that he probably didn’t get to share much. He realized that Ricky probably wouldn’t get what Trevor felt. Ricky was a good guy, but he probably wouldn’t get it.

That’s when Michael realized… he got it. He understood what Trevor felt. Michael had never been particularly interested in art, though his father had tried to expose him to a wide variety of things. However, the passion in Trevor’s voice made Michael eager to see more. He pulled the chair beside Trevor out and sat down.

For the rest of the afternoon, the two boys looked over the various art books Trevor would pull from the stacks and discuss them. Michael was amazed at how much Trevor seemed to know about art and, in discussing art, about other things, as well. He seemed to know about architecture and astronomy and history, also. Michael gleaned this from the breadth of Trevor’s conversation as he discussed the various paintings in the books they were perusing. Neither noticed Trevor’s mother standing beside one of the shelves watching, a grateful smile on her face. Nor had Michael noticed that for the entire time, he had been hard as a rock. It all just seemed so… so natural. Everyone once in awhile, he would glance over at Trevor and see the zeal and delight in the boy’s face as he discussed some aspect of what they were looking at and think of how beautiful he looked as he described his feelings and thoughts.

Michael marveled at how easily they had overcome that initial embarrassment and reticence. It had been fairly easy for him to become friends with Ricky, who just seemed so easy going and cheerful; but, with Trevor it was different. It was… different.

He thought of Ricky as Trevor commented on a painting showing a turn-of-the-century baseball game and he felt a twinge of guilt. Ricky was a good guy and just because of that weird situation in BJ’s room, he shouldn’t just close the door on him. Yet, here was Trevor, who seemed so interesting and with whom he just seemed to mesh so perfectly, even after only a couple of hours.

Michael was sitting back in his chair, looking at the back of Trevor’s head, at the way the dark, golden hair seemed to sweep back, at the slender neck, the cute ears, and he was pondering how strange the last week had been. He didn’t realize that Trevor had stopped speaking and was looking back at him.

Their eyes met for a moment before Trevor smiled. In that moment, Michael realized they were truly friends. An understanding seemed to pass between them and Trevor seemed to realize it, as well.

Michael suddenly realized that he was actually glad they had moved to Madison.

So, there is Chapter Three. I hope you are enjoying the story. Please let me know by writing to me at chriswriter @ operamail.com. Thank you!!