Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Sex with Boys and Girls - 1

   by Feather Touch



   Looking back I suppose it was way Tom Cruise, risky business, but the
pictures came out great, and a Corvette passing at three feet is no
different than the distance most people stand from an approaching subway.
It gave the right blur, in any event, and the prints enhanced our normal
college-guy friendship, and so we ended up in Kansas City together. 
Nothing had happened before then.  Once I'd come unexpectedly on him in the
shower, and he might have been jerking off; gave me a little something of a
look, I suppose, and the moment passed.  Stan, at the time of our
adventure, was a red head with a perfection of Slavic molding that would
have assured a career as a model, had I not seen the very substantial
reward of the gender gods.  He was fun.  Our first great adventure was
strapping four M-80s to the bottom of a glass jug full of gasoline, and, in
the safest way and place imaginable, suspending it from a railroad bridge
over a junk filled stream, and with a cigarette attached to the fuse.  It
is true that the device exploded precisely as a police car passed us and
the cop hit the brakes.  Stan did a good job of faking astonishment, and
the car proceeded.  We were likely saved by the picayune display, very un
dramatic, though how the officer might have attached us to an event
happening over fifty yards away leaves some wiggle room.  Anyhow, he was,
next to my roommate, my best friend on campus, and how many of you had a
best friend on campus, who was a, way nice, and b, had a Corvette, even if
it was blue and white?

   I was at a loss for words and didn't think it was a result of
overextending myself on the school paper.  Stan and I lived on separate
halls, and so I'd seen him once for three seconds, at the outside.  Now he
- looking way young-teen - was standing in front of the mirror in his white
briefs, ostensibly looking in his shaving kit, but catching my eye in the
process and lingering over whatever he was doing.  I'd been with a man as a
nine year old, so was technically not a virgin, but this was still extreme
in the new issues appendix to the covenant, and I didn't know what to say.
Maybe just "hi" would do, and maybe he was just wondering if he should wait
and take his shower after I was done, though that could hardly have
mattered less.  I though of standard approaches: "Gee, it would be cool to
have a Playboy to read," but I only read Playboy and didn't react to the
pictures which seemed pseudo synthetic, plus airbrushing.  Snapping him
with a towel leading to gotchas and wrestling - I was in my briefs, too -
might have been an approach, but we weren't much in the thumping department
and it would have been out of character.  Removing said towel from my waist
where I'd nonchalantly positioned it for a very chalant reason would be
going far faster and further than college guys of our era would have been
likely to go, and could end up in a long hitch back to Iowa.  But all these
were tangents, because my tongue was tied by an extreme ultimate in taboo.
I wanted to ask him questions.  He was a classic, physically perfect, and,
yes, he obviously excited ME physically, but there should be so much more
to it, so much more than a few minutes panting together in the shower.  But
not only questions, not limiting it to that weirdness, that creepy
perversion, that degenerate aspect, that queer facet, but questions about
thing that might have happened along the way, when he was in high school,
or even in junior high or grade school.  Very at a loss for words.



   Still am.  The enigma is a python, the African constrictor that bites
anything and holds on while it wraps lunch, not the friendly South American
boa which only bites to eat.  The enigma is this: what else were we to talk
about?  Looking back, I mean, and telling of that weekend, what's left if
we did haltingly discover that for once we did want to talk about what guys
don't talk about and I had to leave all that out?  Then why leave it out?
Because of the challenge inherent in violating the formula.  One and a
third million words, and not enough thematic variation to span a CD,
edge-on.  Willowy child in the hands of an athletic young adult, and if the
child's a girl the adult is likely to be her tall brother or cute dad.  Now
two nineteen year olds glancing at each other in a plate-glass motel
mirror. I've never told a story like that.  Without a little help and
usually several little helpers.  Stan must have been a red-headed dart as a
ten year old, and leggy and nearly twice the age, he still had more than
half of it.  I was a raving beauty, myself; hairless and now that my hair
had grown out a couple of inches, thanks to the twelve hundred miles
separating me from my mother's buzz-cut, Oster machina el demonio, I got
carded at McDonald's.  The man I'd learned with had ejaculated as I coaxed
him from his briefs, or in a dozen little-boy strokes if that didn't
happen, so I was kind of extra sensitive to that side of what is generally
termed appeal, but that seemed pretty remote from lying on my back watching
Stan watch me.  Forbidden, secret, unmanly, private, discreet, and faggoty,
which was thoroughly ironic because I had zero desire to even sleep in the
same bed as my friend, much less cuddle the night away.  No way.  At the
same time, I WAS getting more curious by the moment as to what might have
happened to the beauty as he was maturing, or not happened.  There I went,
unable to think of anything else, and not even able to sputter.



   I had to do better.  Put locked-in preconceptions aside, while not
throwing them out.  The last thing I wanted was for Stan to come up and
kiss me in the commons or become attached in any way exceeding our typical
collegiate friendship.  Would have bet the `Vette, had I owned it, he felt
the same.  But that was putting everything aside, not wanting this equaling
not wanting that and not wanting that equaling not wanting anything.  I was
a writer, published every week at nineteen, and would soon go on to being
published every day in broadcasting, I had to take chances others wouldn't
have dared, because seeing your words pour off the presses by the tens of
thousands of copies makes one wonder in terms of hundreds of thousands and
dream in terms of millions, but, you have to have something to say.  Even
then, look around.  Others are saying huge amounts about everything.  It's
there by the ton.  Industries supply the ink.  That means you really have
to have something to say and to do that a writer must take chances and
probe and prod at any likely source.  It was thus I psyched myself up to do
better.



   But that was then and this is now.  A substantial body of work and
passing three million downloaded files, as alike as cans of LeSeur baby
peas, and now I'm meant to deal with two consenting adults.  Ease from my
bed and, towel held as if I were headed into the shower, come up behind him
as he looked at me in the mirror, and stand close.  Feel his warmth against
my bare chest.  Keep standing there wondering how far-fetched it would be
to pretend a mosquito had alighted on his right flank and I was picking it
off gently enough not to offend the ultra-life Hindus of legend (those who
gently sweep ants from their path).  But me?  I'd rather touch him just as
described, but ask if he'd ever played doctor.  If he had a kid sis.  If
he'd ever unbuckled a heavy buckle and fastened heavy man's jeans as a
tyke, his fingers shaking with excitement because of the hot torrent of
sperm just seconds away.  Sure, nobody dared write about things like that,
but the last thing I was or am is a contrarian, a rebel for the sake of the
attention rebellion brings.  No, a run-of-the-mill conformist, go with the
flow kinda guy, then and now, so I didn't want to write about what really
happened that night just because nobody else would, but because we were two
beautiful young animals with the consciousness and responsiveness to tell
each other of beauty.  More, we both agreed on an ultimate, pure, physical,
sensual beauty, an aesthetic passion that was rare in inception and rarer
yet in the telling.



   What if it had been different?  He'd shown me pictures of his steady
girl back in Manhattan (N.Y.), and she had the slightly full and, well,
sort of rubbery look one associates with an all-nighter, so we could have
gone off on Mary Jane; I could have omitted my story of summer camp, and
maybe ended up masturbating while we watched each other from our
side-by-side beds, then tissues and on to the sports page.  The towel thing
has undoubtedly been used to incite wrestling, and our underpants wouldn't
have lasted long if that had happened, not much longer than it took to tell
about it, especially in the state at which I was arriving watching him
still standing in the mirror and making eye contact from time to time.



   I'm trying here to lay it on you edgewise and at the mildest oblique
possible that I'm a one trick pony.  If it had been over in breathless
minutes with Stan and me, that I'd be incapable of going back all Norman
Mailer and dissecting what he felt and what I felt and how we felt about
what others felt and the manifestations of dereliction and the subliminal
angst along with the acting out attendant to our fall from grace.  Yes, one
trick, so it behooves me, pun unavoidable, to set a fiery pace and make my
limited act the best in the world.  I've been exchanging letters with Mark
on this subject: formula, probably rationalizing an underlying deficit of
talent by taking the stance that ritual and repetition are inherent in
storytelling, as they are in music, and it becomes the orchestration that's
important; the melody enriched and enhanced rather than ever changing. 
Nonetheless I've managed to bring two senior teens together, college
freshman, and even if they're sleek, long-legged and boyish, they are, for
once, of age.  Can't you see the strain telling?  No amount of talent could
hide it.  Look at my file sizes.  Eighty kilobytes of text, a hundred, way
over a hundred.  And these stories are about consenting adult?  Hello! 
"Where's the beef?" That may be still buzzing around.  Stan and I were all
athletic, tuned, adventurous, charming, snow-white beef.  And that's a good
thing; lean protein, often raised on land unsuitable for alternative
farming; luxurious lives for the animals and a painless end, but there
always seem to be limitations and even filet mignon is wrapped in bacon, so
beef, yea, but something more, too, and no, not a heavy roll to intrude and
ameliorate the essential feast, but something, you know, along the line of
cute little buns.



   Reminder: this is something I wanted to know about, not something, at
that time in my life I'd ever done, other than the camp experiences, which,
apparently do to my dazzling presence as a nine year old, had made Jon
ejaculate fully into the bushes inside a minute.  I had not been kissed,
molested, or slicked with the hot semen of my mature partner.  I had not
experimented with my tongue to the extent of a single drop, for all the
heavy streaks of white sperm my eager twinkie hand had stroked from my
tall, athletic counselor.  He had neither tried to touch or use his tongue
on me.  And I had initiated the relationships, though, I suppose, he might
have set me up by suggesting I ask certain questions along certain lines
that boys sometimes talk to older guys about.  Don't think so, think it was
wholly my idea, but all I remember is using the word "frank" because I knew
it was a subject one talked frankly about.  I was instantly responsive to
going into the woods with him, every time, even though Jon approached the
subject in a mature and gentlemanly way, in fact, Victorian, by saying very
little.  He never quizzed me and never told me anything about his
initiation, presumably as a young boy.  The only thing he said was the camp
director liked to do it, and, indeed, there was a guy who was pulling it
off; a guru type with a retinue, very nice as well as charismatic, and a
great believer in the Fifth Freedom, which was freedom from clothes, which
turned Timberlake into a nudist colony part of each day, with Ken commonly
in attendance with his eight millimeter Kodak movie camera, the same kind
we had at home.



   In actuality, and we're diverging here, I know, but Stan's still
standing at the mirror, his towel loosely bunched in front of him as mine
is casually strewn across my waist, not saying anything but no longer
fussing in his shaving kit, more looking at me as I looked back at him, so
it's not as if we're headed for Timbuktu or something.  there was very
little molestation going on, considering the circumstances; a hundred or
more naked boys with a generous helping of college-age male councilors,
also naked much of the time, especially when it came to swimming and
canoeing.  That was strange, because it was so exciting, and they were all
nice kids, and I can't imagine any of them objecting to time alone with our
Ivy League staff members.  Of course, it's possible thing were going on on
the sly.  We went on several camp outs and maybe they slipped sleeping
pills into your bug juice and took boy toys into the counselors' tents at
night, carefully wiping our fledgling bodies clean before returning us to
our pup tents.  In fact, the only exception I remember was Johnny Bland
displaying his boner, a full four inches jutting up from his very slightly
plump belly and thighs, as we all gathered around to look, but that lasted
less than a minute and was never repeated.  I wasn't mentally agile enough
at the time to figure out if Jon was taking other boys out for short walks
at nap time, but I strongly doubt it, and, most regrettably, Motoi, the
junior councilor, never expressed any interest so it was perhaps the
beginning of your one-trick pony.  As I've written elsewhere, it was what
didn't happen that I regret, that I wasn't fully molested by Jon, even
spending an hour in bed with him while he came on me repeatedly, though I
certainly wouldn't have wanted to sleep with him, not with so many girls
running around loose.  As long as it never became any kind of pressure
thing, my guess is I would have liked spending time alone with any of the
staff, perhaps even Ken who was well into his sixties.  And, for sure, I
know I would have liked being quizzed, after the first time, having the
story coaxed out of me, while stroking one of those fit, young adults and
listening to his story for at least a few minutes before he tensed and I
knew to hold him against my panting chest, but low enough so my eyes would
focus on the thick sprays of semen covering me with hot puddles.  Something
way reasonable but exciting, too.  Maybe ten times over the two months.  In
any event, I had the best summer ever, and that's saying something because
both ancestral summer homes are very-old-money shorefront locations, even
if it could have been better.



   "Do you think we had enough great adventure getting here?" Stan asked.
We'd crossed Iowa with the top down, and that's a lot of wind, so I was on
the same page.

   "If I don't now I will in another hour," I replied, "so if you want to
put the top up I'll help you and we can stay in."

   "Thanks," he said, wrapping his towel around him as I did.  We went out
and got the car ready for the night, then returned to the room and sat
opposite each other on the twin beds.  I had my camera with me, even a
strobe, rare enough in '65, and could have used them as an opening gambit;
we could have shanghaied us some drinkin' liquor and giggled over naughtier
pictures of each other, that could have been a desensitizer, but I took the
photo thing pretty seriously and like any professional would first do no
harm by never using it, well, that way.  Sitting, towels bunched at our
waists, still in our white cotton briefs, almost at the "underpants" age,
we couldn't tell much about each other, somehow not straying off onto our
usual banter which was very usual, considering we were both bright, way
cute, and in play if not, in my case, anyhow, scoring.  (Total celibacy
from Jon, and a brief shower with Peter Ketchum, who masturbated me with
extreme success, to the present, including kissing in the sense of making
out, yet in play to the extent of numerous near misses and attracting at
least superficial interest in so many girls it had to be (and turned out to
be) a matter of time before some lithe redhead, looking as much like Stan
as possible, though my own high-cheeked, fox faced, big eyed Anglo Saxon
countenance could be substituted for his classic Slavic beauty without
engendering prejudice in the eyes of the viewer (who happens to put
Eurasian teen girls at the top of his list), appeared on my tweaked radar.
But that would be then and this was now.



   Mostly I wanted it to last.  Instinct told me if I simply dropped my
towel and stood in front of him, he'd do something with me and let me do
what I wanted with him, totally homosexual though I don't suppose we shared
a gay bone between us, and that I'd ejaculate as quickly in his hands as
Jon had in mine, and he'd do the same before I'd built up the courage, or
whatever it is, to try touching him with my tongue.  Then what?  Pizza? 
We'd already had pizza.



   Our extreme beauty, in fact, left out any touching, and in addition the
karma told at least me, and probably him, that if it happened on the spot,
at the moment, there would be far less chance of it happening again than if
it was more perfect the first time, and that if we could somehow make it
just plain perfect, it might happen late into the night, exhausting us for
the moment, and leading to at least brief private encounters as long as we
were both at school together.  Yes, touching was a no-no.  And that left
talking, hanging me on the great horn, Dilemma, because I wasn't gay and I
didn't want to tell the beauty I loved him and wanted to go dancing.  I
didn't want to comment on how this boy in the music magazines was really
cute, or did he think the other cutie was gay, or what he thought of some
of the letters to the Playboy Advisor.  Gave me the creeps just to think
about it.  Looking at him, and by now we were all but staring openly at
each other, three feet between us, I wondered if his lily white skin had
ever felt an illicit touch, that of a mature teen or attractive adult, if
his hands had ever felt what mine had, Jon hugely swollen, gigantic, his
glans especially glistening as he became hard as wood in my childish hand,
and the long seconds it was really happening before the heavy bolts of
thick, white semen jetted six or seven times into the bushes.  And maybe
more.  Maybe it had happened on him, even when he was a little twinkie of a
ten year old, maybe an adult had lost control all over him as I'd wanted
Jon to do on my body.  And even on his tongue.  If Jon's cum had splattered
him, instinct would have guided me with triple the force of gravity at
least to an experimental lick.  Had that beautiful mouth experimented with
a mature boy's hot spill?  And that was just for openers.  How ABOUT girls?
Yes, Mary Jane, but things beyond that, alternative things, with females.
How could a six year old chick keep her hands off him?  That had happened
to me; extremely young girls falling madly in love, and, for sure, knowing
what they were about, but, again, near misses, while at the same time of
value as reference points (and very, very accurate ones I might add, as
events in later years proved repeatedly, and unabatedly).  Or he could be
in my camp, almost nothing, perhaps Mary Jane had been the first to feel
that beautiful chest her nipples and take the first flow of his hot seed,
at a routine age of fifteen or thereabouts.  Would it be a replay of
Timberlake, things that hadn't happened, stories he couldn't tell should I
make so bold as to ask?  Nah, too beautiful.  I'd passed largely untouched
by flukes and circumstances, Jon could have been repeated several times
with any degree of luck, so the chances stood in my favor, especially as
he'd grown up in a stable, urban environment versus my half Old New
England, half suburban New York existence with constant changes of school
and scene.  Come on, Emerson, something had to have happened, and one day
you'll end up a supreme writer, but not if you sit tongue tied with supreme
opportunity all but in your lap.



   But mightn't one be hanged for a sheep if he talked of lambs?  Deemed a
retard for not being able to think of something a little more
grown-fucking-up?  "Emerson loves little dickie-dickies!" Wrong guy on the
other bed, and that would be all over campus, where everyone knew me
because I was the only photographer among two thousand undergraduates. 
Well, at least that thought defined one extreme, with its opposite being a
cloying gay thing, and it wasn't the era for that offensive anomaly.  And
extremes were part of my life, making them most relevant to the situation.
Stan came from money, he had a late-model Corvette, and I didn't, but I
come from the old kind, vast lands, scant cash, which is why we have the
vast lands.  Along with this goes the disorientation of Calvinistic
attitudes mixed with the randyness of goats, grandfather for granddaughters
and brother for sister, so the moral compass doohickey swung to the north
of opportunity.  It wasn't anything goes, in fact had anyone but Stan or
Allan, my boyish, even by our standards, roommate, called Squirrel because
of a way sexy overbite, been sitting on the other bed I wouldn't have
needed to bunch my towel in front of me, and we'd be discussing plans to do
something.



   I think at this point I've done my duty by Mark.  I've seriously tried
to break the formula, and four thousand words in have concentrated on the
relationship of two nineteen year olds, boyish in the extreme though they
are, and, while not altogether excluding children, have indulged in no
lingering scene of whispering and experimentation between an adult and a
child as willing as I was.



   Sex with boys and girls.  Sex as a boy.  It would keep our hands off
each other and might delay what was going to happen for hours, and
correspondingly enhancing and amplifying what finally did happen.  All I
knew for sure was that he was smart enough to get it, that he drove in a
relaxed but extremely alert manner, that our great adventures started off
as risk free and got safer as we carried them out, and that he probably
wouldn't try strangling me if I was tangential about going all perv on him.



   "This is kind of neat," I said after a few minutes.  No studies (we were
on ye dean's list and had met in honors English, which we were on the way
to acing for the second semester), a great ride across the rolling Western
beauty of Iowa, Friday night in K.C.  with enough money to buy pussy if all
else failed, sober, because the `Vette was enough, and bare chested.

   "I'm glad there was some way I could pay you for the pictures," he
responded, which, in context, took on a thoroughly ironic note because it
was a reference to risky business, and here he was, again, three feet away,
only not receding at sixty miles an hour.

   "Did you send one to Mary Jane?" I asked.

   "Her brother went wild for it," Stan replied, "and she admitted it was
okay." Actually, M.J.  was probably my kind of girl, though Stan did
occasionally sigh in negative anticipation of trading his car for a wagon
and investing the surplus in aluminum siding.

   Now, a little bit more about writers, because I'm about to give a
demonstration of craft and it might be misinterpreted if I don't forewarn
by pointing out the fact we are, not to put too fine a point on it,
spiders, ever lurking for the summons of the web.  No tug is too slight to
escape our interest, no word or phrase can fall in our hearing without
being deemed possibly edible.  And this is a substantive characteristic,
something not just of, in the present case, words, but of tone, of
precisely how those words are uttered.  Okay?  So let's get back to writing
and the exercise of craft, with today's lesson titled Keep it Simple.



   "How old is he?" I asked, letting a distinct beat pass, with just an
edge of raggedness creeping into me voice while I stifled the shadow of a
yawn.  And he did.  He paused and even colored slightly, also spoke in an
intangibly huskier voice.

   "He just turned twelve before I came back from break," he said.

   The spider gave the fly a long time to retreat, to change the subject,
you know, since desiccated prey is of little use, indeed, might serve to
warn other game away "Would you like to see a picture?" he then asked.

   "Yes," I said.  I'd seen Mary Jane in several poses, other subjects,
pets, for example, as the topics had come up; house, cars, summer retreat,
that kind of thing, and couldn't help feeling a bit smug at the apropos
timing of bringing up boys, nor less than petrified with excitement at his
skilled return of my lobbing serve.  He sort of obviously held his towel in
front of him as he found the trucker's wallet he carried in his luggage
when we were away from the dorm.  I participated by moving toward the head
of the bed, making more room for him, and he responded by sitting at my
right, our shoulders almost touching as he thumbed through the wallet, his
towel neatly bunched (a little food for the oxy morons) in his lap.  He
recognized a picture from its corner and pulled it out.  In those days
drugstore photos were things of beauty, with neat white borders and on
crinkle cut paper that went a long way in framing the image.  But even if
they'd been today's sleazy (but cheaply run off) jumbo prints, I would
hardly have noted it.  "That's Kenny with Brad," Stan said, "he was
lifeguard with me last summer." English speaking fools, dithering on about
poets and the rag tags of philosophy, we'd never talked about practical
stuff.  I guess I knew vaguely he'd been into swimming as he might have
remembered I'd spent the summer working in a marine biology lab.  Mostly it
was trying to figure out if Shakespeare was mad as a hatter, or we were off
kilter in finding a pound of bombast for each grain of salience.  We both
read well, having spent a fair amount doing the same for our aged
grandmothers, so we'd stitch each other with flowery phrases from the
literary greats until it hurt to laugh or keep from giggling.



   Yes, my mind was going faster than the Corvette in fourth gear,
deliberately straying over lapses in the last few months, questions not
asked, subjects that never came up, anything to buy time so I didn't blurt
out "holy shit," or something elegant like that at the sight of a six two
Olympic quality swimmer, by each and every look, standing behind a
shy-looking black-haired boy with big eyes and the slender built of a ten
year old.  Both were in swimming trunks, and the lifeguard's hands were
crossed on the child's chest.  "I've got one of him with me, too," Stan
said, his voice a trace huskier, "if you want to see it."

   "They're both extremely attractive," I said, nodding and adding: "Kenny
has that easy-to-be-with look."

   He pulled out a second photo.  Same country club pool backdrop, and,
who'd have guessed it, a pair of perfect young males, Stan's hands on the
child's chest as Brad's had been.

   "And this," Stan continued, pulling out a last picture, "is Karen,
Kenny's sister.  She was with Brad, young man standing behind nine year old
girl, hands on her chest with hers on top of his as she looked brightly but
not saucily at the camera.

   "We took them the day Mary Jane sprained her ankle and I had to baby-sit
the kids.  They stayed after the pool was shut and helped us clean up."



   "Had they met Brad before?" I asked, feeling more like a tick who'd been
hanging out in a lab's ear for a couple of days than a spider at that point
in time.

   "They'd come with Mary Jane when she picked me up from work," Stan said,
and they'd usually swim for a few minutes, so they knew him."

   "They look comfortable with him," I said.

   "We get really used to being with kids that age over the summer," my
friend said, "so it becomes natural to not act phony around them, to act
kind of passive, and let them experiment with being friendly at their own
pace, but it's not as if we were trying anything, you know, encouraging
them.  I liked Kenny from helping him with his homework, and Karen from
going to her tea parties, and Brad had a sister just her age she was
friends with at school, so he wasn't like a complete stranger."



   "Stan?" I asked, "do you think it's okay to like talk about stuff once
in awhile, or should guys keep everything private?"

   "I don't know," he said, hardly more than whispering.  "They stayed a
couple of hours until Mary Jane was home from the clinic and Brad and I
could take them home, and it only took half an hour to dry the towels and
mop the locker room.  I guess a lot of guys would want to keep that kind of
secret and maybe be embarrassed about it, but at the same time, with the
right person, maybe it is okay to tell.

   "What do you think?" he concluded.

   "I'd tell you if I had anything exciting," I said, my voice the equal of
his, "but my story wouldn't last five minutes."

   "Would you tell Squirrel?" he whispered.

   "Yes," I said, "but the two of you are the only ones on campus, and I
work for the paper so I know everybody."

   "That's how I feel," he said, "you and your roommate would be okay, neat
even, and I can't say that about anyone even going back through high
school."



   We sat silently as he slowly cycled the images of his beautiful young
friends through his fingers.  "I think I was pretty lucky," he said,
"because something happened when I was eleven and I learned from experience
that kids that age and even younger can like things in a real way, not a
candy way, so when I qualified as a lifeguard I knew other kids probably
felt the same as I did.  Brad helped, too, because he was pretty open about
what was happening with Nancy, his sister, and him.  He asked me a lot of
questions after we got to know each other, and I told him what had
happened, about riding on the bus with Richard, who's the one that got me
into swimming, and he told me about how Nancy had started hanging closer
and closer to him as she got older and how their mom had finally taken them
aside and told them they were both great kids and they were free to love
each other any way they wanted so long as they were respectful of the
sensibilities of others."



   "When you talked with Brad about things," I said, "did you go into
detail, or just kind of work through allusions and references."

   "Once we were sure of each other," Stan replied, "we told each other
everything."



   Candles and incense were big even in those days, though no such thing as
lava lamps, and we'd brought a supply with us (for girls, on both our
parts, I'm pretty sure).  As if cued, we fetched them from our luggage, set
the mode of the room, and lay back on a single bed, side by side, not quite
touching, towels still covering our briefs.

   "How old was Richard?" I asked, since asking how old Mary Jane's brother
was had worked well.

   "Twenty-one," Stan said, "his summer job was driving the bus for the
country club, and, again with a lucky break, my house was the last stop and
he lived a few blocks away and kept the bus overnight so he could pick us
up in the morning."

   "It's cool that you liked him," I said, reviewing how important yet
irrelevant that facet could be.  I'd liked Jon just fine, and certainly had
less than no reason to dislike him, and it had been neat to feel him tense
in my hand then splash hard from his purplish shaft into the green foliage,
but just liking him okay had kept things at the exploratory stage, and,
truth to tell, I probably wouldn't have like it if he'd tried kissing me,
though ejaculating on me and probably even on my face would have been
acceptable.  I would have, I'm sure, liked having Motoi kiss me, cum on me,
hold me against his slick chest, cum fully in my mouth, and really molest
me for an hour at a time, and, equally, would have liked watching him
molest Peter Klaus, John Bland, or any of the other Bear Pit boys.  But
that's far from the whole story.  Over the years I've more or less come to
the conclusion that, while it's nice to have an underlying friendship, it's
also detached, and, in fact, you can have nerve-wracking experiences with
strangers or someone you perhaps don't particularly care for, and hold long
term affection for someone else who's of no physical interest.  As
ambiguous as it all is, I was glad for Stan and hoped my comment was
accurate.



   "He taught me great adventuring," my classmate said, and made my head
spin just a little by adding another sister to his story, "especially the
time we blew up Jill's Barbie collection with a pipe bomb that sent Ken
seventy-two feet, seven and a half inches from ground zero."

   "Jill?" I said, trying not to gulp and at the same time fit her in with
Karen and Nancy, one being both Mary Jane and Kenny's kid sister, and the
second belonging to Brad.  There and then, in fact, I made myself a
professional promise that when I reached the point of literary supreme
being, I'd be most careful in winnowing my work so as not to confuse
stories with something like five or six parallel events taking place in
real time or as too glibly named "flashbacks."

   "She drew the schematics," Stan explained.  "We had drawings for the
pit, for the positioning of each doll, for the device, for the wiring, a
hundred and twenty feet, for our shelter, for the switch, for the eight
millimeter movie camera we though we should use, and for the whole thing
plotted a hundred yards from any house in the deepest and thickest part of
the woods, because the bomb we made from her drawings weighed two pounds
and two ounces and we didn't want anyone to hear anything more than a
backfire or a shotgun."



   This was a neat commentary on luck.  I thought I had it pretty good in
that department, old money that never seemed to run out, houses and cars
like other families have kittens, and, hellish individuals notwithstanding,
a pretty keen run going, but it was becoming apparent as I lay beside Stan,
that thing one I didn't know about the subject.  But, lucky me, I was about
to learn.



   We were, it turned out, on identical wavelengths, on the same letter of
the same page, never mind word.  I was just wondering to myself, "does this
story have a beginning?" and Stan said, "maybe I should start with how IT
started." I nodded, trying not to shake the bed.



   "It was a dark and stormy night, we were coming home from a late session
at the club," he said, "and we got stuck making a turn in Jeff Bloom's
driveway.  He'd run off to get dry, the house was way out of sight, we
weren't blocking the road, and it was absolutely pouring."



   "Can you think of anything?" the driver asked.

   "Pneumonia," the eleven year old redhead said, "or lost with no scent
for the dogs."

   "Well," Richard said, "the nearest creek's a hundred feet below us, so
that's not a problem, and when I don't turn up Jill will put two zillion
and five together with the square root of minus six and figure out we're
stuck, probably to within the quarter acre, and have help arriving in
sixty-seven minutes, give or take, so, since we have no rain gear, it might
be best to stay put."

   Stan nodded and the two sat looking at each other, the sole passenger in
the right front seat of the small bus.

   "Maybe you can think of a great adventure," Stan suggested, both a
little nervous and thrilled at being alone for an extended period of time
with the six-three State finalist athlete.

   "Something did cross my mind," Richard said, "but it's probably a little
mature for eleven."

   "We blew off a limb that took three days to burn," the boy replied,
"that was mature for a hundred and eleven." The retort found its mark and
Richard looked steadily at the child.

   "This is different," he said in a voice that electrified the boy across
the isle, "though, on second thought, maybe not so very different.

   "We don't have raincoats or umbrellas," he said, "but I do have some
towels from the club because their washer's not working.  They're a little
damp but not wet.  So, if we were to take a shower, we'd be able to dry
off."



   Stan sat stock still and neither spoke for a minute.



   "It happens with athletes quite a lot," the driver went on from his
seat, "a coach or an older player alone with a boy your age.  We've become
pretty close in the last few months, damming up the creek in back of your
house, rescuing the moronic cat, Jill finalizing her doll stage, and, Stan,
you're one exceptionally attractive eleven year old, so, since it's bound
to happen soon, if it hasn't already, I thought we could take a shower
together in the rain, and I could explain about it so you'd be forewarned
about things you might not want to happen."



   Stan sat stock still and neither spoke for another minute.



   "It's very gentle," Richard whispered, "and we have time for it to be
very complete."



   This time he nodded very slightly.  Richard didn't rush, so another
minute passed.



   "We could start here in the bus with your underpants on," the adult
whispered, "then, if you want more to happen, you can ask to go out in the
rain, which will mean we have to be naked together because there's no way
to dry any clothing that gets wet."

   "What would have happened if we hadn't gotten stuck?" the boy asked.

   "In the first place," Richard answered, "I've turned in Jeff's driveway
dozens of times, understand, and, in the second, I could sense you were
starting to get interested in Jill and me, so I was going to just park in
your drive soon, maybe tonight, and tell you I thought you were, next to my
sister, the most beautiful person I've ever know, and that my sister thinks
so, too, and then what I just told you about getting mature enough so older
athletes will want to shower alone with you, to outline the tip of the
iceberg."



   "What you said about me maybe knowing stuff already," Stan murmured,
"well, I don't, except the talk, which I guess gives some ideas."

   "It's like wrestling very slowly and gently, especially when a man's
teaching a boy," Richard whispered, "and we can start with our shorts and
tee shirts on.  The only thing that's violent is what happens at the end,
and that's not violent in the sense of hitting or hurting, but just
violently sudden and shocking if you're not ready for it."

   "Should we take our sneakers off?" Stan asked in a whisper, leaning down
as if to untie his because the school nurse had told the class to do that
if they ever felt faint.

   "No," his friend said, "young boys with big feet look sensationally
extreme when they keep their gym shoes on, and it stands to reason we'd get
them wet dealing with the situation."

   "Okay," the boy said, his mind so filled with the image of the tall
swimmer in front of him standing in the rain just wearing his sneakers that
blood returned to support the fantasy, plus he needed some to nourish his
cognitive and analytical skills which were telling him that if he reached
Richard's house, their likely destination on such a night, with wet
sneakers and dry clothes, only one conclusion could be drawn by any
present, and being able to let others know in such a subtle yet conclusive
way was enough to fully alert his entire brain to being raped by Jill's
twenty one year old brother.  He stood and walked to the back of the bus.
Heard the squeak of the driver's seat, And waited.



   "Jill," Richard whispered over Stan's left shoulder, "if you're really
sure."

   "I am," Stan whispered back, "I see you looking at me looking at you
when you're swimming, and I don't mean that, swimming, literally, I mean by
the pool getting ready, or after you come out.  You always look at me and
I'm always looking at you."

   "Then you must have noticed the other part, too," the adult said.

   "That your eyes are on me when I'm, well, not swimming," the play sister
said.

   "How do you feel about it?" Richard rasped, his hands now on the waist
of the eleven year old redhead.

   "Overdressed, even in my racing suit," Stan said, "because I'm starting
to grow a little bit and I wonder if you notice."

   "And you really want to show me?  To let me touch you?"

   "And to feel you against me," the girl whispered.



   Stan guided Richard's hands to his top button and moved firmly back
against the adult now huddled over him.  When two were unfastened, the boy
whispered, "do yours," and quickly finished opening his own shirt, then
stood, arms at his side.  In a few seconds, the adult was naked to the
waist, his shirt over a seatback, and he again put his hands on the child's
waist, pulling aside his shirttails, and then moved them over Stan's flat
and silky belly as the boy thrust firmly but not predatorily to him.



   "Sis," the athlete whispered, " we can only go this far."

   "Why?" Jill whispered.

   "It's a physical thing, darling," he answered, "it happens with swimmers
who like spending time alone with older swimmers while they're growing up.
A certain amount of male activity happens, and the result is that some of
us develop more than non-swimmers.  To put it plainly, it would hurt with
me, but Stan would be perfect for you, and then, when you're experienced,
if you still want it to, something complete could happen between us."

   "But Stan's a swimmer, too," Jill whispered, "won't the same thing
happen with him, you know, what you just said, from being alone with older
males."

   "Yes," darling the role-playing brother said, "but you'll grow two, no
one is eight forever, and so it won't be any problem, no, not in the long
haul."



   They abandon their little playlette, whispering fully to each other.



   "How old were you when this happened?" Stan asked.

   "Same as you, eleven," his friend said, "and that's kind of customary, a
code of the cult you might call it."

   "Was it in a shower," Stan panted, the adult's hands now openly roaming
over his upper body as he stood on his tiptoes and arched back against the
bare chest of the athlete behind him.

   "Partly," Richard whispered, running his hands up the child's flanks,
bringing his shirt with him.  Stan raised his hands over his head and his
shirt was lifted free.  "Say like that," the adult whispered as he draped
the shirt next to his own, then moved his hand's back to the sixth grader's
chest and pulling him gently back.  The redhead went higher on his toes,
now reaching far back, and quickly linking his fingers behind the neck of
the panting adult.

   "You're enough taller than Jill to take here this way," Richard said.

   "Will you watch her let me do things?" the now openly panting boy
rasped.

   "If you want me to," the man whispered, toying with the youth's tiny
nipples.

   "I do," Stan responded breathlessly.

   "You'll be beautiful together," his mentor said, "and you won't have to
stop or use any caution at all."



   "I want to take a shower with you," Stan announced.

   "Okay," Richard said, moving his hands to the boy's belt and unfastening
it as the child remained arched and panting, "but you'll want to take Jill
in her panties for awhile, so let's do this again, just in your underpants,
because we have lots of time, and I want you to take lots of time with her.


   "It's the hurried, half-thing that's dangerous for a kid," he went on to
explain, "that's what leaves confusion and distortion.  If it's measured
and complete, then it's understood for what it is and can be accepted or
rejected."

   "But you be naked, okay?" Stan asked, thrusting his hips to the hands
now undoing his zipper and skinning his tennis shorts down over his long,
slim legs."

   "Do it to me," Richard rasped in response, turning his young beauty to
him.  Stan, mindful of the words he'd just heard, toyed with the adult's
buckle, running his fingers over the powerful chest in front of him, then
returning to slowly unfasten, unzip, and slide down the athlete's country
club shorts.  They backed away for a few moments, to look at each other,
then Stan finished, slowly and lingeringly, finally again standing back
while Richard spread his legs wide, arching back against one of the
seatbacks as his young friend stared at the nearly eight inch shaft jutting
high from his otherwise boyish waist.



   It's not real smart of a writer to put a character in a speechless
position, but errors creep in and it does happen.



   Stan stared for a minute, then two, then turned away and raised his
arms. Richard came up behind him and eased the boy off the floor so his
feet were on two of the seats, his slim legs widely spread.  Gently he
hunched behind the eleven year old, carefully working the tip of his long,
hard erection into Stan's underpants, then pulling the boy to him and
openly molesting him for several panting minutes.



   Feeling equally heroic and foolish, they did the shower thing at the
younger male's request.  Richard knelt before him and slowly pulled down
the white briefs, then they stood for a minute looking at each other, then
went out in their sneakers to brave the still bucketing downpour.  If
speechless characters are a nuisance, cold, wet ones are a downright turn
off, but it ended well enough, the pair both shivering back aboard the
coach, drying each other off, then standing, Stan again with his legs
spread and his feet on two of the seats, outrageously sensuous, naked in
his wet shoes, forehead to forehead as they watched each other respond to
the return of warmth, so much blood rushing from their heads at the sight,
they both felt dizzy.  In two minutes both were again fully erect and no
longer panting from the cold.



   "It's done in three steps," Richard coached, easing Stan back to the
floor, then positioning the boy in front of him.  "First from behind with
the man holding you in his left arm while he masturbates you with his right
hand." He took the prescribed position, fondling the child for a full
minute before beginning to take a distinct rhythm with the youth's jutting
five inch penis.  "This lasts for just a few minutes, then the next part
comes," he went on, showing Stan what he meant by moving him to his right
flank, guiding his left arm around his own waist, then moving the child's
right hand to his fully adult penis, and coaxing him into a deliberate
motion.  "You take me all the way," he then said, "and after I cum, that
will be the final step, and I'll take you from behind again and jerk you
off with a lot of hot sperm on my hand."



   This froze the tableau, boy at flank of man, adult with legs spread wide
and comfortably braced, boy continuing with mature male, responding to the
rising tension in his partner by redoubling the grip and stroke of his
right arm and hand.



   "The violent part is coming," Richard panted, "and you can move in front
of me and take the sperm on your chest like Jill did, or just let me spray
off on the seat and we can clean it up later."

   "Has she ever let it happen in her mouth?" the boy asked, having heard
of things of that nature along the way.

   "Just on her belly and chest," Richard rasped, "because an adult is too
much that way for the first time, but a boy your age is perfect."

   "But I'm older than she is so we could experiment that way?" he then
asked.



   "Yes, next time," Richard gasped, then he said, softly: "I'm cumming,
Stan."

   Stan moved directly in front of his mature partner and held him low on
his heaving, sweating chest, his eyes perfectly focused by the time the
quaking adult began splashing him hard and fast with one sheet of hot semen
after another until he was slick and sopping with the thick, slippery cum.
Even before his flow fully ebbed, Richard had slicked his right palm on the
eleven year old's belly and moved behind the child, now masturbating him
rather than teaching.  Stan gripped the muscular arms of the athlete,
spread his legs so one sneaker was up on a seat, and gave himself
completely, hissing and crying out as his young body responded, all cells,
battle stations, to the slick hand tight and fast on the hardest boner he'd
ever had.  "It's happening to me, too," he gasped after five panting, hot
minutes, and in a few seconds his thin preteen seed was spurting high in
streak after streak from between his rigidly corded loins.  Richard turned
him after some moments, and the youth's climax finally slowed as he mixed
his juvenile semen with the wetness of the mature male.  A quick return to
the rain, more drying off, a gentle mutual stroking, heads on each other's
shoulder, a second flow from each young body, and they cleaned up, dressed,
and were talking about the next meet when a pair of headlights stabbed the
darkness.

   "Sex with Boys and Girls" - End File-1

   xxx