Date: Fri, 3 May 2002 18:10:44 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: STONINGTON STORIES - KELSEY
STONINGTON STORIES -- KELSEY
by R. Forbes Emerson
(M/b, t/b, rom.)
He was clamming a hundred feet from shore. Larry wanted to sit on
a rock and watch but I'd never raked steamers, so, being as how this was
not just Stonington but Oceanville, we stripped to our underwear behind a
bush, Larry blushed as he turned to face me, his slightly puffy nipples
vivid on his pale, young-teen chest, and, since I looked the same, I
blushed too, then we called to the nine year old, and he waved us out into
all that deep mud.
Was it fun? One sure thing, it beat working in any factory I could
think of; perhaps it was more primal than anything else; reaching into the
deep, black, salt-water mud, hauling on freaking food. I couldn't help
wonder if Emersons a hundred generations back might not have done the same
thing on the estuaries and coastal flats of England. Sure, the thinking
was elitist in a wry sort of way, but my family has done rather well since
reaching the colonial shore in 1620 so it's forgivable, from my point of
view at least, to wonder how long ago we might have been clam diggers, if
ever.
What had we missed in starting the Revolution and running The Bell
System for decades? Sure, others had gained, or thought they had, but had
any of my numerous illustrious ancestors ever worked shoulder to shoulder
with a very cute boy, dressed, as we were, only in underpants; harvested
with such a boy, reaped with such a child, or just shared the view with
youthful eyes? If money isn't the root of all evil, does it yet retain its
power to create confusion? Scramble priorities? Why, instead of the phone
company, hadn't we run a giant clam ranch where young boys and girls could
engage in two hours of healthy, limbering exercise and have a hundred
bucks, or thereabouts, to show for their efforts? Sure, it would have been
hard on the steamers, but they grew in mass profusion, and billions hung
out in deep mud beyond the reach of mankind.
"We brought our rifles," Larry said as we slogged, pretty
literally, up to the boy. Good line. I mean, think of a hundred lines to
use on a nine-year-old male, can you beat it? How well did it work? Wait
`till I tell you.
"I think the rake is better for clams," Kelsey Blastow intoned.
Larry, who'd left his glasses with our clothes and .22s, gave the
boy a steady gaze from his big, blue eyes. "I thought we'd save the rake
to encourage you at bed time," he said.
"You've got a point," the boy said, still working away in the black
mud, "because Roger Weed and Roger Greenlaw are going to sleep over."
Did someone say sleep?
We fourteen year olds were to baby-sit Kelsey while his parents and
sister visited up to Millinocket, ayah -- now it sounded like we might be
starting a club. Audrey? Yes, she was, no shadow of a doubt about it, the
world's best girlfriend, but had her pretty hands gone a little wild on the
telephone in this particular case? We would be finding out, it seemed.
Clamming isn't difficult from a technical standpoint, ease the tines
into the mud and gently lever out whatever is there. If it's a clam, and
you haven't damaged the soft shell, you keep it; if it's a rock, you return
it to the mud in a variation of catch-and-release based on common sense.
The steamer clams are dropped into a wooden basket called a roller, which
can be shaken in the water to clean the critters and make them fit for
their proximate meeting with steam and beer. It would be back-breaking
work except that each dig of the fork brings up at least one or two, and
the tide comes in soon enough to drive the clam digger off the flats before
he breaks in half.
If you ever visit this part of coastal Maine, you will find T-shirts
on sale that read: "Deer Isle Smile." Inland, this might be called a
plumber's smile, you know, the pants hanging low, cheeky. Not a problem
for Kelsey, Larry or myself, because our briefs fit well, had good
elastics, and generally speaking allowed us to bend to our shared task in
reasonable modesty. If one is careful it is possible to dig in the mud
with your hands, and it's rare a shell fragment cuts all the way to the
bone, so three of us set to work, the better to get our charge of the
evening out of the mud before the setting sun invited out the mosquitoes.
We carried Kelsey's four full rollers to a drop off, and fell into
the sun-warmed pool ourselves. Larry and I had spent the day together,
supposedly hunting squirrels, but our hearts hadn't been in killing the
little garden varmints, so we'd digressed, spending much of our
hunter/gatherer time telling the kind of stories young teen boys enjoy. It
had been fulfilling, helping Kelsey, because even in this age before
slackers had gained notoriety there was such a thing as goofing off, and we
had to be especially careful of our reputations due to the insular nature
of the community, so it was some pride that we left the mud, pretty clean,
and found our clothes and a towel grabbed from the Billings' house on the
way. We spread ourselves modestly along a little brook, so as to rinse the
salt off us, and leaving our underwear to dry in the breeze, we all dressed
in our shorts and shirts and met back by the arms catchment. By the time
we'd fired a hundred shots, our impromptu laundry was done and the sun was
setting. Time to take our boy home and feed him, then await the arrival of
his little guests.
Kelsey was the perfect host and not only set his watch dogs at ease
with his witty chatter and charming ways, but cooked for us, too. His
family lived in the perfect human habitation, a ramshackle frame house that
managed not to bore a visitor off the face of the earth ten seconds after
stepping through the front door. It was clean enough and neat enough to
assure the guest that all animals weighing over fifty pounds were kept out
of doors, and, if the housekeeping could otherwise be called low-key, the
reason seemed to be that the home was furnished with bookshelves on the
walls and book and magazine laden tables strewn about the first floor.
Obviously the family was more into reading than mopping, which was a good
thing because clamming was a young man's occupation and one really did want
to graduate to something else as a life's vocation, if possible.
The two Rogers arrived in time for pie and stressed me out. I was,
even in 1960, a nascent writer of the listening toad-in a-hole variety;
listening, absorbing, acting normal so people would take me as normal even
though, in reality, I was a prince with an awesome and socially secret
background, staggering around under the highest intelligence quotient ever
measured. Why was I stressed? Because with the arrival of Kelsey's late
guests we had, in a single standard size living room, Larry, a fourteen
year old blond beauty, slim and coltish, myself, a lanky, muscular teen,
Kelsey, a slim whippet of a boy with brown hair, an almost feminine, but
definitely not feminine heart-shaped face, a slim nose apparently specially
sculpted by a nasal god, and huge brown eyes with lashes that were suitable
for framing, Roger Greenlaw, a fresh, breezy, freckly eleven year old with
ginger hair and the build of a boy of Kelsey's age, Roger Weed, thirteen,
even slighter, almost tiny, with jet black hair and intense green eyes, and
a blueberry pie so heavy and thick it might have been of interest to the
Pentagon. (Roosevelt, of greater goon fame, at least in my writing, once
hatched a scheme to force the Japanese to surrender by dropping
cave-dwelling bats on their field positions. If he'd tried wild Maine
blueberries, the idea might have worked.) In any event, it was sensory
overload; two teens who'd been telling stories most of the day, three alert
boys of nine, eleven and thirteen, and the pie at about 110 degrees, which
was just the right temperature.
If Audrey, my ten-year-old girlfriend, kept making up for being with
her brother the way she was doing it now, I might not live to see her
again. Then again, I'd survived fourteen years of my mother, and that had
to work in my favor; as I write this, I've even survived the onslaught to
my twenty-plus years of involuntary bachelorhood by a dazzling
fourteen-year-old tomboy, so a survivor I was, a survivor I am, and it
would probably be smart not to say more.
Remind you of anyone? The bishops, cardinals and priests? Everyone
says they aren't saying much, that they're being smart like me. Sad. They
could put out a clarion call and make a difference; admit, simply, the
truth, and the truth is their church, and all churches, are built on seven
tenths pedophilia and thirty percent spirituality -- these statistics, of
course, leaving out money and property, because these are also secular
incentives. Civilization owes so much to pedophiles and the desires of men
to be close with boys that removing the so-called offenders at any point in
history would flatten the curve and lead us verily back into the valley of
the star-gazing stone pilers. Boy lovers manned the monasteries and naval
ships in the olden days, and largely run things to this very day. They are
almost solely responsible for popularization of the Internet, the resulting
sales of computers, and, judging by the statistics, in this writer's
considerable view, are the principal agents in preventing a total economic
collapse with its inevitable near one-hundred percent casualty rate, in
1989. Kick us around all you want, but the day you kick us out you die,
all of you. We go to the most ancient times, we are alive and well here
and now, fuck with us at your own extreme peril. And that's exactly the
message the church should be getting out, and the probably would, but I
think priests get drunk with their tin-pot power and really tie and rape
the kids in many cases. Of course, this is a relative thing, and hardly
much to think about when one considers that the noisy urban socialists,
drunk on their power, and expressing their patent brand of absolute
stupidness in, as an example, the loopy wasteland of the yammering,
flapping puppets of children's' television, which they always produce, are
undermining and destroying anything and everything to do with America
simply because it can be done. They have been pogrommed against, killed,
and deported time and again by culture after culture all over the world and
all back through the centuries. Were all those kings and queens wrong?
Did they not poison wells, and cattle die where they settled simply because
they were so ugly? One look at Babs, and you can see the possibility, and
surely Drescher could put a herd off its feed, if not drive every cow mad,
by making a county-wide braying laugh come out of her ranch-size mouth.
Well, we're told they're these wonderful people among us, so perhaps it
would be better to leave you to your fate as their slaves and get back to
Kelsey's house.
"I usually take a bath after dinner," the cutie said. He may not
have been the host with the most but that didn't seem to hinder him in
being the life of the party. "How about you guys?"
"I'm sweaty from running over here," Roger Greenlaw said.
"I've got mosquito blood on my leg," Roger Weed observed.
Three dirty boys.
"How much hot water is there?" I asked. I made it a point to say
very little, but this did seem germane.
"Not too much," Kelsey admitted.
Larry thought for a minute and displayed the insight that would one
day make him a first-rate engineer. "The tub would be fuller if all three
of you bathed together," he noted.
"That sounds like we're babies," Kelsey observed, adding: "why, I
doubt we're even old enough to undress ourselves." Did I mention he was a
cutie?
"We wouldn't need much help," Roger G. said, "and if you guys,"
meaning Larry and me, "showed us how, we'd catch on."
They did seem a bright lot, at that.
"Plus," Kelsey said, making my point for me better than I could make
it myself, "we get scared of the dark, and my room's on the side of the
house away from the street light."
Dirty, timid boys. Big, old, scary house. Maybe twenty gallons of
hot water, tops. As a writer I never get blocked; it happens when you
overpay your dues by three or four times, but I do get choked; flooded, so
to speak, by too many stories, and even within a single story there can
arise such an abundance of diversion that the possibilities fight for
attention and bring things to a standstill. Larry, Kelsey, Roger G. and
Roger W. The family by now half way to Millinocket. Everyone fed, with a
pie in reserve for a midnight snack. All the books in the house. A bath
tub. A dark bedroom. Larry's stories of the afternoon. A good harvest
from the sea. Audrey. Her older brother, Jack. A toad-in-the-hole so
fattened he couldn't hop out of hot water. Hot water. Ah, a weakness at
last. There wasn't much hot water. Those old "Dragnet" writers weren't
fools, they stuck to the facts.
One fact was that it was getting hot in the living room, just a
natural side effect of five people on a warm evening. I'd been so wild
about Larry, he was no longer self-conscious about going bare chested; he'd
stripped spontaneously the minute we'd seen Kelsey on the clam flats, and
he reprised his act by simply unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging it off
his shoulders. I'd also been pretty wild about his eyes, so he took his
glasses off. The focus of attention, and I might say avid attention, was
now focused on yours truly. As a writer, I tried to never interfere with
events, and now I'd be doing that by not joining in. Even if I'd had
second thoughts on how involvement might effect my objectivity, they'd have
been down the tubes the minute my young host landed in my lap and went to
work on my shirt. Roger Greenlaw got up from his chair and stood in front
of Larry, who was sitting at my left on the sofa. Larry began stripping
him, as Kelsey stripped me, and Roger Weed stood between Kelsey and the
other Roger, taking off his own shirt as Larry and I stared at him.
This went on until all of us were in our underwear and ready to go
upstairs and start filling the tub.
I'd never molested a boy at that point in my life, but the world's
shortest relationship with a local beauty had opened a slit in the curtain
of what my life was likely to be like, so the alternative was not as
unattractive as it might have been. Plan B. The notion caused me to
stifle a giggle. Plan Boy. While I hadn't ever molested a boy, a man had
molested me, and I remembered how he'd stood behind me, gently running his
fingertips over my eight-year-old chest and belly.
Writers must be meticulous, organized, focused and craft-like in both
their lives and their work. There is so much confusion and distortion in
the day-to-day world, it takes well hones organizational skills to render
to render any sliver of overall chaos sensibly in prose. In the present
instance, this meant working my way, as a neophyte ped, from the oldest
child down to the nine-year-old Kelsey. Accordingly, I nodded at Roger
Weed and he came to sit on my lap, facing me.
"Hi," I whispered.
"Hi," he replied, "welcome to Stonington."
Audrey had extended a welcome beyond imagination, but I was still
flattered by the thoughtful remark, so I said thanks.
My mother frequently said I should be a lawyer; something to do, from
her point of view, with my tendency to argue. Of course, from my point of
view, I was trying to ameliorate major defects in a horrendous gargoyle,
but I had another legalistic trait, and that was, as just mentioned,
sorting things out and taking them in the best order possible under the
circumstances. In this case, I started with Roger W.'s eyes, his rugged
boy's face, possibly reflecting some strain at his diminutive size. They
seemed to calm as I looked at him, so, having set that duck at the head of
the column, I lowered my eyes to his slim shoulders and his almost babyish
naked chest. If it was admirable behavior, it was organized, because his
belly button came next on the list of ethereally magic places that
constitute perhaps one boy in a hundred. Of course, all this was leading
somewhere, and the `where' in this case was a destination worthy of a walk
across Death Valley on bare feet.
Roger was huge. Across his whole lap. His underpants bulged as if
he'd stuffed them with a small ear of corn. Thirteen he may have been, but
in a waist-only photo, he could have passed for eighteen. He looked nine,
looked eighteen, and was in the first year of his teens.
As sometimes happens in situations like this, I found myself in need
of wayward thoughts, sort of like a cook turning down the heat so she won't
rust out her stove.
Is genius what we are allowed? Is it up to someone else to tell us
what it is or is not? Even at fourteen, my age in this story, I knew
things were fundamentally out of kilter. My bee in the bonnet in those
days was euthanasia. I was, and am, strongly for it; would wonder even
more than I already do at a deity who'd question my fitness for heaven
because I preferred my estate to go to my children rather than exhaust it
to keep my own heart beating in what would, chances are, be a tormented
body. Look what's happened. Western Europe will soon have sixty million
old people needing care far beyond the resources to provide it, even if
every care giver worked for free. They simply couldn't be lost to the
labor force. They are faced, in very few years, with mandatory euthanasia;
drag `em off and gas `em. How far are we behind? Under the all but pure
socialism extent, we must realize this is a fatal situation. The old folks
not only vote, they write, donate, parade, and show up. Parents are a tad
busy for these shenanigans, and the kids are underage. Hardly an episode
of "e.r." goes by but that some preposterously unfit human is wrenched from
a well deserved death to a, face a mountain of bills, or, b, pass them on
to his children. The general ambience of the show, and others like it, is,
from this writer's point of view, utterly insane. Either it is, or I am,
that's the void that separates us. Fortunately, I've posted thousands of
pages on the Web, so there's a paper trail a mile long and a mile deep for
those, amateur and professional, who'd like to try to make the distinction.
You say I'm nuts, I say you're fat, you're greedy, you live hardly higher
than animals in many important respects, and you're nuts. The oddity here
is that if you think I'm Jim Dandy, I'll still think you're nuts, whatever
anyone allows.
It's not a popularity contest, in case anyone is interested. On the
other hand, maybe it is, and I won with my first stories in my first weeks
on the Web. You should see the fan mail. (For me?). That was then, this
is now. No more Mr. Nice Guy. No writer, in his wildest fantasy, could
dream up the perfection of NOT becoming a big ole literary flame, but
rather saying exactly what, based on his vast experience, he should say,
and say it quietly, anonymously, to a huge readership who has never seen a
picture of the writer in a giant Irish sweater or had him crammed down
their throats by union hack teachers. Purity. It's cooler than cool,
hotter than hot, and a gift from me to you, free of charge. In fact, not
only do I fail at winning any popularity contests, but I might actually be
guilty of bait and switch. Luring the unsuspecting with naughtiness of
epic proportions, then delivering unto said reader enough sermonizing to
fill a Baptist wash tub. Do this, don't do that; start this, stop that;
you've been slogging through it since weeks before you were born, so I
don't have to elaborate. The problem is when we finally do get to the sex,
lo and behold, it turns out there is a message there, too. A call for
disciplined flexibility. Under no circumstances, as a married woman,
putting up with chronic problems of any kind, while at the same time
realizing that a new man is just going to bring new problems; demand just
as much patience and tolerance as the first one, if not more -- as he has
to have his doubts about -- you. Sex is all we have left. I just surfed
sixty six channels to be sure -- I'll spare you a blow-by-blow in the name
of Christ and in the name of merciful humanity. Suffice it to say Nifty is
it; Nifty is our future; in this archive lies more human truth than
Time/Life, with the exception of AOL's instant messaging, te-he, will
publish until their fiscal moronity does away with them. History and sex.
Live with it. Try to learn to love at least some of it. Work at it from
the discipline side as I do with my budding Samantha. I could get a girl
over here every few nights, and I have never, in eight years, yet I have a
few boyfriends who I know are safe, and with whom I've only done something
unsafe three times in fifty-six years. I work hard, I keep fit, I don't
play the game, I am the game, it's called life, and I'm in it, heart and
soul. Try it.
My steady readers will be licking their chops right about now. They
know the farther David lets me ramble afield, the more beholden I feel to
pay homage to the lusts and passions that make Nifty the greatest giant of
real life Americana that has ever existed, (and this is to by no means
slight ASSTR, ASSGM, and similar sites, both free and paid). So don't spur
the horsey, but do hang on.
My last story was withdrawn for anti-Semitism [and replaced: two
thumbs up for David, as if he needed them from me]. Another oddity. I am
every bit as hard on my former wife, my own family, including myself, as I
am on anybody. Someone, at some point in time, has to NOT just say what's
iconoclastic or contrairian, in the James Dean, Abbie Hoffman, Charles
Manson, rebel with a dumb cause sense, but say things simply because they
are true; often as overwhelmingly true as O.J.'s guilt. For the life of
me, I don't know why I was chosen. The heritage, the wealth, the extreme
IQ, the ability to work, along with a minor-league talent; the looks, the
almost smoking practicality that's allowed me to live far better than the
average millionaire, while supporting a family, not my own, of five, the
looks, the severe emotional scalding as a child that rendered me
uninterested in, yet mildly responsive to, criticism, the mediocre schools,
so I learned the name of that tune, and, in short, surviving it all to find
myself heir to history's most complex treasure chest, all mine and no one
else's. `Nuff respect. Different strokes for different folks, but, to me,
the imperative is to, once again, underlay fantasy with the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth.. Once in awhile the truth is
funny, so that goes in too. The truth can also be erotic -- someday I'm
going to try my hand at a salacious story. Meantime, let's do a little
manipulating and go for a hundred percent reader approval by getting back
to Roger Weed.
"Have you done stuff?" I asked.
"Sometimes I go on picnics with Margaret," Roger said. Margaret was
Roger's ten-year-old sister and she shared his elfin physique.
You have to remember this all happened over forty years ago. In
those days, we had much to look forward to: color television, outer space,
computers, advances in automotive technology, just to name a few, so, since
we had all these other things on our minds, we were embarrassed at
whispering unless it was one on one, in privacy. Odd, isn't it, that today
we have nothing to talk about; nothing even vaguely interesting on the
horizon, with the possible exception of cloning, and we're still privacy
oriented. In any event, I was one nervous teenybopper when it came to
quizzing the tiny boy in my lap, in spite of the keen interest of Larry,
Kelsey and Roger Greenlaw. Roger Weed may have been small, but he was
definitely bright. Seeing and feeling my predicament, he proceeded on his
own.
"Uncle Ray visited for my twelfth birthday," the child began. "He's
a gym teacher in Skowhegan. We see him three or four times a year and I
even write him letters sometimes. My birthday's in August, so he took us
on a picnic. Our mom told us he had a special place in the family, and we
could do anything we wanted while we were with him, and we didn't have to
do anything we didn't want to do.
"What was that all about," Margaret whispered as we went up to change
into the new clothes he brought us.
"I don't know," Roger whispered back.
"Did it make you nervous?" asked the sixty pound doll.
"More like excited," Roger replied.
"Well," the girl said, going into her room, "if it's Uncle Ray, it
can't be anything nasty."
Ray Kelly had a '57 Chevy two door he'd won playing cards.
Characteristically, the teacher had been so ashamed of his winning he'd had
the car painted black. It still looked great as far as Roger and Margaret
were concerned, and their uncle's embarrassment over winning something off
somebody was enough to earn the twenty-five year old a mystique of charm
and individuality in the eyes of his impressionable niece and nephew. Some
uncles were famous for wearing lamp shades at parties and the brother and
sister were glad, as they piled into the front seat of the car, trying very
hard to keep their eyes off each other, their uncle was of a more sober and
prudent nature.
"You look terrific," the young man said as the headed Sunshine,
which, if it wasn't off island, was at least a different region of the
island. Truth to tell, there was nothing to go off-island for. Different
views of the same ocean, bays and islands; the pine dreariness could be
broken by anything, so where it was broken didn't matter so much as long as
broken it was. They found a meadow on a hillside sheltered from excess
breeze, and spread out a Hudson's Bay blanked -- it's overall off-white
color a warning to the kids not to spill anything. Good thing, because
trying to keep their eyes and minds off each other was spoiling their
concentration, and didn't seem to be doing their appetites any good,
either.
Roger was dressed in a basketball uniform. If the pixie had thought
`nasty' before, she was reviewing with each sneaked glance. He was so
muscley compared to how she looked in her new tank suit. Both had worn
terrycloth robes for the ride, and now that they were camped out they
slipped them off so they could get some sun. Sure, it was to get some sun.
"I've got a special friend in Skowhegan," Ray said to them, after
they had a drumstick each, and tried the macaroni salad. It was
fascinating to watch the youngsters try to avoid each other in spite of a
magnetic attraction that brought them again and again within a quarter of
an inch of each other, yet failed when it came to any touching. No, they
didn't need a battery, more juice, to complete the connection, but a little
speechifying might help. Since Kennedy represented a leftist,
tatterdemalion future of witless pretty boys in the political arena, that
was out as a subject, nor was the golden age of television of any value to
anyone other than the coterie who ran the Milty/Lucy/Gleason wasteland, so
it was dropped before it was picked up leaving just nerves seeming to get
more raw by the second.
"We do some very exciting things together," the young teacher went
on, adding: "I don't know if you two are old enough to hear about stuff
like that -- what do you think?"
"Bit warm for Christmas," Ray thought to himself, looking at the four
huge eyes, twice the size they'd been when they'd seen the late-model car.
Season aside, the eyes weren't just big, they were bright; answer enough.
"Different families have different ways of living," Ray said to his
companions, "and some families have very different ways of living, that
may, at the end of the day, be not so different as just being honest.
"Brent Hanson comes from such a family," the uncle continued; "he's
your age, Rog, blond where you have black hair..."
"And bigger," the boy interrupted with a rueful grin, happy to save
his uncle the tedium of expounding on the obvious.
"That's not what's interesting about him," Ray said, quietly. That
stopped Roger in his tracks; he'd been just kidding around a little, but a
glance from his sister told him that any levity might be held for another
time and place.
"What is?" Margaret asked, both scared and thrilled by the changes in
her handsome athletic uncle; the change in the way he looked at her; the
change in his voice, and mostly the change in the front of the track suit
he'd worn under his terry robe.
"Brent's a photographer," Ray explained. "He brought me some of his
work, because I fool around in the darkroom a little, myself, and asked if
I would pose for him."
No teacher in history has ever looked into two brighter or more
attentive faces. They were practically glowing in the noonday sun.
"Before I tell you more," Ray continued, "I want to ask you if you
two love each other. Be honest; some siblings are indifferent, and many
can't stand the sight of each other."
"We do," both children said, looking into each other's faces and
nodding.
"I know you get along, but I just wanted to be sure," Ray said,
"because this is very mature; it's secret; it's something you could use
against each other, or me, if you lost control of your tempers, or wanted
to get even for some real or imagined grievance."
"We'll keep it a secret," Margaret promised. Little Roger seemed too
involved to even compose a short verbal sentence, and Ray couldn't blame
him.
"It's a half-secret," Ray explained; "not something you tell to
family or strangers, but something you can tell to special people, special
friends."
"So it's not deep, dark and depraved?" the little spokesperson asked.
"Religions need a product," Ray said, "and the depth and darkness of
depravity sells well, so, the short answer is, yes, it's D, D and D."
"Damn," said the girl with a blush and a fairy giggle, quickly
adding, "every river in Maine." Surely she didn't mean it.
"Do you want to see what it looks like?" Ray asked his niece and
nephew, after letting both enjoy Margaret's not half-lame pickup. The kids
giggled to a stop, nodding their heads as one. Ray reached into the pocket
of his robe and pulled out a stack of three by four inch photographs.
Roger and his sister quickly restored the half-eaten picnic lunch to the
basket, wiped their hands carefully, and knelt close to their uncle.
The first photo was of an impish girl, Margaret's age. "That's
Sandra Hanson, Brent's kid sister," Ray explained, "very activity
oriented." The moppet grinned out from under a cloud of curls, light toned
in the black and white image that stared happily from the glossy print.
Brent was featured in the second picture; blond, a little impish himself,
friendly looking with a wide mouth and big eyes. Both images were, for all
their being tightly framed and sharply focused, as conventional as driving
on the right. Roger and his sister commented politely, then looked up at
their uncle.
"Remember how I said they were different?" Ray asked, and the kids
half figured he was stalling a little.
"Yes," Margaret said, Roger so relaxed by now he was able to join his
voice with that of his little sister.
"Okay," the teacher said, "and remember about loving each other and
half-secrets."
Both reaffirmed their vows. Ray removed the next photo from the
small stack and handed it to Roger. It was different. "This was Sandra's
shy period," Ray narrated as his nephew looked at the same girl, no longer
in a blouse, but in a tank suit like Margaret's, only with the straps off
the girls delicate shoulders, and the front pulled down to her waist.
Roger went through a little shy period of his own, holding the print
in his lap as his sister stared down at it. Only worked for a few seconds,
because even the half-naked sprite beauty was no competition for her big
brother. Ray's breathing became ragged as he saw what was happening to the
twelve-year-old boy, and Margaret found her mouth dry as draught cotton
when she tried to ask her male companions if they wanted to see her the way
Sandra was. Didn't matter because Roger looked up into her eyes, read
them, and moved slowly to do his will, touching her jaw, her neck, her
shoulder and then inserting his fingers under the straps of her black suit
and easing them down over her shoulders.
Margaret freed her slender arms, let her hands drop to her side, and
remained motionless. Roger returned to his position kneeling beside the
girl, and Ray dealt another photo from the deck, proffering it to Margaret
who took it gingerly and flipped it right-side up.
"Do you look like that?" she asked, showing Roger the picture.
"I guess so," the boy admitted.
"And you want us to guess, too?" Margaret asked the way kids say
hint, hint, hint.
"I guess not," Roger said, standing slowly and blushing
"Why don't I go first?" Ray suggested, standing in order to come to
the aid of his nephew. Language was less simple in them-thar days of
yesteryear; more organized, more dignified, far more expressive should it
come to pass one might happen to have something to express. In other
words, the terms `no way' and `way' were decades in the future. This said,
it is possible to translate Margaret and Roger's response as Way, Dude.
Group hugs, as organized and ritualized events, were also far off, but they
still happened in an offhand and spontaneous manner. Margaret stood to
help her brother... that kind of family. The feeling of tiny fingers at
his waist made Ray gasp and shudder in spite of his intentions to remain
calm and manly as he guided his niece and nephew - where?
It was a day, epoch-wise, when morality and convention actually did
play a role; a day when cultural norms and social imperatives amounted to
something of a path through the forest with a blazed tree here and a kern
there as waypoints. Form over function came with the Jewish writer Teddy
"He Had Me" White throwing "Life" behind the haircut and calling off all
bets. A few ticks of the anthropological clock later, it was the Olsen
twins testing to see how many fathers could keep their hands off little
daughters running around with pink or brown tummies showing to within two
inches of ground zero and talking of boys, boys and nothing but boys.
("Sweetie, let daddy teach you about boys.")
Morality was one thing, or had been, at one time; Brent and Sandra
were something else.
Brent wasn't the first boy the gym teacher had showered with, but he
was, by a nose, the most complete. The other three had been nice kids,
willing students, and very soon had become enthusiastic lovers. Brent,
with his photographs, had started off on a different foot and it had been
over a week from the time of their first special talk until they happened
to need to shower at the same time (and had the energy left to stand, to
walk, to operate the valves and close the curtain). Both had been
dry-mouthed on that first walk to a secluded grove where the light filtered
over a small forest of ferns waving gently on the bank of a brook. They
had managed to talk as they'd lugged camera, tripod and reflectors through
the woods, discuss the Nude from a Greco-Roman perspective with Ray adding
variants from East Indian culture. Neither knew what they were talking
about, particularly, but it gave their time together both academic and
artistic overtones, so they staggered on under their various loads with
both gym teacher and student wondering how they were going to handle
anything very artistic when both males had erections that, for sure,
weren't goin away in any hurry at all.
And, yes, in the end, Brent had pulled his briefs down very much as
Roger and Margaret were doing... right... now.
He was glad they still called him Uncle, as in "Oh, Uncle Ray!" The
honorarium emphasized that what was happening between them really wasn't
very much. They were not likely to form a partnership or syndicate for the
purpose of founding a den of iniquity; they weren't going to conspire
against the first six year old they happened across, or the millionth, and
they had no plans to collaborate on a franker and more fun novel than the
Hardy Boys. They could have been skating, if it were winter, hunting,
working on a car together, or engaged in any other non-commercial venture.
It didn't matter. Simply didn't then, doesn't now. Out of two dozen
boyfriends, I've had sex with perhaps one third. I challenge every shrink
on earth to examine all of them, and some of these relationships to back
over twenty years, and tell which ones I did it with and which ones I did
not do it with. It doesn't matter in the church, it doesn't matter on the
farm, unless, perhaps a curious bull might wish to learn more. It matters
only as it interferes with productivity, and my productivity, as a youth,
was cut to zero's first cousin because I read thick books with fine print.
You can only rape someone who does not want to be loved, in the context of
these pages; if they're in neutral, the shared experience is merely
intensely exciting having no more than a two or three percent effect on the
overall relationship, at least as well as something like that can be
measured. All variants of sickness and perversion come from society to the
special group, none flow in the opposite direction. Yet that's what we're
told, precisely as we're told the earth was created in six days and God
chose Moses at the celestial sock hop. The truth is so much better than
the bible, always has been, is today, and always will be. If the Catholic
church came clean, acknowledged that man/boy relationships were a common
currency and a millennia-long vector of instruction and reward they would
do a profound social good by allowing the substantial subset of bright,
curious children a wide and meaningful range of alternative relationships
that would run ninety-five to five, positive over negative. It's not for
everybody, but what more scathing comment can be made than to measure a fat
and disagreeable kid's only virtue as having reached the age of sixteen,
unmolested. Big fuckless deal.
Roger wasn't going to reach thirteen, unmolested, and his sister was
obviously not going make it even to the age of ten.
"Oh, Uncle Ray!" the repeated in unison, as they freed the teacher's
seven inch penis from his briefs and instinctively avoided touching him
until they'd finished their duties and ersatz valets. This was, at best, a
part time position, for they had their uncle naked in a trice, and stood,
arms around each other, staring.
Ray knelt slowly in front of the children, and, while his little
sister helped support him, pulled Roger's white underpants slowly down,
freeing the boy's circumcised five-inch penis to Margaret's gasp of wonder.
Indeed, the eighty pound boy, the way he was, looked more of a stallion,
than the tall athlete.
Margaret stared at her brother, not touching him, and wiggled her
hips for attention. Ray found her beautiful, little-girl waist, and slowly
peeled her tank suit to her feet. He retrieved both bathing suits and hung
them with his own, deliberately walking around a little - on parade, so to
speak. Soon he had Margaret's right hand in his left hand, and Roger took
her other hand, and they walked out across the meadow, Adam, Eve, and uncle
in the gardens of Stonington, Maine.
Cool.
So the males let the girl lead them from the breezy slope, following
docilely wherever the pixie wanted to lead. Three bodies, one brain; two
sheep and a wolf; any way it was sliced and diced, the true number always
came out the same: three happy campers. That may be overuse of a trendy
catchphrase, for Margaret, Roger and their uncle were more than just
`happy' as the reader can easily imagine.
Now what would the courts say. Sure, they had not yet engaged in
carnal behavior, but they were naked, the males had huge erections that
swung to the little girl's half-hypnotized gaze as they walked toward a
private glade in the woods, so there was something illegal going on. How
did the courts distinguish between the man that lured a kid from a
playground and treated the child aggressively in the back seat of his car
and the loving uncle who showered with his equally loving nephew? They
made no distinction. Even traffic law sees a difference in exceeding the
posted speed my one mile an hour in good weather, and exceeding it by
twenty miles an hour in the fog. One size fits all as far as arrest and
conviction go, and, if there's differences in sentencing between the
playground lurker and the loving uncle, it is capricious and arbitrary; and
half the judges would give the uncle the longer sentence, saying he
violated an implied trust. Feckless women and dump-o-matic wives were
certainly responsible for half the obesity in the world, but an out-of
kilter legal system, based on the deep, reverberating insanity of the bible
and related codes was probably in there for the other half. An example of
this is the OJ case. The totally obvious motive for the killings was for
daddy to have unrestricted access to pubescent Sydney. Their (her slim,
light-brown younger brother is shown with her) lolling, semi-nude family
picture is visual proof of Simpson's proclivities, and, in the testimony
there is a line about OJ visiting Kato, whose ten-year-old slice of white
bread was, by his own words, in his bed. This was so obvious, even the
loopiest of the loopy lawyers should have seen it as why the man killed his
wife, but the issue was never mentioned beyond general comments that the
kids were stressed out. Further concrete evidence is a picture of Sydney
taken a year after her loving daddy was restored to her, showed the eleven
year old as your average barrel girl.
Measured, literally, by any tape or scale, the size and obesity
factors are a civic danger that make the bubonic plague look like a case of
discolored toenails by comparison.
This very morning I saw a television package taped in a ninth grade
classroom. I would have been sent to the infirmary my first day in that
class, with a note asking the nurse to look into my retarded physical
development. As a young adult I weighed just over one-sixty, stood
five-eleven, and had a thirty-two inch waist; as a technical senior, these
numbers have changed very modestly. On my average size, everything is
built from beds to cars to coffins. The ninth graders I saw today can look
forward to lives of chronic discomfort, and even thinking about the size of
their children, should any of them end up sexy enough to make babies in the
first place, gets, as I've said in other scripts, into the realm of
Mr. King. (I'm sex and philosophy, he's nothing but horror, poor fright.).
There are only two solutions. First, artificial insemination with the
sperm of smaller males, and, second, cloning. The choice is simple as
stone: designer kids, or redesign, and rebuild, eighty percent of the
infrastructure of the United States of America, and other developed
countries. If patience were a national virtue, extreme food rationing,
including the elimination of gratuitous calorie sources, might be possible,
but reversing the trend of three generations would probably require a
further three generation, plus, my theory of genetic bounce, based on
delicious snack foods, might be wrong, in which case an extreme national
diet wouldn't work at all. It's a puzzle. Well fed cats and dogs haven't
increased dramatically in size in the past fifty years, so why the kids?
It doesn't matter, what matters are the colossal implications of a rapidly
mutated species; the health problems bound to be part and parcel of this
shock-rate growth, and the horror of a troop of two-hundred pound cub
scouts.
Roger and Margaret were no example. He weight about eighty pounds,
she, about sixty. Although perfectly matched to each other, there was
social significance to their diminutive stature. All men would always be
after the tiny female simply because men prefer child-like women; Roger, by
the same token, might do well because all things being equal, the
preference went to the smaller individual, if only out of a subconscious
need to compensate and be fair. If given a psychological association test
in which one responds immediately to a word, the word America would elicit
from this writer the instant response: Shame. A particular shame is that
small men haven't, from the dawn of aviation, been given overwhelming
preference as aircraft crew, and most especially, space craft crew.
They're smart enough to do this at the track, so what's with the military
and NASA?
What's with our self conscious threesome as they find a sheltered
nook rich in the summer ferns of their uncle's story? Their heart rates
are sky high, their mouths are dry, they breath poorly and keep yawning.
Sitting, Margaret on her uncle's left and her brother's right, seems not to
help. Why would three healthy people walk across a sunny meadow, then
break out in a sweat when the sat down in a cool nook of the pine forest?
Wanna find out? Well, you're in luck. David is the most forgiving and
gracious editor now practicing; he allows tiptoeing off the Nifty path to a
degree that one of a hundred readers finds annoying; is both tolerant and
forgiving. Why? Because when I get where I'm going I always end up there.
If we tiptoe, together, through the tulips, you can take it to the bank
that soon enough we're going to busy ourselves with two lips, four lips,
or, present case, six lips. When this happens, we will remain very still
and quiet; forget the fat people, forget the Jews; just watch and listen.
I'm the most protein rich writer in history, all my readers tell me so, so
you might want to watch and listen with me.
"What should I do?" little Margaret whispered after several minutes
of sitting between the two beautiful males and staring first at one, then
the other.
"That depends, darling," Ray whispered in answer. "Do you know the
basics of what males and females do together?"
"Just from watching deer and our collies," the girl replied.
"It will be the same with your brother," Ray said. "The thing is,
you might to like to know what's happening inside your body if you let him
loose control while he's inside you."
"That's his seed," the girl stammered, flushing.
"Yes, darling," Ray whispered, "it's called `sperm.'
"That's what they call it in school," the girls said, relaxing a
little and nodding nervously.
"It has other names which you can learn almost anywhere," Ray said,
"but what you have to decide now is if you'd like to see it, or have it be
a mystery with your brother."
A famous preacher once wrote a book on positive thinking, and though
Margaret, at nine, was young for it whole message, she seemed to have
grasped almost instinctively at least the basics. "Oh, I want to see!" she
almost yelped. Another famous writer tells us nothing great is achieved
without enthusiasm. Sure, these are naughty references, but we're not
beginning a chess playoff, so maybe the fit, after all.
"If you want to see sperm," Ray whispered so both could hear, "you
can do a special thing with me, and make me `cum.' That's one word for
what happens to a male when he loses control."
"Can Roger help?" the girl asked. He was conveniently at hand, so
the question should have been obvious and not have made Ray swell visibly
as the two children stared at him.
"If he wants to, but sometimes males don't like to touch other
males."
"We're family," Margaret replied in a half-surprised tone that said
more about the psychological impact of incest than the musing of six or
eight hundred behavioral scientists (who see only the accident victims, so
to speak).
"You're sure?" Ray said, looking into the boy's black eyes.
"I want you to touch me, too," the boy answered, proving if a kid was
smart enough, he could actually score two-hundred percent on a simple quiz
question.
"Would it feel better if you were wet all over?" Margaret asked,
pointing to the small quantity of seminal fluid oozing from Ray's erection.
He was uncircumcised, but the girl seemed to realize that underneath he'd
be like Roger, who was also very wet.
Ray found himself at a loss for words, but nodded. Margaret
responded by gently lying her uncle back in the ferns, by coaching her
twelve-year-old brother onto his knees between the man's legs wide,
instantly spread in welcome, and then positioning herself at her uncle's
right hip.
"Get him really wet," she coaxed her brother as she took her uncle's
swollen, seven-inch boner in her hand, and drew down his foreskin as gently
as he'd stripped her out of her little tank suit.
Roger froze as close as he could get, and the little girl brought her
uncle to the boy, slowly making a stuttering contact, then slowly and
deliberately wetting the adult with the child.
"Will it be easier for him to be a boy with me if he's really wet
from you?" Margaret asked, seeming to sense that there was going to soon be
ample fluid for Roger, if it would be any use.
"Yes," both males managed to gasp, Roger, also, working on instinct,
because this was his first time for anything.
"Should I just do what feels natural?" the pixie now asked.
She got the same choking, nodding response.
Margaret seemed to know to be with just the adult; that touching her
brother's young penis would have unwanted results, judging by the deep rose
color of his flaring glans, very quickly. Her uncle looked the same, and
the girl panted with the knowledge that what happened from now on was going
to be sudden and semi-violent.
She did what came naturally. She'd seen the rhythms of large animals
and small animals, and compromised perfectly. She knew humans were more
sophisticated than dogs or horses, and so probably would appreciate a
little play, as they often did in other fields of endeavor, rather than
just getting down to brass tacks. If this was her intellectual position,
the first runs of her fingers over his wet glans showed a practical side to
the matter of where the rubber met the load. (Actually, it was `rubhim',
though maybe a rubber could rub a him or her without smothering in
syntaxial quicksand)
Ray, like many pedophiles, a closet Victorian, had never like the
cruder terminology applied to making love, but, in the present
circumstance, there could be no doubt it was a load that was on its way.
Margaret's instinctively intelligent hands were part of the reason, the two
children staring at him helped, but it was the girl's urgent whisper, after
about four minutes, that turned him into a seething tornado of a tidal
wave.
"Get my brother really wet," she coaxed in an urgent whisper.
"I will," Ray managed to gasp, and the smart cookie knew he didn't
mean Any minute now. Roger remained on his knees, frozen and staring.
Margaret moved Ray's last hard swelling against her older brother, and the
athletic male began to ejaculate intensely.
"Oh, it's beautiful," the girl whispered excitedly. She was about to
ask him to make another hard spray of the thick white fluid, when more than
she could imagine began covering Roger all over his belly and upper thighs.
It was so amazing and he wet Roger so quickly and thoroughly that the girl
got downright wasteful, and held Ray's throbbing spurting penis in
different positions to watch the repeated bursting flood her brother's
chest and shoulders, then, as girls sometimes will, she got preemptory and
even a little greedy, taking the last half minute of his pulsing spray of
sperm over her own delicate chest, and even letting the final small spurts
splash her cheeks and tiny, childish mouth.
Ray eased the girl onto his chest, cradling her chest in his hands so
he could feel her up, then extended his arms up for the boy. He fell to
the man, and the man lowered him to Margaret who had spread her legs widely
in welcome. The tall athlete reached between the young couple, and helped
Roger find his sister.
"Very gently, now," he whispered to his nephew as his young male body
spasmed at the sensation of what was go come.
"Oh, baby," Margaret purred.
"It may sting a little the first time," Ray whispered in the girl's
ear, then released her brother, wrapping both children and a gentle hug.
"If I ever have a daughter, he's welcome to her," Ray thought to
himself as he felt the boy's gentle way with the tiny girl underneath his
own slim body.
"I love you," he whispered.
"I love you, too," Margaret responded with a mewing tendril of her
voice.
Roger had been jockeying himself firmly against the little girl's
hymen, and he penetrated her with a sudden tiny shock of a two-inch thrust
as the girl yelped. He froze, letting a few tears run down her cheek,
telling her again he loved her, then, very slowly, very tenderly, entered
her body to te hilt of his own.
"Do you want to feel it when it happens?" Ray whispered into one of
the tiny ears on his heaving chest.
"Yes," the girl managed to answer.
In response the athlete held Roger firmly against Margaret, and let
the boy's tempo build in the surreal vacuum caused by remaining motionless.
"Don't tell me," Margaret coaxed her young lover, "I really want to see if
I can feel when it happens."
Ray helped. Every time he felt the boy's shaking, sweating body
begin to withdraw he gently coached the boy to let her sister lead; assured
him quietly that he could be wild and masculine with her next time they
were together, which would be very, very soon. What a student he'd make,
thought the teacher, because the boy remained so obediently still with her
sister that it was Margaret's involuntary screech of shock that let him
know that Roger had begun to cum.
The fact of the matter was they were both highly disciplined.
Margaret screeched, yelped, and moaned five times before she lost control,
and her hips smashed hard against her brother. Roger bellowed and began
thrusting frantically to meet his sister, and for a full minute the
children were lost in their madness for each other, both sweating, both
panting, her slim legs hard around him, her tiny fingernails leaving ribbon
after ribbon across the sweating back of the panting boy.
"Uncle Ray?" Margaret gasped, knowing from her recent experience with
her young uncle, what the ending felt like.
"Are you sure, darling?" he whispered.
"Yes," she moaned.
As he'd helped Roger, Roger now helped him. He gently rolled his
sister on her belly, positioned the little girl against her tall uncle,
then handled him as he had done, guiding him. The touch of the male
reminded Ray of Brent, and grunted as his big, heavy penis gorged on a
shock-wave of new blood. Then he was able to fell the youth's sperm on his
glans, and it took every fiber of his adult being not to ravage Margaret,
throw the child on her back, and take her like a hot lion. His maturity
was vastly rewarded by the sensation of taking the chick inch by
semi-conscious inch, of feeling her juvenile cervix against the tip of him,
of hearing her screech of shock at the intimacy of this invasion, of her
urgent womanliness in forcing her young body down on his, with her
brother's help, as she took him into her womb. Of slowly repeating his
penetration time after time until her hair was lank and damp across her
intense brow, of her whimpers and half-babbled whispered instructions, and,
finally, of doing just that, grabbing her off the top of him, of rolling on
top of her tiny spread legs, and of fucking her long and hard until she
rose like a siren's wail, until all sound was choked from her throat as she
lost control and went wildly into the seizures of her first orgasm while he
sprayed his seed impossibly deeply into her convulsing young body.
The boys were now ready for their bath, so Kelsey led us all upstairs
where we readied ourselves for the tub.
Kelsey stripped Larry and Roger Greenlaw did the dame with me. We
stood facing each other, reddening slightly at our hugeness, but mollified
because the boys seemed happy enough.
Larry's summer with Adam and Jack was plainly evident in his enormous
size, right to the far end of normal, almost seven inches on a
fourteen-year-old frame. His tiny brow of downy reddish pubic hair was
almost invisible, giving his lithe, slim body the look of a fantasy child.
His balls were big, and his boner jutted up from them as if sculpted to be
forbidden even to a loving wife. All three boys stripped as fast as we
did, and Roger was as big and macho as his stories and the bulge in his
shorts had indicated, leaving only Roger Greenlaw and I as big but normal.
That morning Larry and I had played a tentative kissing game in which
he told stories while our lips were touching. Now we joined, first
touching our penises, guided by Kelsey and Roger G., then in a full lover's
kiss, while the boys came around to our hips and masturbated us with their
eager young hands. I heard the water running -- mad to think of a bath at
a time like this, only it turned out to be Roger W. wetting and soaping
first his hand, then using his hand to reach between Larry and me, to wet
Roger and Kelsey's hands. The wet soap and experimenting hands of the
children was erotic and what was going to happen with Larry, who was
beginning to shake in my arms even faster than I was in his arms, had to be
the most exciting thing in my fourteen years save the first walk into the
woods with Jon Laurie, my camp counselor, when I was eight.
I half broke the kiss. "Is it okay if I watch?" I whispered.
"Yes," he whispered.
"Tell me?" I coaxed.
"I will," he replied.
"You better," Roger added, and the comments from Roger G. and Kelsey
seconded his motion.
So we kissed. We felt each other's smooth teen body, and kissed
more. We back a little away, blocked for a moment the hands of the little
boys so we could masturbate ourselves as the other watched, then I touched
him and he touched me, and we slowling jerked each other off. Roger Weed
took command of Kelsey and soon the nine year old was standing close behind
me. "Take your time," the thirteen year old cautioned, and disappeared
from the bathroom in a flash. He returned in a few moments with a pile of
books under each arm, placed these on the floor, and helped Kelsey and
Roger G. mount the foot-high piles, then, wetting Larry and me with a soapy
cloth, he eased the young males first into Larry, then Kelsey into me while
coaxing us and whispering for us to relax and `push'. It hurt for a few
seconds, but Roger commanded the youngsters so the froze and let us get
used to being penetrated.
Once the boys were comfortable inside us, the reached around with
their right hands and began masturbating us again. The sensation of a
thumb-size boner gently probing four or five inside me, along with Kelsey's
intelligent stroking seemed more transcendent than any art I'd ever known.
It seemed surreal, it seemed magic, it seemed over the moon and of far
galaxies. It seemed nothing could be half this amazing, then Roger Weed,
jerking himself off while he stood between us, started cumming all over
both of us. His hot semen in Roger Greenlaw's pumping hand made Larry cum.
The sight of Larry's sperm jetting three feet in the air made Kelsey
and Roger Greenlaw cum almost instantly. All the excitement made me cum.
Roger Weed was still cumming all over both of us, more than ever. Larry
kept cumming more than ever all over me, with much of his spray splashing
on Roger Weed. That made me cum even more on Larry, which, with Roger
Weed's jetting semen, made him cum more on my chest and in my face. Kelsey
was rigid as steel against me, holding like a vice, and I could read in
Roger G.'s face, he was having the same experience inside Larry.
All told, and I don't think I've left much out, it went on for some
two minutes, then we gradually tumbled to a panting, sweating heap on the
slick floor, very ready to bathe together.
Few will want more, but the conscientious writer tries to please all.
Here's a bibliography of my Web stories. "Jimmy and Frogger" is on ASSTR.
The rest are on Nifty. "The Flyyy" is posted under sf/fantasy. "Dennis
the..." is posted under Bi Adult Youth, and may be on ASSGM, too. If you
want to tuff out one-point-three megabytes of real nonsense, try "Creative
Camp." It's listed under Bi Camping, and the same file has "Blissy's
Song," a sequel. "Michelle's First and Second Secret" are under Bi Adult
Youth. These are all posted under the pen name Feather Touch. As
R. Forbes Emerson, I've posted Hollywood Stories, Michael, Grace and NYPD
Blue, Santa Fe Stories: Privacy, Lack of Privacy, Endless Kiss, and Anne.
This leaves Stonington Stories, which begin with Audrey, and go on to Larry
(posted under Gay Adult Youth, and Kelsey, which is this one. As far as I
can remember, all these are posted under Bi Adult Youth. Thanks for
reading. If you read the other stories, do me a little favor; copy and
paste them into a Word doc, proof read them on the fly, and post the
corrected ms to me for re-posting. That way they'll be perfect.
Posted by Thomas@btl.net
xxx