Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Sex with Boys and Girls - 3

   by Feather Touch

   To skip the essay, scroll to the column of asterisks.



   I don't mean to tease Mark, but he is cute when he's mad.  Would include
his response to File-2, but he's cute when he's mad as he is, and, like the
man said, why take chances?  It brings up the issue of using real people.
At least a dozen characters are real as rain, specifically including myself
("Poet of Phu Bai" and other titles).  I call it the free-fire zone; one
actually can say anything, and, with no one admitting they read alternative
sites, do so with a quasi invasion of privacy that hurts not the person
identified but allows insights and texture simply not available when a
writer uses clay as a modeling material.  Of course, my stolen characters
all come across as nice, worthy people, and that's certainly an issue.  In
fact, Stan Yawoski and the Corvette are real, or were at that time, and we
did spend a weekend in KC., which, truth to tell, was the first time I ever
made out with a girl, driving her dad's car, for perhaps fifty red lights
in a row (no traffic).  Great fun trying never to catch a green.  Her
father was about eighty percent, you know, but perhaps had second thoughts
when I left the garage, crossed the lawn, and got into Stan's `Vette,
because the whole scene was about as slick as college gets (and a great
adventure).  And there's an aspect beyond the glib: what the First
Amendment is all about; an absolute freedom to say absolutely anything,
fearless of lawyer or cop.  Look what's happening without it; with a choke
chain freely used to throttle any discussion of our use at the hands of our
two percent Jewry, for example: a hideous grind in the sand for boys good
enough to get into the military, every third Muslim a kid with a bomb and
every fourth subhuman a newshound begging for an atrocity, more cruelly
maimed than killed because of body armor, and at a billion dollars a day
plus wear and tear on virtually irreplaceable assets.  Vote your way out of
that.



   Samantha is real, and we really don't sleep together; town is, in fact I
can add an example of the kind of government balloteers get by referencing
a colossal new pile of cement on the beach which will inevitably turn out
to be some kind of town hall for the ten thousand living here, a
substantial minority in a manner little improved in a hundred years (thus
all the beautiful photos of weathered wood and creeping jungle).  And they
are building this monster with two large floors, centrally located, and
vacant (and ugly) for the last fifteen years.  Dangriga's spread enough
concrete to build a launch pad, and they should have spent every dime of
the money on bolstering the schools from A to Z (careers for teachers and
support staff rather than bubbles for the unions, knock-knock-knock). 
Plus, a photo mission out by the burying ground yielded a new concrete foot
and vehicle bridge, each connecting very little with even less.  A vote is
a knife, use it often enough and you suffer the Chinese death of many
wounds.



   Hugely popular and widely ignored, or, it could be stated in the
reverse, and either way it would fit.  Over seven thousand files last week,
and with several titles going on just before the Saturday cut-off. 
Disappointments, too, a number of stories, including "Poet," down in double
digits, which I haven't seen in almost three years.  "Jimmy and Frogger"
did the same, but quickly rebounded to over five hundred a week, and stayed
there like the Rock of Gibraltar for thirty months.  Even without a replay,
I deem myself by far and away the most widely read new writer, if not in
the sense of, say, Jay Leno's team, in the sense of how much there is;
depth, rather than breadth, while there's plenty of that, too.  As I figure
it now, if the announcer came on at a major sporting event and asked
everyone who knew the name Feather Touch to give a holler, there'd be a
substantive, but far from overwhelming response.  That will come in time. A
frightening thing; the inevitability, should the Earth continue rotating as
we know it, of the big numbers becoming huge and the huge monstrous.  They
don't fade, they grow, and when not growing, remain, inexhaustibly, at high
numbers that are growth even as they remain static, month after month.  As
doomed as for death with the paradox of an immortality more complete than
any person living at this time; if not all thoughts and all details, over a
million words worth.  Class by itself.



   Does this tie in to usury in the sense of exploiting identities for
literary purposes?  In a backhanded way, perhaps so; those referred to
being granted large life beyond the grave and thus getting out of me
something for nothing.  Didn't you just know I'd see it that way?



   Photos tomorrow; almost went out today, but Mark's a great correspondent
and a gentle pull of the chain yields grist for ye mille, so I stayed in
and linked up Ellen and her granddad with that in mind.  But tomorrow it is
pix.



   And tomorrow has turned into three days, sort of off but for
experimenting with the video and other features of the Canon.  Excellent
battery resilience, about an hour of intensive use of everything which goes
with two hours and more of wandering and taking stills.  Back to the Cecil
B.  De Mill thing.  The video is definitely in the nine-minute-wonder
class; sort of like finding a cine camera in a box of Cracker Jack.  A few
minutes of this and that every couple of years will do very nicely, thanks;
something I know of from personal experience because both grandfathers had
steamer trunks half filled with reels of 16mm movie film - no one ever
watched in my lifetime (except me, maybe half an hour's worth).

   Reviewing some older files, I again sense the Toshiba was noticeably
sharper, so I'd go back to my original recommendation of the Canon A300
unless three-minute video clips are of significant interest (and if memory
serves the A300 does them without sound, and has digital zoom).  Amused to
find myself using the optical zoom fairly often, for the most part because
the optical viewfinder has a set of fine crosshairs that don't quite cross,
simplifying the task of holding the camera motionless while releasing the
shutter.  I can't tell zoom from wide-angle images when I'm editing, so I
guess hand-holding is viable, and the powerful digital, with the tripod,
gives a whole new scope of possible images.



   So they caught the beard in his den; another layer of vengeance to fuel
and fire future generations.  Me?  No water `till he talked way sensible,
and he could stay alive as long as he proved himself the leader of millions
and gave information of a useful and immediate nature.  And yet the
rhetoric from the president on down is yada about the Iraqi people,
freedom, rights, that kind of ACLU thing.  The fact is, this culture - only
viable in any modern sense because of the flukes of oil distribution on the
planet - has never amounted to anything more than a colossal nuisance
costing huge casualties, worldwide, as a result of sane money wasted for
insane causes.  The country should be looted and stripped to the bone;
every industry and service possibly associated with the hated Anglo taken
away, and with the coldest of frequent reminders to that entire hell-hole
that we can break and ruin them without using nuclear weapons, though, as a
defender of the Constitution, that is the surest option and certainly my
choice, not because of the silly Connie, but in view of the cost of playing
footsies.



   Giant readerships last week.  Thirteen thousand files and over five
thousand for the opening gambit in this little cock-up.  Thanks.  Three
thousand readers for File 2; very impressive since it wasn't on for more
than a few days.  It's neat when the bubbles come along, but the thrill, as
noted above, is the week-to-week and the strong numbers for follow-up
chapters.  Larry King may be getting the thirty million but I'll end up
with your hearts and minds, just like youngsters in my stories end up being
closely associated with adults whose initial objective was round bottoms
and sleek, tender thighs.  I know you're shaking your head, but when I
point the fact that this is, in a weird-times-ten world, the only breath of
sanity out there, all you can do is nod.  Being your king is not something
I sought, and certainly something I can live without, it is a matter of
birth; of lineage, heritage, breeding and provenances and adhering to
traditions going back far beyond the dawn of history (largely successful,
or we wouldn't be here).  It is simply a fact.  By the standards of
history, some individual in America outranks all others.  Correspondingly,
by the same standards, there is an individual no one outranks.  This would
seem your basic dynamic duo, but that it can be also applied to the artist,
well, that's where the ego part comes in, making me a comedian.  All good
for a fun life and one might get away with saying it's little wonder my
fantasies are degenerate because everything else, from Samantha to the
pivotal figure at the beginning of the American Revolution, is true.



   Still batting zero with new reader mail, and it's comforting for your
monarch to know he can keep up with the clowning around without feeling
he's shirking more serious responsibilities.  Must be kind of nice for you,
too, getting as much of the message as you freely choose to absorb, minus
the mechanizations of ye glitz factory, all velvet glove with no iron fist,
and, in fact, minus anything but your own raw, human intelligence.  On the
frustrating side, it would be nice to know if there's any response to the
Tropic Gems project; would you or would you not buy a ten dollar CD with
two hundred cliché shots of why most people come to a place like this, in
the first place?  Hate to waste money and time on it if it's a dead duck,
but new product launches are notoriously difficult to predict.  Lucky it's
also a life-long hobby and may end up a significant historical document
even if no one wants to buy.  Also worry about any fraction of the success
I've had on the Net because that would mandate a full-time involvement, and
who'd entertain my subjects if I was out coining it?



   Spam's down.  Way down.  Nice to have that prediction come true.  Made
it during the SoBig attack when I went from twenty or so to nearly four
hundred; good, methought out loud, this will make every last digital moron
on the planet sick of the trash, the cost to send it will become
prohibitive, and it will die.  At the same time, it continues to be a
wonder that it isn't used well (theme of "Sunday in the Park").  Couldn't
it at least be coupons?  I suppose the penny dreadfuls eventually led to
"Vogue," so maybe, someday.  (A personal example would be that after
surfing digicam material fairly extensively, I've never received a spam
announcing a new photo product or offering a specific discount on a related
item.)



   Does idleness lead to nonsense?  While dithering on my hiatus over the
last three days (two of which were devoted to editing my last collection of
pictures), I came up with a concept of High-Noon Days, a/k/a No-Shadow
Days. Each community erects a fifty foot pole, laser sighted to be
perfectly vertical.  From the Tropic of Cancer, south, to the Tropic of
Capricorn, there would be two instants when the sun was mathematically
overhead, and the pole would cast no shadow.  The times would be unique to
each pole and might even be useable as a general reference, but primarily
it would be allied with astronomy day, and particularly with familiarizing
younger children with concepts to do with orientation and direction.  (I'll
take a keen interest, myself, come May or so when Dangriga's turn comes,
but, not to be cynical, the challenge will be to find a vertical pole.)
What surprises me, in the meantime, is how low on the southern horizon the
sun is at noon.  Long shadows and the dreaded golden/magenta cast to the
light that makes me shiver because it reminds me of northern latitudes
where it's associated with winter light.  Digital camera is, being acute in
all departments, very sensitive to color temperature, plus shooting even
vaguely into the sun is, with rare exceptions, the equivalent of image
crucifixion.  On the other hand, come June, the shadows, sometimes very
dramatic, will be around sixty degrees displaced from those in December,
yielding new views of old subjects.  In fact, given this variable plus
changes in light resulting from time of day and weather conditions, and the
few square miles of D.  probably represent a lifetime photo-op.



   For my beloved camera buffs, I should note that I'm at about 1,600
images on the Canon Powershot S400 Digital Elph and have run off a hundred
or so prints on the HiTi, plus retouching something like 650 on
PhotoDeluxe. It merely gets more satisfying and exciting and I again affirm
that this suite of products, and others just as good, like it, are the
culmination of human intelligence.  There should be a Digicam channel with
a million dollar prize for the most critically acclaimed and the most
popular image.  A Segway and an Elph, and if that doesn't satisfy you,
strap yourself to the former and find a convenient boat ramp on which to
operate it, leaving the latter behind for someone of finer sensibilities.



   *

   *

   *

   *



   "Nick?" Brad asked, addressing a thirteen year old with cropped brown
hair and a quiet, studious look, about as typical as a certain type of
likely schoolboy gets, "can you tell us about a visitor?"

   "If the twins aren't ready," the boy said.  The girls on the lifeguards'
laps nodded for him to proceed.



   "My mom got kinda worried about me," the young swimmer began, "because I
kept talking about Mr.  Davis, he lives down the street and I help him with
his garden, so she called my uncle, Dave, to come and spend the weekend
with us so he could talk to me about things.  I was totally embarrassed,
because I knew it was about embarrassing stuff, which is embarrassing
because you can't not be embarrassed, then all you have to do is substitute
the word `exciting' for `embarrassing,' and suddenly you arrive at the
heart of the matter.

   "He was just arriving when I got home from school, Friday afternoon;
this happened last year, when I'd just turned twelve.



   "Did you expect to see flashing lights and a police escort?" Dave
Anderson asked his nephew as the two greeted each other with hugs on the
porch.

   "I guess mom's just doing what she thinks is best," Nick said, "and I
hope it isn't some kind of migraine for you."

   "Jeez, man," the twenty eight year old engineer said, "I jumped out of
the plane when I heard; landed about two blocks away; not twenty miles from
LaGuardia, and what do you think the odds are on getting my fare back?"



   "They'd just take it away when they fined you for littering," the
studious child observed.  With that they entered and sorted themselves out
as to luggage and fixing snacks.

   "Nick," the young man said when they were seated with their peanut
butter sandwiches, "this is an ad hoc visit, not purpose driven.  I suppose
the catalyst was talking to your mom the other night, your friend Michael
Davis, the fact you're sort of getting there in some sense of the word,
they they're pretty much chaff compared to just seeing you and catching up
on the last three years; that is beyond babbling away on the Net."

   "And the odd hundred or so books," the boy noted.

   "That was so if it ever came time for me to play this great mentor and
advisor role your mom seems to think I'm fit for, I wouldn't end up talking
to an intellectual pansy."

   "As in counselor to the twinkling stars?" Nick said.

   "As in someone who's glad not to have to deal with the inertia of a dead
weight," the young man laughed, "some kind of rolling start, to, you know,
save wear and tear on the clutch or something like that."

   "I guess it's knowing a little that makes it extra embarrassing," the
boy mused; "because I kind of know what she's getting at with Michael, but
only in the abstract, so I don't really know "

   "Well," Dave responded, "to set the parameters, your mother is concerned
that something might happen if you keep spending a lot of time with him,
and it could be something you and a lot of other boys would want no part
of, while, on the other hand, it could be something that wouldn't bother
you - mean much one way or the other - or even end up being something you
liked.  Mothers don't come right out and say this, even to their brothers,
or maybe especially to their younger brothers, but the implication was that
as long as you're prepared to fend off anything you don't want, you are
free to accept anything that seems okay to you, with zero prejudice on her
part, and, since she seems to see more in you than a slab of hungry meat,
she may end up just not being very interested in that facet of your twelve
year old existence once she's as assured as can be that you're not
predestine for some major downer."



   "Well, it's a papier-m ché facet at this point," Nick responded,
"because nothing's happened except working on the lawn and in the gardens
and having lemonade and cookies or something before I come home."

   "How many times have you been there?" the man quizzed.

   "Seven or eight," his nephew replied.

   "And how have things changed since the first couple of times?" Dave
asked.

   "I stay longer," the boy replied, "and we talk a lot more."

   "Okay," the uncle said, "and that pretty much leaves it as far as we
need to take it.  Neither one of us wants to pry; your mom's met Michael,
so that's out of the way, you've been clued in by your uncle that things
may go beyond talking, and you're smart enough to deflect anything you
don't want, probably without even blemishing the underlying friendship, and
at the same time you have a green light, if by default, if you do want to
stay later with him, and she told me flat-out that she wouldn't have any
objections even to your spending the night once in awhile, which is about
as much of a hint as a person in her position can give without feeling
she's taking on the role of some kind of collaborator or instigator, and
perhaps edging you toward something you don't want, a thing that does
happen."



   "But is it okay to talk about it some more?" the boy then asked.

   "All you want," Dave said, "and I don't say that entirely innocently,
or, perhaps, in the least innocently.  I had very exciting experiences when
I was your age and would encourage you , if you don't have negative
feelings about him or the developing situation, to become engaged and be
responsive, and, perhaps, because you're just enough of an ace to pull it
off, to instigate something you want with him and feel he wants with you,
but is reluctant to act on because that's a big step with an underage
partner.  In fact, if our conversation gets any more specific, it will
constitute an act of rape."

   "Sort of like driving one mile per hour over the posted limit
constitutes an act of speeding," the boy mused.

   "Good analogy," his uncle responded, "because taken to the fullest, and
leaving out violence, restraint, and coercion, the best you could hope for
- and `best' is editorial - would be five miles over the limit, which is a
total paradox because before it happens, and while it's happening, it's the
speed of light, and, once you're satisfied, less than the speed limit, so,
lifetime average is a little over, though I suppose one would call the
whole matter psychological rather than mathematical."



   "It does seem to be that," the twelve year old agreed.

   "Does that mean you feel something like tension when you're around him?"
Dave asked.

   "When we run out of things to talk about for a few minutes," the boy
replied, "I guess.  Then there's something that isn't there, but we figure
out something else to say so it never gets really embarrassing or anything.
Just what you said, `tension."

   "And suppose that led somewhere?" the man then asked.  "How would you
want it to start?  Would you like it to happen, say, while you're weeding
together and working side by side and just moved together so you were
touching and it went from accidental to not accidental, or would you rather
that it was verbal, you know, with Michael asking you questions about
girlfriends and experiences you might have had; stuff like that?"



   "How did it start with you?" Nick asked in return.

   "Talking," his uncle replied, "and quite a bit of it, too, the first
time, and even a little after that."

   "That would make it longer wouldn't it?" the child asked.

   "Much," the man agreed.  "Two males your age and Michael's age can
accomplish the physical side of it in minutes without whispering a word,
and, while that can be sensational, the more sin you put in the sational,
because talking about it, to lots of people, is five times greater a sin
than doing it - don't ask me why - the more sense it makes, and the more
sense it makes, the easier it is to store in its proper place, which is
like not taking some kind of potent drug labeled: `Misery Compound of
Lassitude,' which happens in your basic teen stalking, dating, cheating,
and dumping routine, if not a universal eel-toothed paradigm.

   "And that's not to suggest," he went on, "that you do anything as a
deliberate alternative to the conventional social routine; whole business
is much to complicated to be subject to pat answers and glib solutions, but
rather that you approach the relationship strictly on its own merits, and
god knows, figuring them out is complicated enough."

   "I know," Nick responded, "every ten seconds we sit at the table without
saying anything to each other seems to double the complication of saying
what we - or at least I - really want."



   "One thing that's guaranteed," Dave said with a smile, "is that there is
no substitute for not saying or doing anything when it comes to making it
last."

   "Outta sight," the boy murmured, "because the less we do and say, the
more happens."



   "Well, that's another point where we can leave it," the uncle said.

   We hear a lot, and probably always have, about kids being self-absorbed
and beset with ignoring what they're told.  Can this ever be a good
characteristic?  For example, Nick ignored his athletic adult companion
completely.  "If you want," the twelve year old murmured, "but I was hoping
you'd tell me at least a little about what happened to you.  I mean it
doesn't have to be super graphic or full of explicate details, but at least
enough so I kind of know about the physical part, maybe with a dearth of
locker room language."



   "Two miles over the limit?" Dave asked.

   "I just figured," the boy replied, "that if I learn a lot from you I'll
have more to talk about with Michael, and since I really like this part - I
mean, chills, even - it would be better if I knew more."

   "And how do you feel about personal questions?" the young man asked. 
"Because I'd like to ask a few of those as we go along."

   "That would be okay," the boy nodded.

   "And when you said `graphic' and `explicit' you meant them?"

   "Yes," with another shy nod.

   "And you think the kitchen table is the best place for a long, detailed
story?"

   The boy grinned at his silly uncle and they adjourned to the sofa in the
living room, Nick sitting on Dave's left side.



   "I guess I knew about as much as you do," the young man began, "just a
bunch of words some of which, like `suck,' seemed pretty obvious and others
that were more abstract; but nothing in the way of hands-on experience.

   "Then, when I was twelve, we spent a couple of weeks on the Cape.  A lot
of stuff washes up from the sea, so it isn't boring to walk for miles along
the outer beaches.  Also, there are surf casters who drive in in beach
buggies and it's always fun to see if they've caught anything long and
shiny.  So that's what I was doing, following the surf line, or walking
inside the wall of sand dunes.  I'd gone two or three miles from the
parking lot one day, it was about noon, and I came across a group of six
men with a fishing camp.  I'd had lunch, but they had some really great
fruit punch, so I had some and they suggested if I didn't have anything
else to do, that I hang around with them and practice a little surf
casting, which, as the world knows, is how the game of golf should be
played - swing and retrieve instead of all that bawling, loss and misery."



   It was a good point and Nick nodded at his uncle's perception and
insight.  The story went on



   "Raymond was the oldest, twenty six.  They were all from Boston
hospitals and medical schools, and it was Raymond who had identical twins
sisters, Penny and Faith.  They, according to what he told me while we were
at the surf line, casting, were especially interested in a particular facet
of reproduction and so they were going to team up, or, anyway, sort of the
opposite of teaming up, for an experiment, and, if I wanted, I could stick
around, because Penny was going to be delivered and then spend the weekend
with her brother and the other five med students.  Faith wouldn't be alone
with any men or boys, and, since they were ten years old, it should be
possible to tell, based on a single experiment, whether certain
contemporary violations and alterations of traditional mammalian behavior
had any physical effect on maturing girls."

   "That's the best beginning to a story I've ever heard," Nick said, "and
to think it's in the name of science." He sat back on the sofa feeling sure
his mom had picked exactly the right person to prepare himself for his date
with Michael.



   "It was a good case of placement and timing," Dave admitted, "and sure
enough, another Willy's came lumbering up the track and dumped the guinea
pig, still dressed in her junior cheerleading outfit, along with three
members of the senior high's varsity basketball squad, the eldest of whom
was driving.

   "By this time, an hour or so, I'd made friends with the other five
students and sort of gotten over the shock of what was going to happen in
the dunes and reached the point of what seemed at the time excitement. 
They were nice guys, normal; perhaps, yes, they were boyish in their
scientific outlook - what every horny teen wants to know, that kind of
thing - but they were boyish in other ways, too, so it wasn't as
noticeable. And it really had been the twins' idea in the first place, so
they'd have a head start on getting into veterinary school, which is much
harder to do than getting into the kind where the ultimate clientele is
human and round.

   "And the only problem they had," Dave recounted, "was that Skip Fallon,
who was meant to be Penny's first boy had put on ten pounds in two weeks so
now she only wanted him as a friend, and, as I was, in their opinion, a
likely looking boy, and twelve years old, it might be just the answer if I
stayed around, even calling it science if I had to.



   "Well, `had to' was the operative phrase, and, Uncle Dave, I really do
wonder if it had been a group of bikers with a girl they'd plucked off the
street, if I'd have felt any differently.  I mean it's nice to think all
this while you're sitting at a desk but when first there are six, then
there are nine tall, athletic males, and a tiny girl, well, primal art
probably went on in caves before man learned to scratch on the walls, and,
since they left no graphic depictions I'm aware of, probably so routinely
it wasn't even considered art."



   It was a bold and unique interpretation and seemed in fitting in with
the boy's overall, as the medical students had said, likeliness, nor was
his analysis in any way flawed, for in art scarcity abounds as anyone who's
lived free of light pollution knows through boredom with the stars and even
the mystery they represent.  We have been given art by religion, and
moralists over the contemporary ages have added the zest of scarcity and
taboo to what might otherwise be the same young meat and potatoes, three
meals a day.



   "They asked me if I was a virgin," Nick continued, "and when I said I
was they said I could take a blanket behind a dune and be alone with Penny
if I felt uncomfortable being with all of them.  I told them I didn't feel
comfortable, but didn't expect to, and wanted to stay if it was alright. 
By that time the buggy was in sight and Raymond and the others were showing
it in through the sand dunes to where their base camp was.  She jumped out
and ran up to her brother, leaping on him and knocking him into the sand,
which was fake because the girl only weighed about seventy pounds and her
brother stood like six-four.  She pulled him up and he introduced us.  She
was pretty cute with long, brown hair and bangs, and she was wearing a
party dress her brother had bought her for her tenth birthday which had
just been a few days before.  Raymond whispered that some of the guys would
like to molest me while he was taking off her clothes, because only a few
could touch her at a time.  I said that was okay, and they went to the
tailgate of the Jeep and all took off their clothes while Raymond knelt
with Penny and me in front of him.

   "The lighting was soft, hazy-bright, but it didn't have to be.  It would
have been some kind of art in desert sun or in the depths of the same cave
I was talking about, nine older boys and young adults, not an extra pound
or set of pecks or abs among them; none even had any kind of extra hair. 
`This is my first date,' Penny whispered, holding my hand as they came
close to us then knelt as near as they could get, one of the high school
boys in front of a couple of the medical students.  Raymond got me first,
putting his arms around me to open my shirt as I stood in front of.  One of
the high school boys did my belt and asked me if I'd ever been molested.  I
told him what I told Raymond and his friends, and the boy, Ryan, said his
uncle had taken him to a nudist camp when he was twelve, and he'd really
liked it.  By that time they had me in my underpants and Raymond was
unbuttoning his sister's dress.

   "Ryan told me the part he liked best was watching an older boy
ejaculate, and he could show Penny and me, both, if we wanted to see what
was going to happen later inside her.  She squeezed my hand yes, and I
squeezed hers to agree.



   "All the males posed for us, and one of the best parts was watching them
just stand there and imagining be married to them and having them come to
bed every night, all perfectly proportioned and looking totally natural and
right.

   "Raymond got us both completely watched while the doctors and students
got each other ready for us, then Ryan got to his feet and moved me to his
right hip and showed me how to use my hand.  Raymond held his little sister
from in back while she stretched her arms back up around his neck.  I'd
learned what to do with Ryan, and one of the high school boys was huddled
against my right side doing the same thing to me, but very carefully
because I was inexperienced and they all wanted me to leave Penny very wet
for her brother.  In other words, we were whispering and talking to each
other the whole time, it wasn't like bang-bang or anything crude and humpy.
The three high school boys wanted pre med in college, so they were
interested in what the measurements would show in a couple of months, and
volunteered to be part of the experiment if Penny wanted them to, which she
did.



   "Penny's chest looked really pretty and her nipples were a lot bigger
than a boy her age.  From what the boy was doing to me, I knew how Ryan
must feel, only his penis was actually touching the top of her tummy so I
didn't see how he could keep control.  Guess it was part of being an older
boy.  As I said, we didn't do it steadily.  We'd break up once in awhile,
deliberately, because no matter how exciting it felt, we wanted it to last
for at least an hour.  The big guys were getting bigger and harder all the
time, and having to be very careful about how they touched each other and
rubbed against each other, while at the same time wanting to do more of it.
Someone asked Ryan about the nudist camp, and if that had been his first
time.  He whispered to us about what had happened and that gave us
something to concentrate on besides the feelings of seeing the naked girl
and being touched by young athletes.

   "'I've done this with my little cousin,' Jim, the boy who was touching
me the most whispered in my ear, and then he said he'd help me wait for
Penny.  By this time Ryan was getting really excited from what I was doing
to him and the girl was whispering that it was okay.  Everybody could tell
and formed into a tight circle as Raymond and his sister both urged the boy
to spray.  He told us before it started and somehow from what Jim was doing
with me I knew what to do which was grip him hard way down low.  Really
hard.  Each time it felt like a snake getting electrocuted, then he'd
splash on Penny's bare chest and she'd whisper for him to sperm her again.
Then Ryan fell to his knees on the blanket and Raymond pulled his sister
down on top of him, with both of them lying on their backs.  Ryan took my
right hand as he guided me between their spread legs and helped me wipe
some of his semen between Penny's legs, then he brought us together and
everyone knelt close around us as I experimented.  There was a lot of cum
between us and her body felt hot and slippery underneath me.  Raymond wet
his hands and handled my bottom a lot, pulling me gently to Penny when she
pushed up to me.  Then she whispered that she was okay, so Raymond's hands
got firmer with me, and in a couple of minutes our bellies were tight
together and we were trying to get used to the feeling, and discovering it
felt better when we moved to try to get it as good as it could be.  Jim had
taught me a lot about control, which, thinking back on it, is something you
probably can't actually teach a little of, and I loved the feeling of being
way up between her legs and her arms and legs around me.  We could tell all
the men and boys there wanted to see what was happening between us, so
Penny let my go once in awhile and Raymond helped hold me up so we could
all look down between us.  Everyone was bigger and harder by this time, and
no one dared even look at each other much, much less touch one another.  I
could kind of sense from how Ryan had felt in my hand that the same thing
was going to happen with me pretty soon.  Penny could tell, too, and she
started whispering the way she had just before Ryan had spermed on her
tummy and chest.  It would have happened, anyway, but a siren's song in the
right setting is more than man or beast can resist, so I whispered the same
thing Ryan had and held very still against her so she could feel the same
thing I had when I gripped him tight in my hand.  Her eyes flew open and
she yelled out to her brother, but no one could understand her because she
half passed out probably from fantasizing about how incredible her brother
was going to feel when he started doing the same thing Ryan had done and I
was doing.

   "Because of all the talking," Nick concluded, "I left her totally wet
and she had an easy time taking Raymond.  He was with her for about twenty
minutes, then each of the other boys stayed with her for ten or fifteen. 
In all I guess we were there for almost three hours, spreading sunburn
lotion on each other and talking a lot.  Then the ball players had to go,
so I decided to ride back to the parking lot with them, not that I was too
weak to walk in the deep sand or anything."



   "Did it happen the same way over and over again?" Nick asked.

   "No," his uncle answered, "after Raymond had cum in her, she got on top
of the next boy while her brother held her from behind, then other males
would come to her, and others would brace them, and she'd get them to spill
in her mouth."

   "Did any of them besides Jim touch you a lot?" was the child's next
question.

   "One of the medical students," Dave said, "so I guess there was some
breakdown of scientific discipline, though not much, because I did what
Penny was doing but only swallowed a little of the semen before I kissed
her on the lips."



   "Do you think it made a difference?" Nick asked.

   "I don't know," Dave said.  "It was a chance encounter, and even if I'd
run into any of them later I don't think anything would have happened.  For
me, in fact, it got the whole subject completely off my mind.  I'd seen and
done all normal activities, they seemed entirely up to the task allotted
them, and so no questions lingered and no curiosity, for its own sake,
remained.  In short: I knew, so I read."

   "That's half how I feel about Michael," the boy responded, "it will be
such a relief to know what it's like, what it's about - what, whatever."

   "Well," his uncle mused, "one thing I should probably tell you, advise
you on, whatever, is that it's very likely Michael has a few friends, his
age or maybe yours, and that he'd want you to spend time with them.  That's
very common, so you'll want to figure out ahead of time whether you'd like
the feeling of another man's hands on you and if you could give yourself.
No pressure, I'm sure, but it's a pretty usual situation and most boys
respond readily as long as it's kept to a dull roar, like once every couple
of weeks or so.  Also, it's possible that he, or one of his friends, has a
young girlfriend, maybe about the age Penny was when I met them on Nauset
Beach, so you'll want to try to figure out if you're gay or not.  Plus,
since we're trying to fill in all the blanks, what happened to Ryan, an
older male taking him to a nudist camp, is also quite common, so that's
something to think about."



   "Are there such things as clubs?" the boy then asked.

   "Definitely," his uncle said, "usually built around some conventional
interest from sports to hang-gliding to stamp collecting, so you may find
yourself living a dramatically more interesting life over the next few
years, when you leave the kids' stuff behind and start going after kids as
gently and carefully as he's come after you."

   "If there is some kind of club, will you be in it with me, Uncle Dave?"
the twelve year old asked.

   "As long as it's not a bunch of stoners or louts of one description or
another," the young man said, "though misfits can be interesting.  I don't
have much patience with such-like, but if you get to know people who thinks
books are something more than that which is dropped in the hallway for plot
development - Hollywood's take - yes, I could do a spot of driving and help
out with occasional injections of the wisdom of the ages."

   "And how about here in the house?" the boy said, "when we're alone
together?"

   "After you've been with Michael," Dave replied, "and you want to, yes."

   "But I thought you were going to ask me personal questions," the boy
said shyly, not letting a trace of petulance into his voice.

   "I'm just trying to be sure that you don't take one thing as another,"
the young engineer said gently, "because there's a difference between
talking about what happened on the beach, and asking, say, if you have a
boner."

   "Do you have one, too?" the child whispered.

   "Yes," his uncle husked in reply.  Their eyes met.

   "You're my uncle," the boy said, "you've been sending me books for
years, writing two or three times a week like I'm a regular part of your
life.  I like Mr.  Davis and I want to go upstairs with him the next time
I'm over at his house, but I love you and I just want to wear my underpants
when we're alone together, because even savages wear something, or did
before they were expunged from the dictionary."

   "Well," Dave Anderson replied, "I don't want to bug you with one `are
you sure' after another, which would be pretty hypocritical in view of what
happened on the beach, so, the answer is `great.' I'd love to see you that
way."

   "And I want to see you that way, too," the boy said quickly.



   That's about as settled as a matter can be.  They rose and climbed the
stairs, each going to his own bedroom.  A few minutes passed and they met
shyly in the hallway.  "Do you want to come in my room for a little while?"
Dave whispered to the nearly naked twelve year old.

   "Yes," the boy whispered back.

   "This is probably how Michael will start with you," the older male
explained, moving the lithe beauty in front of him, back-to, and placing
his hands on the slim shoulders of the preteen, "and it's the time, in any
situation, you should move away if you don't want something to happen,
okay?"

   "Yes," Nick whispered, not moving.

   "And even if it's happened several times with you and different older
males," the young man advised, "don't act forward or bold, not if you want
the molestation to continue.  It's kind of a tightrope.  You have to be shy
and retiring and limit yourself in the lingo department, for effing sure,
without becoming mushy, lorn as in lovelorn, faggy, mincing, lisping, or
sweet and gay, thus ending up neither a hustler or pansy but rather taking
the easy way out and staying the nice kid you are, already."



   "Will he talk to me while it's starting?" the child whispered.

   "Probably," his uncle said, "at least to find out if you're experienced.
Adult's love to spill their seed all over the chest and belly of a willing
child, boy or girl, so he'll probably ask if it's okay of he ejaculates on
you that way or maybe on your face or even on your tongue.  That's a whole
other stage, like going from talking to what I'm doing with you now, going
from sexual molestation to splashing you and leaving you covered with
sperm."

   "Will he try to do anything inside be?" Nick asked, "you know, up inside
my bottom?"

   "That's controversy cubed," Dave said, "first, talking, then fondling,
then watching each other cum or cumming on each other or in each other's
mouths, then, finally, ejaculating up inside you.  The Greeks' homosexual
ritual was for the man and boy to lean into each other, heads on their
partners' shoulders, and masturbate while they talked, cumming on each
other at the end.  They were actually derisive of sodomy; anal intercourse,
but it probably happened.  It's unlikely Michael will want that, though he
might press himself against you and cum up inside you once in awhile.  But
mostly, you'll probably jerk off together and take each other's semen in
your mouths, and once it's happened a few times you'll probably leave off
experimenting and talking and just engage in a set ritual with you
signaling him when you're ready."



   "I like it when you're hands go low on me," the twelve year old
whispered.

   "If you lose control," the adult responded, "it's okay.  Just try to
tell me so I can pull your underpants down and watch you cum off, okay?"

   "Yes," the child nodded, instinctively arching to the gentle touch and
beginning to pant, his cotton briefs hugely bulged.

   "Do you want to feel me against you?" Dave rasped.

   "Yes," the boy hissed, holding still while the tall athlete pressed
gently to him, his hands sliding slowly down into his nephew's underpants
as he eased the white fabric from the slim hips of the preteen.  "Pull your
down, too," the child urged, and they separated for a moment, kicking their
underwear free, then the adult again had the boy close against him, the
child panting openly to the tracing of his handsome uncle's fingers.



   "After you've experimented, Michael will usually start this way," Dave
said, beginning to masturbate the boy's circumcised five-inch boner, "then
you'll change positions and you'll take him all the way, then he'll get
behind you again and jerk you off and watch down over your shoulder as you
spray, or maybe reach around in front of you with his left hand, assuming
he's right-handed, so he can take you seed on his palm.

   "That's more the current way than with your heads against each other's
shoulders," the man explained, "or you may find your own variation, and, of
course, it depends on how you feel about having him cum on you or in your
mouth.  If you like that, then he'll brace against a wall, spread his legs
wide, and you'll kneel on a towel in front of him to use your lips and
tongue or just your hands and let him sperm on your face."



   For awhile they said nothing, breathing heavily as the child openly
submitted to what was happening, standing on his toes and welcoming the
athlete by arching and thrusting his hips, his fingers linked tightly
behind the powerful adult who'd begun taking him fast and hard.  "I'm going
to take you all the way," Dave whispered, "because I want to do more than
just say I approve of you and Michael, I want you to have your first full
experience with him."

   "I want it with you, Uncle Dave," the boy panted.

   "It will be, in a way," the adult rasped, "because I'll be saving up, so
to speak, for when you get back, then, if you still want, we can cum on
each other."



   By now Nick was gasping and inarticulate, his head lolling, his lithe
body sweating and shaking as he thrust urgently to meet the older male's
fast, rhythmic stroking.  After long minutes the twelve year old began a
hot, linear tensing.  "I'm going to cum in your hand," he gasped, then went
rigid as his young loins began a long series of hard, fast contractions,
his preteen semen spraying and splashing for over half a minute before he
collapsed back into the strong adult's arms.



   And so Stan and I began our long night together in Kansas City, though I
forget what state we happened to be in.  Five minutes against five hours,
there was a big difference in our awakenings, and it was a state of grace
he was too nice to envy.



   So that concludes this chapter in the further adventures of.  I've been
busy with three hundred or more images for the collection.  Find I get no
detectable degradation using the next lower resolution, which gives almost
two hundred shots on the 32M card, so that's doubled the editing time.  The
images keep getting better, partly with experience, but partly because with
two hundred exposures available for a shoot, I end up taking everything
whether it moves or not, thus getting a lot of great stuff, especially with
people, I would have formerly passed by.  And another
knock-me-over-with-a-feather discovery: the digital zoom.  Who knew?  I'd
always heard they gave very pixilated results, useful but otherwise
substandard.  Not the case with the Elph.  At the full optical plus digital
extension of 11:1, the image has nearly the resolution, depth of field,
color saturation, and shadow detail of exposures made with the lens all the
way back.  In a way, it's a groan, opening up the whole town to thousands
of new images, and probably even the option of experimenting with
quasi-surreal effects to do with shooting down on to rainy streets at
moving subjects while forcing a low shutter speed.  Art images to go along
with the meat and potatoes of rendering the art of others.  Just what I
need while I'm trying to keep my head above water as number one purveyor of
the most alternative erotica I can come up with, which, to be honest, seems
enough of an art for an individual.  It's a fine thing that gods are
created by the clergy for the worship of humans, otherwise who knows what
thoughts might intrude.



   "Sex with Boys and Girls" End File-3

   xxx