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 Photoplay - 6

   by Feather Touch







   Did we make it a whole file essay-free?  Color me too tired to go back
and look.  As ever, I hope the typos were kept to a tolerable level, and,
because the occasional reader peruses novels for the sole reason of hunting
out inconsistencies, I try to please all by leaving a few.

   Also, camera free.  My writing wave surgeth beneath and I'm too old to
ignore its slope and march, and who knows when there'll be another.  So
surf I surf, along the beach, as in the scene from "Endless Summer,' not
into it.

   Domestic tranquility reigns.  An update on Samantha can be summarized:
cuter than ever.  Mystery Mark, a frequent, but now waning, correspondent,
writes to say the age of consent here is sixteen.  This from
ageofconsent.com, which one would think should be pretty meticulous in its
housekeeping, all things considered.  Always heard eighteen from the
locals, and, as any mariner knows, local knowledge can be most useful. 
Anyway, she's still a virgin as far as I go, and can stay that way until
she's thirty if she wants.  Whatever exaggerations are to be found,
whatever artistic license I claim, one truth is self-evident, and that is
that it doesn't matter.  If a friendship includes "night fun," (from the
very pleasing Tim Allen film: "Jungle 2 Jungle"), that's cherries on top,
and if it doesn't, the sundae is still delicious.  You heard it here,
first.



   Imagine feeling guilty when all you did for the day was write, edit, and
post about ten thousand words.  Yet the camera calls out.  It gets slightly
warm after it's been on a few minutes, feels alive, and certainly sounds
that way with its chorus of beeps and chirps and the humming of its tiny
motors.  It would probably make an ideal toy for a two year old.



   MSN is Michael-free over the weekend.  Something on Friday about custody
of his kids; didn't bother downloading it.  But mentioning kids does bring
up O.J.  I think I've alluded to this in published writing, but I write
dozens of letters a month, so maybe not.  Anyway, and this is to give a
perspective of SoCal, in general, and how lopsided anyone there with a
higher education tends to become, kids were the driving motivation in that
whole circus.  The reason he stalked Nicole with a shovel, plastic bag, and
towel in back of the anonymous white Bronco, with the wilds of Mullholland
scant blocks away, was to gain full access to his daughter, Sydney, and
possibly or possibly not, his slightly older son.  Several proofs emerged
during the trial.  Most obvious was a photograph of the children in
languid, bare chested poses, lithe preteen bodies fully against each other.
Wouldn't be allowed in any gallery in the US.  Also in the testimony.  At
one point it is stated that Sydney comes to her daddy at six in the
morning. In another statement, Kato talks about O.J.  coming into his room
while his own ten year old daughter is in bed with him.  Father, priest, or
saint, no adult male spends time alone in bed with a pretty ten year old
without cuddling and fondling her, plenty (at least).  Pictures and two
confessions on camera and in the transcript.  And in SoCal they went on and
on and on about how he killed her because he didn't want anyone else to
have her.  That has probably never happened over a many-partnered,
thirty-something woman in the history of the world.  Ha, ha.  And here's
something a bit stern: last picture of Sydney was of a barrel girl.  Well,
she's just getting old enough to publish a first round of memoirs, so Mr.
Simpson better keep that knife keen and handy.



   Yeah, I've got my eye on you morons.  I'm not easily amused, but when I
do laugh, it's out-loud.  Sometimes laughing at someone is the only cure.
Take them as a joke and roll in the isles.  `Course, it also riles up
folks, but what other choice does a writer have these days?  The singular
nature of my birth and breeding would be anathema to every Jew in media
land if I were a leading Zionist fund-raiser.  Absolute hatred of the
absolute top; a clawing, visceral, loathing of anyone who looks them hard
in the eye and says, point-blank, your little socialist boxes are full of
stinking carrion, and I don't like you or them.



   Back in the exhaustion cycle, writing twenty hours, sleeping four, and
giving over another to obvious domestic priorities.  The photo project was
meant to break this.  It was supposedly to take months, a few worthy images
this week, a few the next, until I had the two hundred or so that would
fill a compact disc.  And in ten shoots over two or three weeks, I've
nailed over six hundred, with half the town yet to cover, not to mention
re-photographing much of what I have under different conditions of sky and
light.  With the flea population in ever more precipitous decline, babies
only at this point, it's the only hunt I have left, to say nothing of being
the ultimate in gathering.  I'm fierce in my dedication, but the ASSTR
numbers have become so huge, so fast, they dominate to the point I ignored
four hours of silvery light between ten and two.  Will I have the strength,
tomorrow?  I doubt it.  "Photoplay" is within ten percent of meeting the
sixty thousand words that make it - yet another - novel, and that should
permit a day off without a following night of tossing and turning in
recrimination.



   Where my lazy-bone, and it's a beaut, takes over is when it comes to
setting up a Web site.  Struggling with compression, directories, folders
and files.  Like navigating the back streets of Bangkok, easy once you know
the way.  Ironic, I suppose, because it would be well-nigh impossible to
have more hours glued to a monitor and keyboard, especially over the last
three years, than I've spent, yet I'm the runt of the litter in the
puppy-user department.  Same with the Canon.  Both it and the Dell do
exactly what I want, in huge amounts and at virtually no cost, so I'm
satisfied remaining ignorant of their exotic features and capabilities. 
Classic k.i.s.s.  as in keep it simple, stupid.  At the same time it would
be fun to have a few pictures of my digs, easily mistaken for a slice of
Club Med, my gang and me (fit for family viewing, of course), and samples
from my CD portfolio, which will suffer from compression but at least give
an idea.  The whole thing is probably fifty clicks away, but that's like
saying the best little whorehouse in Thailand is fifty alleys away.  Advice
from the peanut gallery would be welcome, especially forwarded by those
used to dealing with catatonic morons (in the digital sense, though you're
free to find others, should we correspond).



   Several Mars missions pending completion at the moment.  With these, I
agree.  Cheap, fun, and exercises in precision, reliability, and durability
that might have some application to earthbound technology.  It's anything
and everything to do with manned flight - and particularly the LOL field of
space medicine - that I find vastly offensive.  It's a bulwark against
scientific advancement, sopping up resources and talent in the name of
myopic romance, and talent and resources that would produce far more for
the marketplace than it does for - the absolute impossibility of - space
travel.  Here's a specific example.  Do you think all the king's horses and
all the king's men at NASA could design and manufacture the S400?  They'd
come up with a clunker so heavy it would need treads instead of wheels, and
brag they could make it climb stairs.



   As a writer who dabbles in fiction and even lets run wild the occasional
fantasy, I've plotted my next novel, "Bringing Her Home," around a most
unlikely premise.  That the nation is suddenly swept by a wave of common
sense and demands the space station be deorbited.  The story begins in
Congress with intensive debate on how, exactly, X hundreds of tons of metal
and plastic SHOULD be brought back.  It's put to a referendum and the great
wave of common sense peaks in a vote for show over safety.  In response,
the object in question is finally brought to earth on a clear, calm night
and on a path that begins in Chicago and ends with the craft crashing into
the Atlantic five miles east of Sandy Hook.  (Think of the reflections off
Lake Michigan.) Emergency services are fully and meaningfully exercised,
CNN goes into its knee-jerk paroxysms of mawkish Jew-slobber over the few
victims of hurtling wreckage (specific example: the prayer-by-prayer
coverage of the funeral of the single black victim of Columbine), and the
morning after you might hear the following in a middle-school cafeteria. 
"Dude, how `bout that NASA?" "Yeah, dude, radical." (When's the last time
you saw kids high-fiving over the manned-space program?)



   We've been reduced to a state of huddling and puling in a wild and
dangerous world.  It might be an idea to knock it off, especially because
doom beneath a barrage of Russian nukes certainly beats fizzling to an end,
one renal failure, bankruptcy, and terrorist intrusion at a time.  If we
don't take a stand, we're damned, and, as they said on "Laugh-In," "dat's
da trut." Crush the Mid-East, burn Yahweh and roast Allah, and if it pisses
off ye bear, at least we fought, for once in our often misbegotten
existence, the good fight.



   "You're really awesome," Craig whispered at they reached the hatch
leading back into their room, "I thought you were going to cum on me, or at
least make me do it."

   "I wanted it to be in private with you," Andrew responded, and both
suppressed a giggle at any though of privacy at LoveLess, yet the boy did
know what his friend meant.  From novelty act to making love, slowly,
lingeringly, and, the child was pretty sure, all night long.  Besides,
there was the plastic bag which, although half-forgotten in all that they'd
talked of and all that had happened, had made the trip and was sitting at
the foot of the bed.  They hung their clothes up, equally thrilled at
engaging in the most prosaic of acts with a naked partner inches away. 
When the housekeeping was taken care of, the boy eased the thirty-year-old
athlete against the wall and posed him as he'd seen Paul and Doug display
their bodies for little Mary.  He copied the stance himself and, hands
behind his head and arching, moved forward until his long, hard boner was
inches from Andrew's large, adult erection.  Both males stared their
partner up and down for long minutes, the harmony of the beauty of their
fully aroused bodies almost toxically sweet.  They touched, his penis to
his penis, grunting at the firestorms bolting from their thighs and lower
spines and shuddering in anticipation of what was going to happen.  Craig
moved to the tall athlete and was folded gently in his arms.  The boy
looked up, wide-eyed.  "Maybe a little gay," he whispered as Andrew bent to
kiss him.



   It took a long time for them to get used to each other.  They tried
motions from butting to sawing, but it did little good, merely drove them
to more of the same.  Half an hour, then they boy's head lowered to the
man's heaving chest and he began experimenting, again, with his lips,
tongue and teeth, working down until he was along side the hot shaft
probing seven inches from the powerful waist of the adult male.



   They reversed positions, the boy displaying while leaning against the
wall, the man ravishing his lips and torso with his tongue and fingers. 
But after awhile they slowly parted, so drunk with the knowledge of what
was to come they wanted the high to last and last, but definitely not
forever.  By acclimation, they slipped back into their clothes.  Craig
moved to the foot of the bed, picking up the black plastic bag.  "Mr. 
Jones," he said in a seven-year-old's voice, holding it out to Andrew, "I
didn't understand everything you showed us in health class today.  Could I
stay after school for awhile, because my dad doesn't live with us and my
mom said it would be okay if I wanted to, you know, stay after for an hour
or two.  I'm just meant to call her so she'll know where I am."

   "Yes, Timmy," the executive said, falling into the role of teacher as if
to the manner born, "it would be very nice if you stayed, and the janitors
don't come in `till evening, so if you'll lock the door we should have
complete privacy and I can teach you anything you're mature enough to want
to learn."

   "Cool," said the new seven year old and he pretended to dial a phone. 
"Mommy," he said, "I'm here in Mr.  Jones' classroom and he said it's okay
if I stay with him for a couple of hours... Yes, mom... Yes, mom, I'll tell
him Uncle Mill is going to come and spend his vacation with us... Yes, I
remember, we have to cut down this month so he and I will have to take our
showers together... Yes, and that's he's bringing his friend Christopher
and we're going to have a sixteenth birthday party for him... yes, Mom,
I'll try to remember to ask him everything about being alone in the house
with two older males while you're in class... and the dolls, too, I know
they're very useful... good, well ace the exam... you know I'm too old to
say that... bye."

   "Everything okay at her end?" the teacher asked as they sat side by side
on the bed and he opened the bag.

   "Perfect," the boy said.

   "Timmy," the teacher responded, "it's cool if you come over for the
night, too.  Do you think your mom would let you?"

   "Definitely," the child chirped happily, "I'll call her later, in case
you change your mind."

   "Well, I suppose that's a possibility," the teacher mused, "but I have
some stories to tell and it would be more fun to tell them to you than sit
here telling them to myself."

   "I hope they're long ones," Craig said, cuddling immaturely against the
tall athlete's left arm.

   "I was reminded by your mentioning your uncle was going to visit,"
Andrew said, "and that happened to me when I was just your age, I mean your
real age of eleven."

   "I even remember being eleven," the boy responded.

   "Yes, well you're growing dumber every year so that's a wonder."

   "Does that mean you'll have to teach me everything again, next year, Mr.
Jones?" the boy asked.  Then Andrew pulled out the two dolls, put the bag
aside, and placed them one on each lap.

   "Did your mom talk to you about these?" Cliff Jones, the teacher, asked
the suddenly trembling child on his left.

   "Yes, Mr.  Jones," the little boy murmured, hanging his head and
blushing (most effectively) in embarrassment.

   "Did you feel really nervous while she was talking to you?" Cliff
whispered.

   "Yes," came the mumbled response, "I kind of felt hot and got all red."

   "Okay, Timmy," the man coaxed, "I'm going to ask you something really
embarrassing, but that's part of learning.  No wolf is going to spring out
of the closet and pee-pee on your bare feet, no bogeymen, no lawmen, just
feeling nervous and embarrassed because it's new to you."

   "I know," the child murmured.

   "Okay," his teacher went on, "so, the really embarrassing and confusing
question I wanted to ask you is if you got a boner while she was explaining
things."



   The little actor hung his head a long time in play-misery.  "I think
so," he finally whispered.

   "And I have to ask you another one just like it.  Any man would if he
was going to teach you, okay?  And lots of boys learn like you're going to.
First by seeing what happens using the dolls, and then they have a serious
talk, okay?  So, to get to the question, do you have one now?  Is your
penis big and hard?"



   Shamed beyond words, the youngster just nodded.

   "I do, too," the handsome athlete whispered, "and it's because I'm
talking to you.  Happens a lot when men my age teach young boys.  They get
very excited."

   "Why?" Timmy asked.

   "Because children, boys and girls, are beautiful just like a baby lamb
is beautiful to a boy your age.  You want to touch it and pet it, right?"

   "Yes," the boy whispered with a nod.

   "Well a child is like that to an adult," the whispering went on, "warm
and cuddly and very soft, but there's something more.  Children are
curious. They feel a man - and some women share this orientation - touching
them gently all over their bodies and if they like the man they want it to
go on and on.  Then the man asks if they know where babies come from, and
that makes the touching even more exciting because all along, from the
first, they know its very mature to hold still and maybe wiggle their hips
a little while a mature person's hands go up underneath their clothes and
touch their bare skin.

   "So, the answer is," the teacher noted, "men - and a very large number
it is, indeed - like to touch little boys and girls because it feels soft,
warm and smooth, and because some children love being touched."



   "And you left out...?" the boy whispered.

   "That the touching goes on and on," his friend replied, "first touching
under the clothes, and if the child likes that, he guides the adult to a
private place.  The adult talks to the child to be sure he or she
understands what's going on and wants it to happen, a different thing from
wanting a sweet, an action figure, or a puppy in a window.  If the little
boy or girl is positive, and children as young as three are absolutely
capable of being totally positive, in spite of the prevalence and relevance
of short-attention-span issues.  Most kids play with the box longer than
the toy, but not all.  Some use the gift as the beginning of a toy
collection and take the greatest care, soon graduating to models,
collecting, and other enduring hobbies.  And the luckiest of all get good
books and read them from cover to cover.  So when a man lets a boy take him
to a private place he wants to start by touching his young body, then talk
and see if the child's truly willing, then the adult gets naked so the boy
or girl can see his body and his penis.  Then the man takes off the boy's
shirt and pants and lies him back on the bed in his underpants, and lies
beside him and touches and kisses him while he answer's all the youngster's
questions and tells him stories of what happened when he was a little boy.



   "And I almost forgot to add," the teacher continued, "that it makes a
man feel like a little boy, himself, when he touches a child under his
clothes.  Even boys of ten or eleven like feeling five or six when they
take a bath with a child that age, and sometime children even like it when
their granddads molest them, so its possible for a seventy year old to feel
like a seven year old, but that's pretty rare as most kids want to be
taught by someone who's young and attractive."

   "So I'll want to touch little boys when I get older?" the child
whispered, letting a trace of childish awe into his voice.

   "Yes," his friend said, "and if you're a smart seven year old you'll
build your whole life around it.  Get top grades, especially in math,
chemistry, and the tough stuff.  Then all the doors are open and you can
work in summer camps or either volunteer or make a career where you're
around kids from seven to thirteen.  Keep fit and develop a personality
that's in any way better than that of an ogre and the occasional willing
child will come along, in fact, parents will often half place them in your
lap.  It not only doesn't interfere with getting married and having kids of
your own, it makes marriage an exciting resource of new children you'd
otherwise not be likely to get close to."



   "So," Timmy whispered, "this is not only the best day of my life, but
the first day?"

   "It was for me," Mr.  Jones said.  "We talked a lot.  It lasted for
hours.  And it's been happening ever since.  In fact, it's so special that
memories are good enough to get through even years when nothing happens. 
On the one hand, it allows great independence, because if you know you
don't have to spend a lot of time going through the confusing and
inconsistent rituals of finding out, while, when you get older, it makes
you a more active member of the community.  If you join a theater group to
paint scenery - in hopes - at least you joined the theater group.  Be
active in your town and neighborhood, without overdoing it, and, again,
you'll find ample contact not only with attractive young boys and girls,
but cute kids with parents who have no objection to them being with you and
even going on trips with you.  And on top of that, there's the church. 
Some pastors are thoughtful and have a lot to say without having to drape
everything in ritual, superstition, and pageantry, plus the singing is fun.
But the rule is: perform, quietly.  Parents and even kids have
long-distance radar for interlopers, men who want to touch one then the
next then the next; touch and go.  Too eager, too polite, too obliging, too
with the eyes.  And what the quickies end up with is the punks and greedy
sluts from families who couldn't care less, or nobody, child or adult."



   "The talking part is nice," Timmy said, new warmth in his sweet, young
voice, "but what happens after?"

   "Well," the teacher said, "remember how your mom was telling you you'd
have to share the shower with your uncle and maybe even Christopher?"

   "Yes," the boy said, reddening beautifully.

   "And you don't wear your underpants in the shower, right?"

   "No," the boy admitted.

   "Okay," his friend said, "he'll probably take them off while you're
lying on your back.  He'll ask you if it's okay, looking into your eyes to
be sure, then when you nod or say yes, he'll molest your for a little
while, then put a pillow under your head so you can watch what he's doing,
then kneel with your legs between his.  He'll double check to be sure your
ready.  You show him you are by lifting your bottom up off the bed and
bringing your legs together so he can pull them down over your knees.  Then
he'll slowly get you completely naked, and pose for you with his fingers
linked behind his neck and his chest arched out.  Then he'll get down on
his arms and move so he's spread-eagle over you, all his muscles straining.
Then, while you watch, he'll slowly lower down to you so his big man's
erection touches your growing penis.  He'll stay over you like that for a
long time, because what they call the `glans,' the tip of a man, is very
sensitive, and a boy's young, hard erection feels hot and kind of hard and
soft at the same time.  Eventually, your uncle will tire from that position
and lie down beside you.  The whole time you may be talking, asking him
questions and listening to his stories, plus, if you're experienced,
yourself, you can tell him about your first time.  Lots of men love to hear
that from young partners, but not all, so it's a play-it-by-ear situation."





   "Is that the end of it?" the student asked, "when he can't stay over me
any more touching himself against me?"

   "No," the man assured the boy, "that's just the beginning.  He'll ask
you if you're okay, then, probably whispering very gently, he'll ask if you
want to go into the bathroom and have sex with him in the shower.  He'll
explain it's against the law and that he'll be raping you.  If you nod or
whisper that it's okay, he'll probably want to play the standard game with
you.  That consists of you pretending you're completely inexperienced, with
him taking the role of a coach.  Again, he'll answer any questions you
have, and maybe keep on with a story, if you're interested.  You'll go in
by yourself.  When you're in the shower you'll leave the water off.  You'll
stand against the tiles, hiding your penis from him.  In a minute or two,
you'll hear the click of the door behind you.  That's the most exciting
single moment in the life of many a boy, that soft, plastic-on aluminum
click.  Then you'll sense him close behind you.  He may stand there for a
few minutes looking down over your head, shoulders, back, and your bottom,
anticipating what it will be like to touch you and have sex with you. 
Before too long you'll feel his hands on your neck and shoulders.  He'll
whisper and ask if it's okay to get close.  You nod your head, then you'll
feel his penis against your back and his hands will go around in front of
you.  That's molesting.  His head will be over your shoulder and after he's
experimented with your soft, smooth body for a few minutes, he'll want to
see your boner.  He'll pull you back very gently and you'll let him have
his way, however embarrassed you are."

   "Are we allowed to play two games at once?" the boy, returning to
eleven, asked.

   "As long as it's just two," the man replied, "otherwise no one will know
what they're listening to."

   "Well," the boy mused, "I want you to be my pretend uncle Mill,
pretending he's a coach, while I pretend I'm Timmy pretending he's an
inexperienced little boy waiting in the shower."

   "H'mm," his friend, "Craig pretending he's Timmy, Timmy, he's the boy in
the shower, while Andrew pretends he's Mr.  Jones pretending he's a
concerned gym teacher or coach."

   "That's only three times two," the child noted.

   "Yes," his companion agreed tolerantly, "and I don't suppose anyone is
keeping score."

   "Well," Craig responded, "I don't want to make it confusing, but you
were against me, you know, while we were in the hall, so I thought maybe we
could take it from where little Jimmy goes into the shower, but he's too
scared to pull down his underpants so he keeps them on."

   "And the dolls?" the man asked.

   "While we were doing the dishes," the tyke answered, "a boy named Chuck
told me they have a wardrobe of girls' clothes here, so I thought maybe I
could dress up that way and invite my daddy to a tea party.  Then I'll be
really embarrassed because the dolls I took in for show-and-tell got mixed
up with the dolls used in health class, but Daddy is really kind and
understanding, so I start asking him questions..."

   "It is not wrong for you to think in terms of being a writer," Andrew
remarked to his friend.  "One might even go so far as to say you have an
auspicious inclination to blend fact and fantasy, which I understand is
much what the art is all about." It was the beginning of a perfect
conversation, for the trip home and fundamental to any artist's career was
having a vast well of experience to draw on, experience one didn't get
sitting in place and gnawing on abstractions.  Their game plan decided, the
young man and the boy went into action.  Craig, now playing another nervous
little boy, this time ten-year-old Jimmy went to the bathroom while Andrew
stripped naked by the bed.  He let two or three minutes pass for the same
reason the theater darkens for a few dramatic moments before the show
begins.



   "Jimmy!" he called in a firm voice, pretending to search the room,
"Jimmy, all the boys have to wear them to play baseball.  It's nothing to
be ashamed of and I'm sorry I embarrassed you."

   No answer so he decided to search the locker room.  Here he called out,
there he called out, and still no answer.  He paused at the shower door,
whispering the name.  Again, the adult permitted a dramatic pause, then he
opened the frosted glass panel to the satisfying click of the catch.

   "There you are," he whispered gently.  "I brought you your clothes so
you can get dressed and go home now if you want to."

   "I'm just scared," the boy murmured.

   "Is it okay if I come in and talk to you for a little while?" came the
husky response, "you can keep your underpants on if you want, but I took me
briefs off so you wouldn't be embarrassed by being the only one who wasn't
dressed."

   "What are you going to do?" the child whispered into the tile wall.

   "Talk to you," his coach said, "tell you what happened when I went on a
hunting trip at your age with three friends of my dad's, only my dad
couldn't go because he cracked a tooth and had to stay in town to go to the
dentist, so it was just me, ten, and Frank, Lock, and Henry, my dad's
tennis team for men's doubles.  I thought you might like to hear what
happened on that trip, because the same kind of thing happens to lots of
boys.  It's how they learn."

   "Did they make you show them?" the plaintive voice murmured.

   "They tried," the coach replied, "but the torch ran out of acetylene."



   "Oh," the boy said, letting plenty of disappointment into his voice on
the off chance the naked adult behind him would jump to an erroneous
conclusion and leave.

   "Nobody's ever tried that with you, Jimmy?" the young man responded,
"knives or torches or chainsaws?"

   "I'm a good boy," the tyke murmured.

   "Then how `bout the old soft soap," Coach Bill said, "telling you're
really cute and you have to learn sometime and they want to be your best
friend and even teach you about making babies?"

   "I guess not that good," the boy said.

   "Or how about strangers?" the man coaxed, "no gang of bikers has ever
picked you up and taken you down a lonely country road and tied you up in
the loft of a barn and made you do things?"

   "Too good," the youngster whispered.

   "Or how `bout a coach that really likes you and has to fit you with a
cup if you want to play baseball?"

   "That sounds about right," came the response.

   "And how about if he tells you he doesn't keep any other boys after gym,
that you're the only one, and that it's something no one will ever know
about unless you want to tell them, would you let a man like that do a few
things?"



   "That's not what I'm scared about," the child whispered.  "I want you to
do whatever you want, I'm just nervous because you might not like it with
me; that I might not do the right things and get you mad or something."

   "I felt the same way when Frank and the two others picked me up and took
me to the grouse lodge.  I wanted to be big and mature with them and I was
afraid they'd think I was too little or a sissy and would be too scared to
try anything.  So it mostly I was scared they'd think I was scared, but
that went away when we started driving and the next thing you know they
were asking me lots of questions and telling be about things that happened
to them when they were kids, and had anything like that happened to me yet,
and how would I feel if it did.  A lot of the time we talked about other
things, too, about traveling in Mexico and skin diving, but I really liked
hearing how their voices got when I asked them for details about things
that had happened.  Same thing I'm doing with you, Jimmy, it's called
desensitizing, getting you used to it, and giving you lots of time to
decide you're not interested, because most boys don't want anything like
that to happen until they have a girlfriend.  And yes, it's called
molesting and sexual abuse, so that's more stuff to think about, but, at
the same time, boys who do like it really love it.  It becomes the best
thing in their lives and they go back to the man many times and even find
other men and older boys they like, and they let them touch them, too."



   "How long does desensitizing take?" the boy asked, the slightly
artificial nature of the question exciting the coach because it indicated
he wanted to know more, to continue the conversation.

   "Three rest areas," he answered, "but that was with three adults
desensitizing one ten year old.  It doesn't matter, and, in fact, the
longer it takes, the more intense and exciting it is when you finally nod
your head and say okay."

   "Is that why kids aren't meant to do it?" the child then asked, "because
it's really complicated and confusing like the phone bill?"

   "Yes," his friend said, "it can be very complicated, and children
naturally go from thing to thing rather than sticking with one thing,
which, on top of a basic level of uncertainty, can result in bad
experiences."

   "But isn't the worst thing to have no experience?" the junior logician
said, "and isn't too much better than too little, you know, because people
forget bad things pretty quickly, but things they don't know are absolutely
useless?"

   "If we lived in a free country," the man said, "you'd be able to write a
paper for school on that very supposition and talk about it with adults and
other boys and girls your own age, but any kind of writing even bringing up
questions about men being with young boys is restricted to the Web.  In
fact, even the most graphic and lewdest of porn is almost always clearly
marked that children are excluded.

   "At the same time," he continued, "millions of boys ARE involved.  About
one out of out of every six."

   "So I can't write about it but I can do it?"

   "Yes," Coach Bill said, "but that's not as ironic as it seems, because
in the real world there actually is a lot of tolerance.  You and I can hang
out all we want, and you can even spend nights with me if your parents say
it's okay.  Everybody will kinda know, and no one will care as long as
you're happy and we're never in any way open about what happens in private.
Everybody will know and as long as we're careful in keeping it out
business, no one will care."

   "Then why doesn't it happen more often?" the boy asked.  "Why don't you
have two or three boys stay after with you, and spend overnights with you?"

   "Because I'm new here," the adult said.  "Plus, I'd be very satisfied
with just you, but lots of boylovers do have several kids they play with,
so if you know anyone who might like hanging out with us, it's cool to tell
them you let me take your underpants off and we took a shower together. 
You're bright enough not to tell a moron or troublemaker, so it's up to
you. You might even tell several of your friends, and I guarantee if you
do, you'll find another boy your age who's doing secret things he wants to
tell about.  In a lot of neighborhoods there's even a kind of informal club
of several men who do things like take a bunch of boys to ball games and
museums, and molest them in hotel rooms at night."

   "And you have a big car," little Jimmy whispered.



   "It's the one I got raped in," the man said, "they gave it to me when I
turned sixteen.  Seventy-seven Buick Wildcat.  They had me in the back seat
for two hours in the rest area, with the windows open.  When I took my
shirt off so they could look at me a man and boy from another car came to
look, he was about thirteen and was with his cousin who was like twenty.  I
lay back on the seat and Frank came in back with me first.  He took his
clothes off and took my pants off, then he lay beside me on the seat and
started asking me questions about how experienced I was and if it was okay
if he spermed on me, because we had some paper towels and he could do it
that way if I wanted.  I could tell the boy looking in really wanted to see
everything, so even though I didn't really know what it was he was talking
about, I said it would be okay.

   "That's how it started," Coach Bill whispered, "do you want me to tell
you the rest?"

   "Yes," came the rasping voice from the now panting little boy.

   "Okay," his friend said, "and when you're ready for me to touch you,
just raise your hands up above your head and I'll come up close behind you
so you can have the same feeling I did while I was lying on the seat of the
car with my hands over my head and Frank was running his hands all over me
and pushing his boner against me."

   "Was it really hard?" the boy said, his hands going as high on the tiles
as he could stretch.

   "Little boys make men even harder than girls do," the adult said, moving
close and circling the immature body with gentle hands.

   "And hot, too," Jimmy whispered, "you feel really hot against me."

   "Would you like me to go up inside my underpants?" the play coach asked,
"that's what Frank did before he got me naked, he put his penis inside my
briefs, first in back, then I rolled over and he did it in front, which I
really liked because I was embarrassed about them all seeing me with a
boner, and that was a way to get used to it so I didn't mind, and then I
got so excited, especially for the boy looking in the window to see me, I
pulled my own underpants down."



   The child's nods brought the story to a halt.  The coach huddled over
the young boy, molesting him while gently probing inside his white, cotton
briefs.  Jimmy panted and moaned especially when the athlete pushed firmly
up between his legs, finally setting up a rhythm of short stokes which
rubbed firmly against the youth's hard four-inch erection.  Both panted and
moved to help each other, the boy especially sweating and hissing as the
gentle assault by the adult continued.  "How long was Frank in back of
you," the youngster asked.

   "I guess ten minutes or so," his teacher said, "it was very gentle and
just went on and on like something really perfect, and the boy and his
cousin looking in didn't turn away for an instant so I guess it looked
pretty nice, you know, seeing a handsome young man teaching a boy with a
girl's body.  Then it hurt my neck looking over my shoulder, so I rolled on
my back and Frank went in front of me from my right side while the man
started molesting the boy who was watching in through the open window.  The
two in the front seat were naked and leaning over to touch both of us, and
by that time I liked doing it almost in the open, even though I knew I'd
never want to do it again, just once for the thrill.  That's when Frank
moved away and I pulled off my briefs, then lay back and spread my legs so
the could look at me.  Frank started having sex with me using his hands and
rubbing me up and down.  The teenager with his younger cousin opened the
door and let the boy kneel on the seat while he pulled off his shirt and
opened up his shorts, then Frank helped brace him with his shoulder and the
boy's cousin started doing to him what Frank kept doing to me.  We both got
really excited from what the older guys were teaching us, and then the boy
said, "I'm gonna cum," and his cousin and Frank made him almost touch me
when he started doing it."



   "What did it look like?" little Jimmy whispered as he turned to face his
coach.  They panted and grunted a few moments as the adult found his way up
inside his little boy's briefs.

   "It mostly felt really hot," the man rasped hoarsely as he thrust firmly
against his young student, "and it was kind of milky and watery at the same
time, but the amazing thing was how much there was, and then Frank started
cumming with the younger boy, and pretty soon they were both splashing all
over my tummy and my legs.

   "After about a minute, it was just flowing out of them, their sperm, and
the older cousin got naked and the boy got on his back at the same time
Frank went around, still naked to the front seat, and Lock came in back.  I
was really ready for more and panting for them to show me again, and that
time it happened right away, then Henry came in back with me and another
boy, he looked about nineteen, took the place of the cousins, who'd given
us a note with their phone number on it.  Henry jerked him off on me while
he braced over me on the seatbacks, then it was just me and him, Henry, on
the back seat and he asked me if he could sperm in my mouth.  He licked
some off my belly to give my a taste, and I said it was okay, so he braced
over me and I slid down to where I could reach him, and took him in my
mouth.  He was wet and salty from rubbing against what had happened all
over my front, so it was really neat learning to do it.  I had to practice
about five minutes, then I got it and started doing it right.  He was
whispering to me, then he started getting really tense and I knew from the
others it was going to happen.  Then it was like taking a gulp of sea
water, only hot; salty and hot, and he kept spilling it in my mouth and I
had to swallow and swallow and it still ran down over my cheeks.  Then it
stopped with Henry, too, and he collapsed on me, making me wriggle because
his wet chest felt really incredible against me.  After a minute, he went
down between my legs and did the same thing to me, with his mouth.  I put
my right leg over the back of the driver's seat and my left leg up on the
back seat so I could show him I really liked what was happening by
thrusting hard and fast against his mouth.  Then I felt sort of on fire and
it got hotter and I froze so I couldn't move a muscle, then it was like
hammering and made me dizzy, and after a minute I kinda fainted from in and
fell back on the seat.  All three of them took turns cleaning me up, mostly
licking, and being sure there wasn't any sperm on the upholstery.  Then we
all relaxed for awhile in the back seat, and I got down on my knees and
sucked all three of them and tasted their sperm until I'd had enough. 
Finally, after an hour or so, we pulled our clothes back on and headed for
the lodge, chatting away and having fun like nothing special had happened."



   "Can we pretend the bed is the car?" the cute tyke asked.

   "Yes," the adult said, picking the ninety pound eleven year up, penis
still hard inside Craig's underpants, and carried him to the bedroom.  It
had been four great hours and the couple lay side by side.  The boy lifted
his hips for the man and in a few moments they were watching each other
masturbate.  Andrew ejaculated first, cumming heavily over the panting boy
on his left.  Craig followed immediately, his watery semen spurting nearly
three feet as hey lay rigid and frozen for fully half a minute.  By
acclimation, they slept in separate beds.

   Photoplay - End File 6

   xxx