Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 They Came Together



   They came together because everyone said they looked like two of the
actors.  First it was just in a movie, then Willy Jarvis remembered the
title of the film, "Kickboxing Academy." This news went around and though
they boys had nothing to do with the film, and not all that much to do with
Hollywood, in general, they were shuffled until they were introduced, a
pretty bad hell for an eight year old and a fifteen year old.  Immediately,
their problem was keeping their eyes off each other.  Nothing worked, so
they faked interest in computer games, sports, cars, bikes, food, and
didn't relax until Ricky Sherman, the eight year old said to Michael Green,
"do you like to read?" All you need from that point is to agree on the
short stories of John O'Hara, and you're set for life, or at least living
large.



   "I'm surprised - I mean there's no sex or anything, but the guy gets a
little raw for an eight year old."

   "I had to wait until I WAS eight," Ricky responded, "but you'd be amazed
at the shit I get away with by threatening to read Hemingway.  "

   "Parents encourage stuff like that at their own risk," Michael observed.

   "Mostly it's my mom," the boy said; "Dad's away on location for months
at a time, so we do the reading gig so I can make best use of the time we
do spend together."

   "Parents encourage stuff like that to their own benefit," the fifteen
year old said.

   "It works out, in spite of the `quality time' banality," the youngster
noted.  They parted after half an hour, each feeling an elastic band that
tightened with each step.  Lucky it was only a few short blocks.  Then they
spoke on the phone.

   "Would it be really freaky for you to hang out with a kid my age?" Ricky
asked.

   "As Hirohito, now known to have been an arch war criminal, said, `we
shall have to endure the unendurable.'"

   "We have a set of steak knives," the boy responded, "I could use one of
them if things break down en-extremis; restore your honor."

   "And that leaves who, exactly, to deal with the psychological side?" the
older boy said.

   "They didn't have on of those, then," Ricky noted, "nobody did.  Can you
imagine, a whole world without psychology?"

   "Beats a whole world with it," Michael replied, "but I guess the pull is
too intense to ignore, so we shrink and dither."

   "The dictionary people love it," the blond cutie noted, "because they
even have names for animal problems, and if they don't, they invent them. "

   "Thus giving rise to an entire branch of pseudo science," the older boy
noted, "which is about as classic a definition of the tail wagging the dog
as you're likely to find."



   The conversation went on like this for ten minutes, each party assuring
himself it was a good time for the other to blab on the phone.  They did
like cars, food, and stuff besides books.



   "How about girls?" Ricky asked, feeling comfortable with a friend he'd
know for forty minutes (quality time).

   "That's where the fifteen/eight thing can run into trouble," Michael
said, "I mean, everyone would say you should ask your parents or a
credentialed professional any and all questions on the subject."

   "There's meant to be a separation of church and state," Ricky responded,
"and I think it would take such a leap-of-faith to respect and industrial
oracle, the act would become ecclesiastical."

   "And your mom; your dad when he's home?"

   "You must be even brighter than I thought if you can see where the fun
in that would be," Ricky said.

   "So taboo and heathenism are not elements in your life?" the older boy
queried.

   "They define rare areas, not closed off ones," the eight year old said.
"I mean, everything is pretty normal, so, to get anything out of a lot of
reading, you have to use it as a guideline to what you can get away with;
develop the perspective and insight to know that you can, in fact, color
outside the lines or deviate from the straight-and-narrow once in awhile,
as long as you don't go to far, and return promptly, causing no distraction
during your absence.  It's meant to be too mature for kids my age to
understand, but if you can rattle off a hundred box scores in two or three
minutes, you can't be exactly as the pole for the street light, and
therefore can make some intelligent decisions, even though you'd be lost if
you had to make them all."

   "They were talking about you when I stood in line at the `Brains' desk,"
Michael told the boy.  "Someone had stolen half the entire shipment, and
three witnesses described a boy of your appearance fleeing the location at
sunrise."

   "Most people don't notice," Ricky said, "so I hope you won't tell."



   "That's what I'm not meant to do," the older boy noted, "and you're not
meant to ask."

   "And now that the disclaimers have been published and repeated," the
sweet voice came over the phone, "I want to say that I think you look
dynamite in braces.  Kind of like the boy at the resort hotel in "A Very
Brady Sequel".

   "And you look like a neater Macaulay Culkin," the teen said.

   "My face is kind of rounder," Ricky said, his tone indicating he had
rarely looked at it.

   "I guess they were using the ugly stick to drive others away from the
Brain Desk," Michael said.

   "I think it's neat to like the way someone looks," the younger male
noted.

   "Me too."

   "Do you suppose sometimes friends are just that way because they like
ogling each other, or is that strictly like puppy-love?"

   "If it is, it would be a shame to outgrow it."



   This discussion took ten more minutes.  Since neither was a David
Cassidy type, each was new to the arena of physical attraction.  It wasn't
something you could learn much about, no matter how much you read, though
it would add depth to everything you read.  It was slow going, but they had
ample time, so, given that, their thoughts began to coalesce.

   "Can we call it `dating' when we get together?" the little blond wanted
to know.  His lanky, warm-eyed friend, cute under a thatch of reddish
straw, answered: "You're young enough for play dates, just barely, and I'm
old enough for regular dates, a little more than just barely, but I still
don't like the word."

   "There's no other," the younger boy advised, "nothing that isn't evasive
or impractical.  After all, you say business date, tennis date, and lunch
date, without any particular meaning, unless you want to spend your life in
`appointments'."

   "That would be better than spending it in disappointments," the older
male agreed, "so `dating' it is, as long as no one else is likely to hear."

   "Capiche," the lad replied, nodding to the telephone, "and, while we're
on the subject, how do you fell about this kind of date, talking on the
phone?"

   "It's better than instant messaging," Michael allowed.



   "I know," Ricky said.  "I can tell you've got one of those special hi-fi
phones with a Senheiser microphone."

   "It's good for when you drop a pin on the carpet," the older boy said.

   "It sounds like you could hear it if it was lying in the pile," Ricky
giggled.

   "Very explicit," his friend agreed, "and it takes one to know one,
because I can hear your heart beating whenever you're not actually
talking."

   "Are you taping me?" the youngster asked.

   "Yes," Michael said.

   "Me too, you," his young friend replied, "patched into my VCR."

   "Good," the fifteen year old said, "because then I can ask you if you
really want to talk about mature stuff, and maybe not just girls..."

   "And I can affirm," the boy interjected, "that I do well in school, have
a couple of steady friends, get along well with my parents, and am asking
you questions of a will that's typically un-free when a boy's heard a lot
of stuff, but doesn't know the two and two of the story."



   "If you can get a judge to understand it," Michael allowed, "we may be
home free."

   "You have to have intention, I think," the boy said, "so it should go
well for us if I can show the intention is clearly mine."

   "It would be a neat precedent if it did come up," the teen mused.

   "I'll volunteer as Poster Boy," Ricky said, "because a lot of kids my
age, boys and girls, should be permitted to have older friends - don't ask,
don't tell - without all the hocus-pocus of those who are paid to hoc and
poc."

   "If ninety percent of real law is confusion," the older male said,
"we're off to a great start."

   "I'm more interested in the ending," Ricky said, not being flip or coy,
but his voice stuttering slightly and changing to a whisper.

   "Then that's where we'll go, if you really want to."

   "What I really want," Ricky said (same voice) is to know if you're
dressed and have your shirt on."

   "Yes," a second suddenly lower voice replied.

   "Will you take it off before you talk more?" Ricky asked.

   "Yes," the teen replied, "and you, too, if you want to."

   "Okay," Ricky said, "do you want me to listen first, or do you want to?"

   "If we were online, we could do it together and watch each other," the
straw haired beauty observed.

   "There were scenes in that move where the actor who looked like you was
bare-chested," Ricky said.

   "And none where your doppelganger had his off," the older boy noted,
"which should tell you something about boys your age, not matter how you
feel about yourselves or each other."

   "Well," Ricky said, "I thought you were really beautiful, movie-wise."

   "And I picture you like Macaulay in the shaving scene, only a little
more muscular," Michael said.

   "But we could do videos sometime," the youngster added.



   "I don't think so," the older male said.  "It's only neat to talk about
it and experiment the first few times.  After that, you find what you like
best, and that's much better than any kind of novelty act, so we'll always
have to fantasize, which is something a lot of couples - another word like
`date' - don't get much of."

   "I just thought of something too cute," Ricky said.

   "If you'll spare me the rest, go ahead," the teen prompted.

   "It's just that Mr.  Bell's telephone represents Alexander's Fag-Time
Hand."

   "You'll have to stretch further than that to keep me from laughing," his
friend said.

   "I'll do better," the boy promised.



   In the end, they took turns, laying the phone on their chest's while
their partner began stripping, then whistling softly to exchange roles as
voyeur and victim.



   "Where can we do this while we're looking at each other?" Ricky asked
his half-naked older friend.

   "We could have a pool date, or pick somewhere private," the fifteen year
old noted.  "Even tonight.  I drive quite a bit.  I could pick you up and
we could go up on Mullholland; there's a flashlight and blanket in back of
the car.  How about if I pick you up in an hour."

   "Cool," the boy whispered, "because I really like lying here - I'm on my
bed - wondering how much you look like the boy in the move."

   "I'm on mine, too," Michael said, "hardly caring how you look because
brains in boys aren't something you expect to find."

   "You'd like me if I was fat?" Ricky asked.

   "We'd be discussing the glibness of the French when it comes to
rationalizing foi gras and p té," quoth the fifteen year old, "but we'd
still be friends."

   "Nice not to be chopped liver," the boy responded.



   "If we talk about serious stuff," the boy in braces said, "what kind of
language do you want to use?  We don't have to Lord and Master Fauntleroy,
but I'm not much into the slang, either."

   "I'm tired of all of them, but I say the s-word once a year," Ricky
replied.

   "I learned with a teacher in Scotland," Michael said, "while he was off
for the summer.  He used almost clinical words, so he's the goose I
patterned on, but some people think that's ditzy or fem, so I'm not to the
grammar born, just bred."



   "So what happens at the end?" Ricky wanted to know.  "What do you say?"

   "As far as I'm concerned," his friend replied, "nothing to do with
`shooting', blowing', `wads', and I guess a few others.  `Spunking' is on
the borderline.  And over there, they talk about `wanking' and `tossing',
which is almost as bad as `arse' to an American ear."

   "How about `ejaculate' and `cum'?" the kid wanted to know.

   "They'll do, along with masturbating and jerking off," Michael said,
pleased that once again their was direct and sustained initiative - fodder
for his defense - in the boys approach to the subject.

   "Did you cum with your teacher?" was the next question.

   "I think the detective in the old Peugeot - Columbo - has exclusive
rights to start a story at the end," Michael noted, "unless you're ready to
go up on the crest right about now."

   "No," the boy said quickly.  "This is unimaginable, and I still have my
shorts on."

   "That's how I felt when I was out fishing with Noah," Michael said. 
"Just his hands inside my overalls while he was teaching me to tie hooks
was almost impossible.  It didn't seem like there could be more, but there
was, and there kept being more and more so `quantity' became a useless
word, because you couldn't even measure a few minutes against anything you
were familiar with."



   "Did you talk with him?" the curious minor wanted to know, "or did it
just happen."

   "The former," the adolescent replied.  "Even as much as for him to tell
me pretty frankly, ahead of time, that if I went out with him, he'd like to
stay out for lunch and row into a deserted cove to eat it.  He'd touched my
neck and shoulders a few times when no one was looking, so I ended up
experiencing one of those leaps-of-faith you mentioned, and he could have
towed me out - and it's Scotland, mind you - on a string."

   "Did his voice get like yours is when he was explaining?" Ricky asked.

   "That, plus he yawned some.  That's a signal; good thing to know about
it if the wrong person does it."

   "Everybody would be wrong, but you," came the response.  "I don't think
I have a gay bone in my body, and I think guys with beards acting cute is
the ugliest sight there is, but I haven't stopped thinking of the way you
look; neck, shoulders, waist, the way you don't look buildy, and your
having braces, and it doesn't matter if I'm as straight as an eight year
old can be, I keep thinking."

   "It's usually pretty limited," Michael said.  "Noah had molested a local
boy for two years before I came for the summer, but Nins was the only
contemporary one, and a couple before him going back four or five years; he
was twenty six that summer, when I was twelve.  It usually settles down
pretty fast, according to him; so that's why it's good to make the first
time really special; not rush it even the wee-ist smidgen."

   "No Flying Scotsmen."

   "He first took off Nins' underpants while they were fly fishing," the
teen said, "but there was nothing apocryphal about it.  They were naked
together at the edge of the pond for an hour before they sheltered in a
grove of trees and the boy quizzed him about things that had happened, and
he told Nins about a man, Kyle, he'd worked for as a boy, also, at the age
of twelve."

   "Did he tell you everything?" the child whispered into the phone.

   "I asked him," Michael explained.

   "Really mature things?" the now panting boy husked.

   "First, about what a man's penis looked like," came the answer, "only
more illusory, less graphic, you know: `Noah, when you saw Kyle, was he,
you know, like some biblical painting or something> I mean...".







   "In body, perhaps," the twenty-six year old fly fisherman said to the
twelve year old freshly naked and standing up to his knees in the water at
the edge of the lake, "but, Nins, significantly more dramatic."

   "Those paintings do make one think they're hiding more than they show,"
the student said.

   "Decorum has become a tradition, and right enough it has," the teacher
said, "but a boy at the age I was then saw what you see in the paintings,
the toned body, the arched backs, like the minute they were through with
god they'd be really through with the old-timer."

   "How old was Kyle?" Nins asked his adult friend.

   "Nineteen," the man replied, "his father owned the store, and he worked
there quite often.  I ran errands for them and cleaned.  We became friends
over chess, and it was a relationship that seemed to not want to stop
growing.  From chess, it's not many steps to museums, art museums, and
there are the pictures; lots of cloistered red herrings, but lo and behold,
every collection we visited had it share of bonny replicas of Michelangelo,
and, as you so astutely noted, few of them looked to be in any frame of
mind one associates with sanctuary."





   "Maybe the artists were encouraging the flocks," Noah (at twelve)
observed, "knowing if they ended up bonny they'd have something in their
souls worthy of religious intervention."

   "Well," the nineteen year old replied, "the bonny part can't itself
occur without intervention, so the devil was one step ahead." They were
winding down their day, Mr.  Mac Douglas having already left for home.

   "How bonny would they be likely to be?" By this time they'd retrieved a
coffee table portfolio they'd gone halves on, in the name of art.

   "Enough to touch each other," the athletic young man said.  "I supposed
that settled the matter.  Many undoubtedly `thought' and used the church as
a vehicle of forgiveness, but to be truly welcomed amongst sinners,
wouldn't you suppose physical acts were necessary?"

   "I'd bet the ranch," the boy said, quoting a movie line.

   "And so it would be verified as a common denominator by many," Kyle
nodded.

   "Did it happen while you were a child?" the boy asked.

   "No," his friend said, "it's been pictures and imagining what they
suggest but don't tell."

   "So you stand with the vicarious," said the boy, so well educated he was
required to work sixteen hours a week, lest the entire world end up going
to his head.

   "I'm afraid it's a sad story," the older boy nodded, "however familiar."

   "Well," Noah said, "it may sound like a perverse twist on Christian
logic, but I feel it would be the best thing I could do in, or with, my
life if I inspired, at least to the best of my ability, a joyous approach
to the holy world, perhaps making up in the quantity of whatever sin we can
conjure up for their lack of originality." Well, that was a ticket,
perverse, yes, the boy had the right word, but so essential and immediate
its metaphysical aspects and facets could be put on hold.



   "Tell me a secret," Kyle then said as by acclimation, they both headed
for the basement, for the first time carrying the folio on their inspection
for lurking night thieves.

   "Okay," Noah agreed.

   "Of all the pictures, which one do you like best, not looking at them as
art."

   "Why would I do that?" the boy said, demonstrating as much cheek as
there was in him.  Even the close call earned him a punch in the shoulder
and he smiled shyly at his own bonnyness as he showed the illustration in
question to his mature friend.

   "Just so," Kyle whispered.  "And you know, we could set up a tableau
like that here in the cellar.  I think the cherubs are symbolic of
children, so if you could find a minute bit of swaddling, you'd fit right
in."

   "There are tea towels on one of the shelves," Noah noted, "and they
might serve for both of us, being as how we're so far off Broadway."

   "To a tee," Kyle nodded as the two of them went to arranging stored
merchandise in an amateurish replica of the clouds supporting the biblical
cast.  Ten minutes, and they were done, modestly disrobing, back to back,
then the teen taking his position, sprawling back, languidly, arms
outstretched, as the twelve year old took his position a dramatic distance
from the arching and almost naked athlete.  They looked hotly into each
other's eyes, skin glowing in the soft light of candles.

   "You can do anything you want," the young adult whispered, not adding
"mi cuerpo est su cuerpo" which would have been a word-play on "my house is
your house, only without the house."



   "Just looking at you is sort of a sum total of everything," Noah
responded.

   "And I love looking at you," the Titian god whispered back.

   "You're really big under the cloth," the twelve year old added.

   "You towel's kinda bunched up," Kyle observed, "do you have a boner,
too?"

   "Yes," the boy blushed.

   "Have you ever let anyone see you that way?" the older male whispered.

   "No," the boy said, bashfully.

   "No one's ever seen me when I was excited, either," Kyle noted.

   "Did you ever want anyone to?"

   "Two of my teachers," his friend replied, "I would have like to lie like
this in front of them.  One last year, and one when I was fifteen."

   "So it really is pretty rare," the thoughtful youngster commented.

   "Nonexistent until you came along, except for a little wishful
thinking.," he observed.



   "If I come over to your cloud," Noah whispered, "could I start touching
you in a different way than with my fingers?"

   "Yes," the mature athlete nodded.

   "I'll have to get you ready for the way I want to do it, first," the boy
noted.

   "You'd think ready would be the operative word, wouldn't you?" Kyle
said, "but the joke is, I'm ready to go on looking at you forever, just the
way you are, and especially since you adjusted your tea towel so I can see
you're as mature as most teenagers."

   "It's kinda embarrassing in gym," the boy blushed.

   "Well," his friend noted, "that's better than swaggering around, naked,
swinging your hips and saying, `look at this pussy jammer I've got on me.'"

   "I guess I never quite though of it that way," Noah said with his shy
smile.

   "And you'll probably attract shy males," the older boy said, "so you'll
have to develop a higher degree of acuity, since no one is likely to come
along and say, `how `bout we go upstairs at the riding stable and make a
bale of hay fireproof?.'"

   "Do you think I should let others see me like this?" the twelve year old
asked.

   "I may not have done anything," his friend answered, "but I've read
quite a bit of stuff.  It's not a monogamous thing, like marriage.  Even
boys supposedly in love with men and other boys have partners outside the
alpha relationship, so, yes, I think you're very cute, and you're very
well-developed, which is not important, but still kind of attractive, and
it's likely that a few of the men you know would like to see you dressed
like a cherub and touch you under your cloth.

   "The professionals say you can get hooked on it, forgetting to add young
people can get hooked on everything from reading to gambling, and giving it
its fair place, with full acknowledgement of potential good facets very
much lacking in all so-called addictions, other than reading, which can
also louse you up if taken to an extreme."



   "If I did like someone, how would I tell him?" the child wanted to know.

   "Is it a teacher?" Kyle asked.  The boy nodded.

   "Write him a letter," the teen suggested, "just say you like him and
will be in a certain place at a certain time.  He may zap you off to
therapy, but you could also get hit by lightning or snake-bit."

   "Could I tell him about what's happening with us?" was the next
question.

   "Yes," Kyle said.  "Name, place, time, anything you want.  That's called
verbal voyeurism, the other kind is when you peek on people who think
they're in private.  We're even kinda doing it now, even though nothing's
happened.  Stick to what really happened; how long we talked while we
looked at each other, bare-chested, how we first touched, whether you like
it when I spilled my seed all over your bate chest.  He probably got
touched when he was a kid, too, and will tell you about the first time it
happened if you want him to."

   "If you molest another boy, will you tell him about me?" Noah whispered.

   "If he quizzes me, I'll tell him everything," the young man replied,
"but a lot of people, adults and children, are-not interested, so it might
not happen."

   "What would be perfect is if you had two others and I did, too," the boy
mused.

   "That would fit in with what I've read on the subject," the older male
concurred.  "Helps keep it distinct from monogamy, which is as outright
defective as any doctrine I know of."

   "It would certainly get in the way of having friends," the wise child
nodded with a flicker of a smile.



   "It does work for some couples, married, or otherwise," Kyle said, "and
it's probably a near ultimate deathbed trip, knowing you spent years with
your one-and-only.  But like I said before about strutting around the
locker room, the worst d-bed trip would not be to remember any because you
had so many."

   "You're kinda dangerous that way," Noah murmured, "because you're so
beautiful.  I've got my lifetime memory signed, sealed, and delivered,
which means I can go out and do anything because nothing could erase it."

   "Wouldn't be much of a challenge," Kyle observed, "because some disease
would erase you before long-term memory became an issue."

   "That's even kind of cool," the twelve year old said, "because there are
some times when, you know, you think you'd kinda like to.  It's like your
mom not letting you go somewhere you don't really want to go, in the first
place."

   "I remember that," Kyle laughed, "'tell me I can't,' by gesture if not
in words."

   "Yeah, `cause the other person could hear the words over the phone."

   They both laughed, yet a major aspect of the history of art was under
discussion.  Did the ancient masters choose their subjects simply because
they like looking at flexing, athletic torsos, hour after hour?  Did such
potential opportunities inspire them to take up art, in the first place,
then serve as a constant stimulus, based on the credo that he who did the
finest work got to work with the most alluring models?  If it seems
far-fetched, how about adding religion, as a whole?  The entirety of the
Christian epoch developed and maintained as a foundation for thousands of
artworks depicting naked and almost naked young, or at least hard-bodied,
males and females?  Neatly enough, it's a truth that can be proved with a
contemporary example if one peruses, for at least ten minutes, the history
of the proliferation of stalking chat rooms, overwhelmingly men looking for
preteen partners, that are the foundation of the Internet and World Wide
Web.  How little difference, on superficial analysis, between then and now,
and perhaps the cults forbidding graven images had the best slant,
preferring the touch and feel of the real thing.



   Both young males were circumcised and slightly greater and lesser twins.
Noah, holding his dressing modestly in place, rose from his cloud,
approached the athletic young adult who arched in welcome, and, touching
only the cloth, pulled it slowly free exposing the pulsing seven inch shaft
of the mature boy.  Using just his fingers, Kyle took hold of the twelve
year old's towel, and the boy let go.  He stood as a young adult, a wisp of
silky black fur hinting at his biological adulthood.  Instinctively, and
very aesthetically, the boy emulated his older friends position as he stood
next to the latter's cloud, arching with his hands behind his head.  As the
twelve year old spread his legs and moved forward, Kyle came to understand
his wish and positioned himself to meet the advancing child.  At an inch
apart they gazed at each other, panting openly, and then the boy moved to
the man, the tip of his hard erection nudging the flaring adult.  Give
people in coffins pencil and paper and they could write half a page,
assuming it had ever happened to them, of the feeling of a boy's hot, hard,
slick glans probing and wetting their own iron-hard erection.  Each
exploratory thrust was titanic, each experimental stroking, the lilies of
the field.  Nothing, but nothing... yet, it was only prologue.  So
saturating were the feelings, by acclimation, they repositioned themselves,
child huddling beside man, so their bare chests met with no other touching.
The two scenes played out over ten minutes, then Kyle eased Noah back onto
his heaving chest, finally actually molesting the stripling as the boy
panted and arched to the play of his gentle hands and tracing fingers
exploring his face, neck, shoulders, chest and belly.  Perhaps due to the
comfort of the positions, this play lasted almost half an hour, Kyle's
hands venturing nearly to the boy's knees as the twelve year old continued
wriggling and arching in response.



   "I don't like men," the older partner whispered to his little friend, "I
mean, for this kind of thing, but I wouldn't mind being with an adult male
if you were there, too.  Just thought I'd tell you, because it's very
common for a boy to like being with more than one mature partner, and it's
also common for men who have no active interest in others their age to
enjoy their presence under the circumstances of touching a willing child."

   "I feel the same thing," Noah whispered, sensing a rapid tensing in the
powerful body beneath his back, and feeling it, no sensing involved, rising
fast between his own slim, boyish legs.  "I'd like having my teacher watch
what we're doing, and I'd like to watch you with another boy lying on his
back on your chest."

   "Any particular boy?" the man asked.

   "Kevin Miller," the preteen said, "he's a year younger than I am but he
reads all the time, too, and is very mature."



   "Do you think he'd like your teacher?" Kyle whispered.

   "Everybody likes Mr.  Kincaid," the boy answered.

   "You're lucky," the nineteen year old said, "he is nice, and cute."

   "Do you think he'd answer my letter - I mean, respond to it?"

   "Not with bells on," Kyle observed, glad of a little by-play, however
cornball, to postpone what was rapidly approaching, "you know, due to
practical considerations concerning sanity, if not privacy, but yes, I
think if you're gentle and persistent, some day it may be his penis jutting
up over your soft, white belly, ready to spray hot sperm all over you,
instead of mine.

   "I'd like to be there to watch it happen," the whispering went on,
"probably once or twice, anytime both of you might be comfortable with it,
but your first times should be in privacy."

   "How many times do you think it will happen with us?" the child asked as
the nineteen year old eased him to the cloud, reversing their positions so
he was bracing himself, spread eagle, at Noah's right flank.

   "Not very many," Kyle replied as the now supine boy found him with his
right hand and began fondling his long, hot, hard shaft.  "Some dozens. 
That's not universal, but it's pretty standard, at least according to what
I've read.  The exception is if partners who no longer have much sex find a
willing child, just like with me and an adult, then things start up again,
for awhile, or so the story goes."



   "So maybe we should write Kevin on next year's calendar," the boy mused.

   "First we have to know we have a chance of living that long," Kyle
advised, "and unless I cum on you, I'm not going to make it to this
evening."

   "If you stand on my left side," Noah suggested, "I could jerk you off
better."

   There was a shuffling of positions which left the man arched and
displaying while the child reached across to masturbate him fully.  The
build of tension was palpable for both.  Each had been heroic in allowing
their friendship to mature, finger free, and, if a payoff wasn't at hand,
it was hard to imagine a more generous reward.

   "You can't see as well if you're stroking me," Kyle panted, gently
capturing the boys hands and stretching his arms high above his head, then
taking a moment to position the preteen so he could both see plainly and
arch his slim chest in welcome.  Again bracing himself, Kyle began
masturbating openly, smearing his seminal fluid on the heaving chest of the
minor.  After a minute, he was barely able to gasp and in two his warning
amounted to a grunting moan and a nod of the head.  Noah stared and focused
his eyes, yipping spontaneously as hot jets of sperm shot across his bare
chest.





   "I want to see that, too," Nins said.  The two had carefully parked
their rods and the naked Noah was huddled over him, his body a third larger
than that of the boy in his arms.  His powerful left arm was around the
slim, heaving chest, his right hand stroking the boy in a gentle, steady
rhythm as the twelve year old bucked and thrust to his hand.

   "I'm glad you said so when you did," the teacher advised, "because I was
going to cum all over your bottom and your back if I kept molesting you
this way." He eased the boy onto a fallen tree, posing him, then began
masturbating while he rubbed the flaring glans of his seven inch erection
over the boy's right flank and chest.  As in the story, he began tensing
after a few minutes, and Nins' right hand gripped his left shoulder until
the knuckles whitened.  "Yes," he whispered, "just like Kyle did it with
you."

   He could only nod a warning, but the boy understood and gasped with
excitement.  "Uh, god," he croaked as the first hot lash sizzled across his
bare skin, thick and full enough to splash aloud."





   "Did it happen to both of them, too?" Ricky whispered into the phone.

   "That's kind of a mature part," Michael said, "because it gets into one
male using his lips and tongue on another."

   "That happened?" the eight year old asked his fifteen year old `movie'
pal.

   "Noah told me everything while we were fishing," the teen explained. 
"From an adult, the cum is pretty intense.  Not really offensive, unless
it's your first time and you're not expecting it, but not all that great,
either.  But from boys it's different.  Not salty and heavy, but tangy and
full, to use two inappropriate words in one phrase."



   "That's a bummer, kinda," the boy said.

   "Fortunately," his phone sex partner responded, "it's nice to take
little licks of it, then kiss the older male, assuming he's a young older
male and you like him enough to try it, to get the salty sperm off your
tongue, then keep doing it."

   "Is that what happened while you were in Scotland?"

   "Yes," Michael said, "Noah and I recreated the scene in the basement of
the shop in the boat, anyway as best we could.  We touched the way he did
with Kyle, and then I lay back over a thwart with my head on a life jacket,
while I masturbated him for awhile, until he was really getting tense, then
I put my hands over my head and got ready for him."

   "Were you looking in just the right place when it happened?" Ricky
whispered.

   "Yes," came the high-fidelity response.

   "What's better, seeing it or feeling it on your bare skin?"

   "Seeing it," the fifteen year old said, "because, in spite of what
people might write in story books, semen is body temperature and unless one
partner has a fever, there's no feeling it all.  If you had your eyes
closed, you might not even know what was happening."

   "So that's why we're going to take a flashlight up on the ridge?"

   "It would be better to have candles, like Noah did when he and Kyle were
at their fine art stage."

   "Not in Los Angeles," the boy pleaded, "hippies can smell them at a
thousand yards."



   "It probably wouldn't be such a great idea to go up there, in the first
place," Michael observed.  "Instead, I thought of something else."\

   "What?" the blond, blue-eyed child asked.

   "You can listen while it happens, over the fiber optic, then we can find
a comfortable place where we have plenty of time, and then you can see it
if you're still interested."

   "How many times were you interested with Noah?" the boy asked.

   "A lot at first," the fifteen year old replied, "maybe a couple of dozen
times, then like on of they guys in the story said, it becomes routine, and
finally it almost stops."

   "So there would be a next time?"

   "You're eight," the older boy replied, "very young and very beautiful.
Dozens of times would probably be a prologue, you know, if we end up
hanging out as friends and guys who like to trash Hemingway, in the first
place.  You'll be getting more beautiful as you grow, assuming you don't
get fat, and that will keep older guys especially interested in you for
five or six years."

   "Good," the child breathed.

   "I hope you're not expecting the roar of Niagara," Michael said with a
nervous laugh.



   "What do you mean, expecting?" the twinkie responded, "my ears have been
roaring from the time you first mentioned Noah."

   "Well," the older boy said, "we better talk about goldfish or Tyne
Daley, or you're going to end up with a lot of questions."

   "I think SNL's dumb enough to solve the problem," the boy added, doing
his best to help himself.

   "And I'll help," his older friend chipped in, "by not describing the
feeling as Noah's hands began going under my summer overalls and I knew
what he was going to teach me, or the feeling of his penis as he brought me
gently against him, or his hands responding to my welcome by tracing all
over me, then down below my belly..."

   "That's it," Ricky interrupted, "I'll be out of blood any minute now,
and all will be silent."

   "I'm that hard, too," the teen rasped, "like I got the minute his hand
went all the way below my belly and I knew I was really and truly in the
hands of a child molester."

   "Being raped," Ricky managed to whisper.  He then asked Michael to hold
on for a second, lay the telephonic instrument on his sternum, and
unfastened his shorts, slipping them off, then following de-suit with his
white, cotton underpants, trying not to snap the flex band ostentatiously.
In a quarter minute the phone was again glued to his ear, and he could hear
belt, buckle, snap, and zipper as clearly as if he was using his one small
hands to get his older friend naked.

   After half a minute, there was a whisper from Michaels end of the
connection.  "Hold on for a minute," he said, "I'm going to get some baby
oil."

   That was a lot to fantasize about, and the eight year old was only about
half way through reviewing the possibilities when the phone returned to
life.  "I'm back," came the exciting voice.  "See if you can tell what's
happening."

   "Give me some hints," Ricky suggested, even though he knew,
subliminally, he wouldn't be able to hear everything that happened if
Michael was whispering on the phone.

   "You know how I told you about Noah going lower and lower on my
stomach?" the teen said.

   "Yes," came the answering whisper.

   "Well, he didn't stop," the older male explained to his young friend,
"he whispered some questions to me about things I did before I went to
sleep at night, then if I had a boner, then he started touching me and
making it bigger and harder, then he started doing what I'm going to do,
using his right hand.  Okay?"

   "Can I do it while you are?" Ricky asked.

   "Yes," the his friend said, "but you won't be able to hear me.  Maybe it
would be better if you try to picture it - you know, fantasize - and
pretend you're using your right hand - if you're right handed - like Noah
did, instead of me using my own hand, which boys can do easily enough."

   "Will you be pretending it's my hand?" the cutie wanted to know.

   "Yes," the teen said.

   "Okay," Ricky responded, adding: "I don't know what I should do next,
you know, count down like a rocket launch, or say, `on your mark...'"

   "As long as you're not hooked on `red-glares'," the friendly teen said,
"I'd go with your first choice."

   "Can I start at `two'?" the child asked.

   "You just did," his friend answered, placing the phone on his own chest
and unsnapping the bottle of oil.  "See if you can picture how hard and how
fast," he whispered loud enough for the expensive telephone to record his
voice.  He then applied the oil to his hard, six inch shaft, and began
masturbating.



   "I started doing it with Noah about ten minutes after he started with
me," he again whispered loudly enough, "and that seemed about right.  So,
first time we're together, we can experiment with that for a start.  I'll
jerk you off for about that amount of time, then you can see if you like
doing it with me." He knew his young friend was bright enough to know he,
Michael, couldn't hear him if he whispered into, stay with the program,
into the phone now on the teen's heaving chest, so he kept telling his
story without the quizzing of the sublime alto voice.



   "Remember how I told you about him lying me back over the seat of the
boat before he sprayed on my chest?  Well, that's how he was, lying back
over the seat, while I straddled his right thigh and did with him what he'd
started doing with me inside my underpants.  The same thing you might want
to do if we get together.  Using my hand on him.  Getting him wet with the
same thing I'm using, baby oil, then playing with his glans which are the
pink tip, only they get more like purple if a male's totally excited, then
using my right fist, pretty high up on him most of the time, because I
could tell from the way he panted that was the best feeling, you know,
stroking him with my hand going over his naked glans instead of using it
down low.  He told me to take him all the way, because the man always cums
first if he's with a young boy, so I kept doing it, slowly gripping a
little harder and moving my hand up and down a little faster and more from
top to bottom, but mainly on the top.



   "We still had half the lunch hour in the cove," Michael elaborated, "so
I did it with him slower than I felt I could do it if we had to hurry for
some reason.  But not too slow, because I could kinda tell from my own body
that too-slow would be teasing, not erotic.



   "So it could have been over in two or three minutes, because I was
twelve.  If a boy your age had been using his hand with oil on it, it would
have been over in ten to twenty seconds.  I know that, again, from my own
body.  I you where here doing with me what I did with Noah while I was
straddling his leg, I'd have been cumming off almost immediately.



   "So it lasted ten minutes, then about one more after he told me he was
going to cum and started splashing his hot-looking semen all over his
chest, until I held his penis against me so he could watch his sperm get me
wet."



   This story concludes with a longish sequence of subtle sound effects, so
easily imagined it seems pointless to write them down.



   THE END

   xxx