Date: Sun, 28 Apr 2002 12:35:24 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: STONINGTON STORIES - LARRY

STONINGTON STORIES - LARRY
by
R. Forbes Emerson

(M/b, etc., rom.)


	Larry Billings was more interesting looking than handsome in the
o-what-a-beautiful-mirror sense that Dickie Dunham was. At fourteen, the
same age I was in 1960, he was tall and blond. I hardly had any hair, but I
guess it would have been brown if my mother hadn't hated the sight of me
and, with combat-boot logic, figured the less hair I had, the less there'd
would be of me to hate.
	We'd been dicking around on a yacht for two years, and, I guess if
I can go on whining and bitching about girls and women in story after
story, I could spare a few paragraphs to carp about being carted around in
a great fifty-foot slug of a North Sea pilot boat built in Holland for sea
dogs.

	They say there's no romance in the film industry, and my guess is
they're right; well, same holds true in the world of family yachting. All
the glamour is from the outside looking in. Once in, your head spins like a
top and you vomit like a hydrant, and then there's that ghastly four
a.m. watch, when sick way the hell beyond death, you are called forth into
the blowing night to grasp and wrestle with a large, spoked steering wheel,
which, by rights should be hanging over a salty dog bar, but which is
actually attached to thirty tons of bouncing steel. On the other hand, we
had spent the winter in the Bahamas and during several uncharacteristic
winter calms had cruised Grand Bahama bank, often out of sight of land,
with the bottom clear as if viewed through crystal, thirty feet below. We'd
often anchor by a coral head for lunch, and snorkel and happily starve.
These giant mushroom, growing up from their white sand farms, were
undoubtedly the most beautiful objects on earth, each an ecosystem unto
itself, utterly mesmerizing with its kaleidoscope of tropical fish orbiting
the great brain corals standing twenty feet high and more, as deadly to
shipping as they were a wonder of the world, now extinct according to Peter
Benchely who has been more recently than I have.

	There are sea snakes in the Bahamas, and I don't care what the
documentaries say about this life form being found only in the Pacific and
Indian oceans. There are sea snakes, right off Nassau, we saw them every
day, we know a snake from and eel, and we were able to dive within three
feet of them.
	Now we were in Stonington, Maine, and had swapped our big, heavy
ketch for a salt-water farm and an eighty acre island half a mile off
shore.
	Was I on land? Really? The last ten years of my life we'd lived on
inner Long Island, in the in-those-days normal, but now trendy Northport.
It's even been described as chi-chi. Who knew, but at least in the Fifties
it seemed connected with the real world. Stonington, so many miles from
nowhere? The only real world to that place was WBZ from Boston, Bruce
Bradley and Dave Maynard, two disk jockeys who went a thousand miles beyond
the canned, formulese patter common on the day's urban radio. (Woo-Woo
Ginsberg, as a specific New England example)
	The Boston stations, which we got by a fluke, in the first place,
faded at sunset leaving this little New Yorker far from home, indeed.
	Making the best of it wasn't easy. How the hell am I ever going to
write about this place? I spent endless timewondering, then read like crazy
so my head wouldn't cave in.

	As if Stonington wasn't colossally lost to civilization enough, we
lived in what the downtowners considered the sticks, which was a high tide
island, with a bridge, called Oceanville.
	NOW the writers hang out there, but in 1960 I don't think even a
single book claimed residence. This lead me to reading the encyclopedia,
though, to be honest, a trickle of books did find there way to our house,
and, the single virtue of my parents was that they subscribed to a dozen
magazines..(I remember physical revulsion at even touching "The Ladies'
Home Journal," but I read it anyway, clammy as anything to do with adults
ofthe gender of my mother made me feel - or was it fear?)
	I'd had my head split and my heart ruined on the only date I was to
have in High School; Jeanie Maguire, warm for an instant, then forever
cold; that was that, no appeal. Audrey had come along, a fantasy miracle
who I never spoke to; other blips in the haze, but no contact with the
targets.

	In self defense and with due deliberation, I set myself to wander
nerd valley; coping trash grades, and skulking in any shadow I could find,
sopping it all up like a sponge. "If I can't make it as a long-ball
novelist, maybe this burg, and the people herein, will do as fodder for a
short story or two," I schemed to myself.
	Not that I was left with absolutely nothing to think of. Jeanie,
having dumped me, took up with Dickie Dunham, and it was interesting,
imagining them alone together, probing Beaver to his very soul, and
laughing together over the antics of the world's nastiest lensperson, Uncle
Milty. How I knew neither would be interested in my dawning awareness that
John Hancock and Sam Adams had been two of the most utterly absolute
assholes who ever drew breath, and the nation they founded was doomed to
rapid strangulation under the lunatic doctrine of democracy. Please, I
wasn't obsessed with this; viewed it, in fact, as a rather good joke. I was
ten times more interested in Elvis, who'd smashed into the world back when
I was ten and living in Northport. The Beatles moved to America the same
time as the Emersons moved to Maine, so that was interesting. Perhaps
Jeanie and Dickie talked about them.
	An interesting thing did happen. The winter of '60-'61featured
sixteen days in a row where, even on the coast, the temperature never got
above zero, Fahrenheit. The salt water froze for miles out to sea, and we
could not only ride out bikes out to the island, but drive our tractor
across the ice. Since that's the only interesting thing that ever happened
in Stonington, or on Deer Isle, it is nice we were included.

	Yes, the place "The National Geographic" forgot, although, today,
living in Belize, I see a lot of Stonington and surrounds in the
documentary channels; in fact, a few months ago I was startled to see a
picture of the downtown docks at high tide. We used to go there for lunch
break when I attended Stonington High, and it seems to me that the
water-level is notably higher than it was forty years ago. This parallels
our experience in South Orleans, where our home on Pleasant Bay is
marrying-up with the mermaid Mar.
	Larry and I both like electronics, and, indeed, he's gone on to
become a notable engineer in the field. I remember Z-35 vacuum tubes played
a central role in our relationship, which focused on cobbling big speakers
to little radios in hopes of infinite fidelity. If we'd lived in Hollywood
we would have been the original Dolby brothers, but I wanted to be a
writer, so maybe not.
	"Susan likes you," my friend said. I was relieved he'd brought the
subject up. It had been some time since Susan, her friend Valerie, and I
had spent a day-off-school Friday afternoon at the house at the end of the
lane.
	We had our .22s and actually did constitute to any red squirrel
brash enough to taunt us from the pines. We'd kind of bonded a little when
I'd dropped one like a plummet from two hundred feet, but then I did have a
scope. "Has it been okay?" was all I could think of as a reply. Larry
blushed and said Yes.

	Our pace slowed. "Have you talked to George?" I asked, unable to
think of anything else to keep the conversation going, something the tone
of Larry's usually quick, high voice made me want to do.
	"Just on the bus."
	"What did he say?" I asked.
	"That he's glad you didn't move here when Valerie was five."
	"I guess it worked out pretty well." I commented.
	"For both of us," he responded.
	We pretended to scan the trees, and, if we'd had families to feed,
we may well have returned to serious hunting, but we were two fourteen year
old boys, tall, slim, Larry, athletic, I, naturally rugged. We each stood
five-eleven and weighed one-sixty.
	"Does a lot of stuff happen in New York?" he finally asked, "you
know..."
	Well, it was New York, and this was Oceanville, so...
	"I guess, sometimes..."

	We'd played a lot of backboard together, which was pretty funny,
because I'd literally never seen a real basketball before moving to Maine,
but I was naturally un-athletic, until mounted on a horse, that is, so it
probably wouldn't have made any difference. Anyway, it occurred to me that
even though we'd played ball, I'd never seen Larry bare-chested.
	I wondered if he suffered my affliction, and blushed at the
thought.
	We hemmed and hawed, the squirrels getting safer by the minute. It
did seem to be leading somewhere; neither of us were willing to let
embarrassment or lack of familiarity grind things to a complete silence.
	"My brother Ted used to do a lot of stuff with one of his friends,
Peter Ketchum," I said.
	"He's doing it with Charlie Webb, now," Larry said.
	"And my sister," I added.
	"I thought so," Larry said, adding, "have you seen them?"
	"Not everything," I admitted, "but his hands all over her
bottom. Mostly, I heard them."

	"It's hard keeping quiet with Susan," Larry said. I understated
things, like saying my family was rich, when in truth they possessed and
still possess the most staggering and secret fortune in the world, whaling,
China trade, Bell Telephone, so I was glad to see the same characteristic
in my relatively new friend. How he could be still and silent with his
nine-year-old sister was beyond comprehension, and remember, I was a
budding writer and at least thought I knew it all.
	"Where to Ted and Mary do stuff?" Larry asked.

	"In his bedroom, during cornet practice," I said. Larry had been to
my room many times and knew there was an old-fashioned - the house was
built in 1850 - door between my room and Ted's; old-fashioned door, with
keyhole. It was a strange arrangement, and i guess, looking back, that
doorway had its share of coastal Maine secrets. Rural goings on; would it
have been a father sleeping at the end of the hall, next to his daughter's
room, with that convenient door, or a brother and sister, so blessed by
generous parents. Whatever it's hundred-and-ten year history, the keyhole
did allow me a spot of vision after my thirteen year old brother and nine
year old sister lost control, and their sounds intruded over the silence, I
didn't always have the radio on, as I was working on a model. My heart rate
went through the roof, I crept to the keyhole, saw my sister's white bottom
in my brother's rigid hands, and knew he was climaxing inside her. It took
them minutes to regain control, as I silently masturbated wondering at what
my brother's penis must have felt like in her belly, and if she could
actually feel his sperm, which was why she was so tense as she lay on top
of him.

	Talk about stopping a hunt! By accord we found a downed tree in a
grove, but we kept our rifles across our laps - pretense.
	"She's old enough to get pregnant," Larry said. I didn't think he'd
up and change the subject, even with his generally lighthearted and
fooling-around nature, but I was glad to have the focus affirmed. This was
New England. If you didn't like the weather, you just waited a minute, and
there was nothing else to talk about.
	"That would be good," I said. "Mary's a mess, if she doesn't have a
kid, and soon, she'll stay that way." Prescient, even for a writer. My
sister is one of the world's true horrors, but we'll leave that for another
genre, which is to say that if there is ever a Horror site the equal of
Nifty, I'll post the story.
	"Are they using anything?" Larry quizzed.

	"I don't think so," I said. It did make me wonder. Mary was a
beauty, very fully developed; they had been clenched for minutes, both his
hands on her bottom; she couldn't have been masturbating him, there would
have been some motion. There was none. They hadn't given themselves away by
rocking the bed or squeaking the headboard, but by their intense muffled
panting. My patent three-hundred IQ told its own tale. Since what was
happening was earthshaking and obviously profound to the shaking but
motionless girl, I felt certain Ted had not scored a condom from Downtown
Charlie, and that she was taking his seed with both of them completely
naked and she knowing he was potent.
	"You're going to have to with Susan," I observed, keeping the
conversation on its stumbling passage.
	"I know," Larry said, his voice now too low and ragged to have
anything to do with hunting, basketball, or Uncle Milty. "With both me an
Mark, she's starting to develop really fast." The thought of another Audrey
made us both dizzy, so we sat for a minute until our heads cleared. Under
Ted, Mary had also developed very early and very fully. It could happen
fast if a girl got the right attention.
	"Can you re-use a condom?" Larry asked.
	"I saw a guy put one over his head in a film, once," I said. "I
think you could use one lots of time, you know, if..."

	"Yeah," Larry concluded, "I cleaned it real careful. But do you
think it would stay tight? There's an awful lot of it, Susan says three
times more than Mark. I guess I'm a little different that way."
	We were both wearing shirts, despite the summer heat, because we
were both different that way, and it was intriguing to think my tall, very
blond friend was different in yet another way. I passed on what I knew, as
teens will, explaining that as long as he left room at the, um, tip, it
couldn't break from what he did in it, but it might come out from around
the base of him, you know, if there was really a lot. Here I explained that
I didn't think that aspect of the situation would be dependent on whether
the condom was new, or used. If it was the blind leading the blind, I don't
know. Everybody traveled around quite a bit, and a girl could be
sidetracked for a few days without anyone knowing. Maybe Mary had been.
	"Was your first time with a girl?" Larry asked. We were still
holding the rifles, but it would have taken a charging buck to energize our
thumbs enough to flick off the safeties.


	"No," I whispered.
	"Me either," Larry whispered back.
	I guess it was the last yahoo of the wild-wood hooligans, or
something like that, anyway, we went all macho, ejection shells from the
chamber, taking out the clips, sticking our thumbs in the breaches, and
manipulating the rifles so we could peer down the barrels. What the
gleaming core of polished, twisting steel revealed, I'm not sure; maybe it
was a variation on Spin the Bottle or Strip Poker. If so, it was a good
one.
	By accord, we didn't sit back down with our guns, but parked them
against our fallen tree, wedged into a branch so they wouldn't fall.
	"How old were you?" I asked.
	"Eleven," Larry whispered, "how about you."
	I'd seduced Jon when I was eight, but that seemed precocious, like
all that family land and money, so I bumped it a year."
	"That's how old Kelsey is," Larry replied, "I'm meant to baby-sit
for him tonight."

	You know what we needed to do? We needed to change the subject.
	"What's it like being rich?" my friend asked, instinctively
sensitive to the fact we had the whole morning together, the whole day, for
that matter.
	"Schizophrenic," I answered. Sure, we'd come cruising practically
up to the front door of our little farm in our monster from the deep, but
my Christmas presents, excluding clothes, had not equaled a hundred dollar
over the previous ten years. I was constantly deemed an expense and a mouth
to feed, while more boats came and more boats went. Since I got violently
and very durably seasick, the nautical collection was a horror show, and I
was victimized repeatedly. Of course, it was a family tradition. My step
great grandfather had purchased the "Volunteer" after she'd won the
Americas Cup, and maintained and sailed her with a fill-time crew of 26
men. It wasn't of Newport, though it was close to Newport, it vastly
exceeded the wildest dreams of Newport, and it was the world's ultimate
family jewel, actually a string of jewels called the Elizabeth Islands, and
famous because the QE II ran aground on one of the jewels, no casualties,
some years ago.

	It was numbing, mind-bending, and top secret. So secret, even from
us, that we got nothing from it other than bare-bones public schooling, as
war babies, in split sessions schools with called-from-retirement
teachers. I've never been able to spell since struggling with words under a
dull pencil scratching across a grade of newsprint suitable for packing
material. Ugly, tough, deadening; but there was always a boat at the yacht
club and the slog out into Long Island Sound, the circle under sail,
whoopee, and the long evening grind back in past Eaton's Neck, the little
three resonating with the fiberglass tub of the hull to sicken as ever the
wild horizon and heaving deck.
	Are you poor? Grab a pile of books, lock yourself away in your free
time, and pray you never hear through the door of your sanctuary, "Tom,
we're sailing over to Norwalk tomorrow."

	To cut a story that predates the Revolution by a century and more,
short, I didn't have much in the way of answers. His father spent a lot of
time working on cars with Larry, mine cursed the fact I even knew they
existed, and so on. It was all I could say. The fact that a private
fortune, however modest, would allow me to devote myself full-time to
writing was carefully hidden from me, so there just wasn't much to say on
the subject.
	And we needed a subject. We sensed, and was great, ourselves
half-way between wanting to just do it together and falling in love. In
modern times, we could have talked about things like how everybody who
remotely resembles "The Video Professor" should be driven into the sea,
dithered over the Wax Nincompoop in the horrible FedEx spots, or dissected
the second career of the wop with the paint, and how damaging his image was
to America and American men. But all there was in those days was Kennedy,
the classic mile of width and inch of depth. He only appeared to be a
moron, it would take three years and a convertible to prove it to the
world. To early, in 1960 to rewrite his horrific speech on getting a man to
the moon and returning him safely to earth in this de-cade, the way it
should have been written in the first place:

	"We wish the Russians the best of luck in their pursuit of manned
space travel and landing a man on the moon. Our Interstate highway program
is proving so successful, we plan to emulate it in outer space, providing
free channels to the public in the same manner we, the government, uses
your taxes to supply 'free' roads, which go on to benefit those who never
use them as well as those who use them every day. Our clinical technicians
assure us, one an all, that sustained travel in zero gravity is impossible,
because the human body will rapidly atrophy without the stimulus of
gravity.
	"Again, we wish the Russians the best, we wish them great safety,
and we hope something of use to man on earth comes from their expenditure
of energy and treasure, but of which they are going to need in vast
amounts, should they decide to tamper with Cuba, or anywhere in the
hemisphere."

	Was I a Kennedy speech writer in those days? No. To bad, eh? But we
did talk about him. Again, because of the family, it was difficult. While
Joe had been smuggling whisky, commandeering Lend-Lease ships for his
cargoes, and doing his manly best to infect Rose with syphilis, my family
had been building the Bell System and the Burlington Northern, buying
Naushon and surrounding islands (Gosnold Country, Hadley Harbor to
Cuttyhunk, for my fellow yachtsmen - gulp). We had set the stage for the
transistor and a thousand close cousins while Joe was using his bizarre
ambassadorial posting to torpedo our relationship with England. They have a
compound in Hyannis, we have twenty miles of islands. Whose the Royal
Family? Too bad about Jon-Jon, who, incidentally, crashed within site of
Tarpaulin Cove, because he featured himself a writer - remember Washington
in a bra - and we could have dueled it out, limey versus mick, on our
keyboards. You know, posted our visions, and let the people decide. You're
sorry he's dead? How would he have stood up - ancestors on the floor,
mano-a-mano, monitor-a-monitor?Feel lucky he died, for, if the Catholics
are right - ha, ha - he's feeling glad. ("George" was a tremendous failure,
the socialistic Kennedys are a tremendous failure. Any questions? If there
are, ask Joe. He never said a word after Ted told him about Mary Jo, for
the rest of his life.Now old Joe, he knew a thing or two about the Kennedy
clan.)
	"I know where Dickie and Jeanie go," Larry said.
	"How long has she known him?" I asked in response.
	"Since last summer," Larry said.
	"Hmm," I thought to myself, actually shocked at the inescapable
conclusion that innocent face aside, she must have used our single datefor
the purpose of maneuvering the other boy. I thought "Hmm," again. As a
nascent writer, I had to develop loyalty to no one; let each earn a place
according to their acts; neither shield nor exploit even a tenth of an
inch. Truth, only that.

	If I'd had mucus in my nose the whole evening, or said something
like, "Hey babe, let's lose this scene," I could understand the trap
door. She'd known Dickie since kindergarten, as far as I knew, and it was
possible something genuine had suddenly happened, leaving me odd man
out. Either eventuality should have gotten back to me through the grapevine
if a note or a phone call were beyond the ken of a thirteen-year-old girl
from an upper-class family.
	I guess the word to mothers is not to let your daughters grow up to
even know writers. But what do we look like? Isn't the nerdy toad in the
corner likely not only to absorb and remember everything, but to be
reptilian when it comes to doing unto those who have done unto him? Sounds
like a plan.

	"If we were sitting beside a pond here, you know what?" Larry
asked.
	"What?" I asked.
	"We could go skinny-dipping."
	Larry liked to get laughs by looking and acting a little bit horsy;
it went with his glasses. He took them off, hanging them on the same branch
crotch that supported the .22s.
	"Wow," I whispered. He suddenly looked beautiful; so blond, such
wildly blue eyes, his normal laughing mouth now soft, his head bent
slightly. Then I said, "let's pretend."
	"You sure?" he whispered. "We could just talk."
	"That would be okay, too," I replied in a matching voice, "but
maybe we could take our shirts off."
	"I've never seen you," he whispered.
	"I haven't seen you, either," I answered.
	"Do you know why?": he asked.
	"I think so," I said back to him.
	"Do you want to put you hand under my shirt and feel?" he asked.
	"Has anyone else done that to you?" I asked. I knew I'd have to
pass through dreaded journalism before I could write novels, so
interviewing was inevitable to my development.

	"Just during the summer of '57," he said, "but I was a little kid
then, not like I am now."
	"Same with me," I said, "I was normal when it happened to me with
Jon, because he touched me a lot there."
	"Do you think getting touched has something to do with it?"
	"Yes," I answered, "it feels so good you want to be a girl so it
will happen all the time."
	"Get outta town," Larry said. I was winging it a bit, I suppose,
but you have to be creative to make it past journalism; my wings needed
trying. I assured Larry I was, in fact, kidding, then he picked up on the
idea, so it ended up me trying to talk him out of it, neither of us,
obviously havingfact oneconcerning what we were talking about. Did it
matter? Guess.
	"I've seen them five times, Mark watches them all the time<" Larry
said. We'd turned on the fallen tree, and were facing each other, almost
touching, or hands at our sides.
	"Where do they go?" I asked.
	"You wanna?" Larry whispered, very softly. Yes, but I was trying to
make ever so sure he did. He read my eyes, and pulled the front of his
shirt from his jeans. Reading his hot eyes, magic without the glasses, I
pulled out my tails, too.
	"I don't want to do this in secret from Audrey," I said.
	Larry's eyes bugged slightly in surprise. "You took the words right
out of my mouth," he said, "I was just going to tell you that you have a
fairy godmother. She knows what Maguire did to you, now she's going to show
how an Oceanville girl treats her boyfriend."
	I was listening.
	"Kelsey Blastow," he whispered. "You have to come, too, to
baby-sit. It will just be the three of us, because they're taking Rachel
with them to Millinocket."
	I almost laughed out loud, as Millinocket was the legendary
you-can't-get-there-from-here, ayah, Maine town in the "Bert and I"
records. Who knew it was real? But of course, I didn't laugh. Sure, Audrey
and I had our quips and teases when we were together, but somehow I didn't
think levity was involved. I guess I figured it out from Larry's voice, and
his slight blushing.
	Fourteen-year-old boys touch each other a lot; they fight, they
wrestle, the tackle, they toss each other around in basketball. What they
don't often do is gently put their fingers up under their best friend's
shirt, and run them gently over the hard muscles and silky soft skin. May I
suggest...?
	Larry's finger felt incredible on me, too; not the burning fire of
Audrey, Susan and Valerie, but hot, plenty hot.

	"It's going to be Kelsey's first time," Larry whispered, "so, if we
can do it, we should save for when we're with him."
	I guess many things can be described as bittersweet; I had never
been with a male since masturbating my camp counselor a few times, and he
had not molested me, so, from a carnal standpoint, I had never been with a
male at all, saving one ten minute shower with Peter Ketchum. Nothing like
this. Nothing like fondling and being fondled in return, nothing like
lingering minute after minute, an inch from my first boy kiss, no, nothing,
and no, nothing like spending the evening together with a nine-year-old
boy, a slim, quiet child with an almost girlishly pretty face and huge
brown eyes.

	Stonington could, when it put its mind to it, be an electrifying
place. The whole town had known instantly when Audrey became pregnant from
her brother. A delirious month was spent, until she was gently and tenderly
eased to Blue Hill in order not to endanger her young body. Several small
hand-made gifts, beautiful in their modesty, one, a hand mirror inscribed
'for your child' had reached the sad girl, and every word and thought
expressed the thought Next time. Tip McCorison, alone, a great gruff toad,
a sort of Bronson, squared, was a thousand volts, hear to tell, headed girl
by girl island wide. Half the incest on the island was preparing the female
children for his note, and what always followed on a mattress at the
dump. Then there was Dickie's new status with Jeanie. How high was that
flagpole as a village totem?

	We later lived in Camden, though I've never done more than visit
that house, but Camden was the location of the original "Peyton Place."
Call it a literary challenge, though, with Audrey apparently firmly on my
side - I'd actually told her about wanting to write, something, because of
my famous literary name, I never otherwise mentioned - and, if she kept up
her good works, when the day came it was going to be like shooting fish in
a barrel.
	"Can I touch you," I whispered to my young teen friend, who somehow
looked no older than ten without his glasses.
	"Yes," he said, and I nodded to show him I was ready too.
	Both of us were like little girls; like Susan and Valerie, nine
year olds, when very highly aroused; only being aroused was only half of
it.
	"She doesn't let him take her pants off," Larry whispered, his
fingers likewanton caterpillars closing in for a feast. Mine were thrilled
with their prize, too, so we were getting along really well, both, I'm
sure, trying not to think about being alone with Kelsey.
	Our lips touched but we didn't kiss. I've had something like this
happen recently with Samantha, talking with your lips on your
partners. "She won't let him even touch her under her belly button," Larry
said. It could have been the tale of the washed-out spider, or anything,
so, given the basics of the situation, it was darned old white of him to
relay his spy stories.

	"They have a special place they go, every time; they do it the
same, every time. Of course, they may do stuff in private in the winter,
but when the weather's good, they head for the quarry to where they have a
blanket hidden. She lets him take her blouse and bra off while they make
out, then he strips and straddles her. She puts a paper towel over one of
her breasts, and their only game is she switches it from side to side, and
sometimes they forget where they are, so they fight about it, and they
always fight about him wanting to pull her jeans down, then, to prevent
this, she tells him to do what he needs to and she closes her eyes for a
couple of minutes, then they don't have to fight about it any more, or so
it seems."
	I thought of Robert Frost's poem, "Departmental":"It couldn't be
called un-gentle, but all thoroughly departmental." Maybe 'organized'
should be substituted. Yet it was not as easily dismissed as it might of
been. Dickie may have been a wus, at least intellectually, but he was dead
cute. Jeanie was a long-legged utter beauty, in fact I've only met one more
beautiful girl in my life. Her even tangential acceptance of his court must
have been intensely exciting, whatever was off limits.

	It brought a real question to mind. What if she'd said yes, at
least to dating; we'd found something to chat about once in awhile, and
things haddeveloped sort of normally. I don't think I could have matched
Dickie's virility; have touched her for at least a year;even the slightest
effort at a kiss would have taken me six months, I'm sure. Had Dickie
simply taken charge, where I stood in awe - all that IQ, breeding, and
readingspinning like a million horsepower engine on bicycle wheels? But all
the side trips begged the issue; would I have been happier over at her
house, in my wildest imagine, maybe holding sweaty hands, than I was here?

	Amplifying, would I have been happier with a loyal Anne than I was
with Jose? Under my laissez faire tutelage he'd shot, in five years, but
mostly in the last year, to the top of the Mexican music scene as friend
and writerof and for a top recording artist;wouldn't Anne have done the
same? With Jose as my partner, I averaged six or seven pages a day on my
first novel, using aportable typewriter; completed it at just over eleven
hundred pages. Would I have been able to take that firstgiant step, still
married? With children? I sure think so. What I also think, is that I would
not have made it as high. Commercial success,very likely; artistic? Equally
unlikely. Do I get satisfaction knowing Stephen King would give his first
born to write a single page as I write? Yes. Is it worth the loss of a
marriage? Yes. That's a man talking, and we have a woman in the spotlight
to force a comparison. Nancy Hughes.  She is the closest ofinner circle
aids, confidants, and advisors to the president; described by one and all
as irreplaceable. Yet she's leaving to play mom to her fifteen year old
son. I sacrificed having any kids in the first place, and she's like Anne;
a bee in the bonnet and an out-of-town ticket.

	Put it this way, I was extremely comfortable with Larry. We
wouldn't hold hands at the prom, but we would baby-sit for the brown-eyed
nine year old. Jose was ethereal company, all weathers, always. I ended up
a staggering writer, often pleasing myself in a manner so fulsome and
complete perhaps no woman was up to being my vainglorious equal, though, to
be honest, I've spent thousands of nights in front of thousands of happy
mornings, which is to say there is a chance, and always was a chance.
	"You were eleven?" I whispered into Larry's lips. He looked eleven
now, for god sakes; at that age he must have been a white-toothed dream,
skin so soft the tale of the princess and the pea could be re-written using
a tuft of eiderdown.
	"Jack was seventeen," he replied. Jack. Audrey's brother. Now
six-two, craggy, big-boned, handsome and rugged. At seventeen, he must have
been totally amazing. "Adam was seventeen. He spent the summer on a church
thing."
	"Where did it happen?" I asked, still lips to lips because it was a
turn on, however silly.

	"Russ Island," Larry said. "I was helping Jack, Adam came along,
thefog came in, so we decided to hang around until it lifted."
	"Did you know something was going to happen?" I asked. I'd
definitely known with both Jon and Peter and hoped Larry had shared the
excitement rarely equaled by even the grooms with the most beautiful
brides.
	"Adam told a story," Larry whispered, "before he went out. He'd
spent a summer on a cattle drive when he was twelve, and been back every
year. We asked him a lot of questions and he kind of told us about stuff
that happened when there were no girls along. Jack said the same kind of
things happened on the fishing schooners; a couple of nice boys were always
brought along. They were both looking at me and I got really nervous, but I
liked it and didn't want them to stop."
	"Fat chance of that happening," I thought to myself, "not with that
long-legged, ultra blond beauty doing anything other than running as fast
as he could and hollering at the top of his lungs."
	I gathered he'd neither run or hollered, and that old IQ was just a
hammerin', as they say Down East, because, sure enough, no foot race.

	"Do you want to come out on the boat with us?" Jack asked, his
voice suddenly thick.
	"Can I?" the bright-eyed child asked.
	"You may not want to," Jack said; "because Adam wants to talk more
about what happened at the ranch, so, you know, it may be too mature for
you."
	Larry looked at Adam, a tall, fox faced Norwegian, sandy-blond hair
in a bang across his forehead than made him look like a kid. Jack was
black-haired; not stern of visage, but direct. "We're going to be pretty
mature," he said, softly, "not just talk about things."

	Larry didn't think Where do I sign, or anything clever, he just
took off his glasses and stared at the two mature males. Nothing more was
said as he donned the pants to his rain suit, but an instinct deep in his
belly told him to strip off his shirt, and accompany them bare-chested down
the dock and onto the boat. It wouldn't brand him, there wasn't a jail cell
closer than Ellsworth, so no one ever got branded on Deer Isle; no, it
would just be another urban legend, Stonington-size; Larry bare chested
save for the straps on his foul-weather gear, going off alone with Jack and
the visitor, Adam, from Norway.

	"He's such a pale boy," several learners of the tale would
undoubtedly reply, "so fair with such blue eyes." No one would say, "I hope
they're gentle with him," but it would be in every eye. The local oddity
was that the conversations would have been the same if the willowy lad had
been off to the dump with Tip; just a shade more concern at the unexpressed
hope, and that would be it. If you were in for a penny, in this particular
coastal burg, you might as well go for the pound.

	The fog closed in as they were leaving, thickening so that Russ
Island was the only practical option. Since it is the most beautiful
island, of the thousands along the coast, no one was complaining, though
the older males had intended to desensitize their slim, blond child by
helping him pull up traps by hand, the way every tyke should learn.
	Not to be outdone by a change in the weather, Jack and Adam
conferred in whispers, and ended up bringing a twenty-foot length of line
as they hopped off the beached lobster boat.

	They walked inland to the forested northern half of the island,
and, deep in a grove of trees, found a suitable outcropping of ledge.  Jack
tossed one end of the rope over the ledge and handed the other to the
eleven year old. "Pretend you're pulling up a heavy trap," Adam whispered.
	Larry began the charade, leaning as far as he dared, and straining
theatrically.
	"We don't want you to fall overboard," Jack whispered, and Adam
obviously shared his concern. They stood behind the pale child, Jack
reaching in under the apron on his work pants from Larry's right side, and
Adam cradling they boy's thin chest gently with his left arm and hand.
	"Is this okay?" Jack whispered, now that the two older teens were
being open about expressing what they wantedwith the young boy.
	"Yes," Larry whispered, glad of the sturdy males holding him so if
his knees buckled he wouldn't topple over the ledge.
	"Lar," Adam asked, "are you wearing underpants."
	"Yes," the boy said, his voice now as thick and quavering as the
two child molesters.
	"If you want," Adam continued, "we could play a game like we do
when we camp on the drives."

	"Okay," Larry agreed, not knowing what kind of play might be in
store, and not caring as long as it was with these tall friends.
	"It's nothing complicated," Adam went on, not even trying to sound
casual or off-hand, and his voice filled the pubescent boy with thrills and
chills of the same intensity he felt when the latest story of Tip
McCorisson and a school girl circled the small town. "We all strip down to
our underwear, and we become the doggies - cows - and you're the cowboy
with the rope. You'll find us pretty easy to catch."
	"You'll be in your underpants, too?" the eleven year old whispered.
	"We don't have to do it that way," Adam said. "And we won't do
anything you don't want. It's just a game," Jack added.
	"As long as I don't see any branding irons, I'll be happy," Larry
advised his teen friends.
	"Nothing hotter than ninety-eight-point-six degrees," Jack said.

	Reluctantly, the two seventeen year olds released the boy and all
three headed into the woods to remove their boots and clothes at modest
distances, one from the other.
	Jack and Adam were the first to emerge. They'd done a little
talking in setting up the young boy, but had not even seen each other bare
chested. They came together in silence, Jack loving the long silkiness of
the young Norwegian's swimmer's body, and Adam equally excited by Jack
lankier, workman's physique, and especially with the light crinkly pelt of
black fur over his pecs and trailing down into his white briefs.
	Both males were bulging hugely, their thick, hard sex jutting in
both cases to the males' right and way out onto their respective hips. They
didn't touch each other but rather stood, inches apart, looking into each
others eyes, promising, promising.
	"I've got everything off," Larry informed them in a stage whisper.

	"Do you want to come out and be with us?" Jack asked.
	"I dunno," Larry replied from behind a nearby tree. Both the older
boys understood.
	"Just stand there and close your eye, we'll come in and get you,"
Adam instructed.
	"O-okay," came the very nervous response, then, with a stifled
giggle the boy eased the minds of his mature friends. "Don't forget my
rope."
	"Are boys usually scared the first time?" Jack asked the former
cowboy.
	"The best ones are very scared," Adam whispered back. "It's the
ones who are overly eager that turn out to be the duds; they want to make a
comedy or a theater out of it; they always turn out to be bum workers, too.
	"Larry's not like that."
	Jack had never felt he was, but it was nice to have it affirmed by
someone with experience in juveniles.
	"How many boys have you taught?" Jack asked his friend, both
realizing it would be best to go very slowly in fetching the nervous child
from where he was hidden behind a tree.

	"Not that many," Adam said. "It has to be just right. Just because
a kid is cute doesn't mean he'll be nice to be with. On two drives, nothing
happened except group stuff while we were washing in a river; that doesn't
count. On my fourth drive, I met Timmy. We spent a lot of time together,
then we were riding night watch one evening and without saying a word we
tied off his horse, and he rode in front of me on my horse."
	Adam wanted to tell the story and Jack wanted to hear it, but not
now.
	"You okay, Lar?" Jack whispered to the tree, "because you don't
have to do anything."
	"I'm just embarrassed," Larry whispered from his hiding place.
	"Turn to the tree," Adam said, and repeated his instructions for
the boy to close his eyes.

	The young men approached barefoot and silently. Jack followed
Adam's lead as they crept the final couple of feet. The long-legged
stripling was beautiful beyond their fevered imaginations and the young men
had begun to pant openly.
	Hip to hip, Adam on the right, the eased to the beauty before
them. Larry was hiding his eyes with his hands, exposing the long swell of
his boyish flanks. There was a mole on his right shoulder blade and if Jack
and Adam were ever to fight in their lives, it would be over who would be
the first to kiss Larry on that spot. Fortunately, the attention of both
the seventeen year olds was totally distracted by the tautness of Larry's
underpants over his beautiful pre-teen bottom. Both knew why the fabric was
stretched, and it made them pant the louder and sweat and shake
spontaneously at the thought of their first touch against the playful
child.

	Now steadying each other out of necessity with arms over each
others' shoulders, Jack and Adam eased their waists to Larry's bottom,
gently touching him with their throbbing, hot erections.
	"You're just like I am," the boy whispered.
	"Do you like being that way with us?" Adam quizzed the child.
	"Yes," Larry whispered.
	Both teens came more firmly against the young boy, and they
positioned themselves so they were kept from falling to the ground by
pressing against Larry who, luckily, was solidly positioned against the
fragrant pine.
	"Do you ever take your underpants off when you play the game?"
Larry asked, as both males began to molest him with fondling touches and
kisses, in turn, Jack first, to the accent on the soft, white skin of his
back.
	"Yes," Adam answered.
	His future assured, Larry began panting and hissing softly into the
tree as the teen males leaned fully against him, their hands playing as low
as his belly button, their kisses ardent at the base of his long, slim
neck.
	Larry wasn't bold or carnally adventurous, but he was neither a
shrinking violet. "Jack," he asked, "do you do this with you sister?"
	"Yes," Jack whispered.
	"She's lucky," the boy said, not feeling unlucky, himself.
	"Do you do things inside her?" the curious eleven year old asked?

	"Not yet," Jack whispered, "she's still too young.
	"Have you experimented with your sisters?"
	"Not witch Becky," Larry whispered, alluding to his
one-year-younger sister, "but I've talked about it with Susan."
	"Nothing's happened?" Adam quizzed.
	"No," the now panting boy whispered, "we didn't know what to do."
	"You can cum-off with her," Jack whispered, "do you know what that
is."
	"Yeah," said Larry, "Diggy Lamoine tells everybody about that
stuff. It happened to me last week while I was sleeping."
	"Were you dreaming of Susan?" Jack asked.
	"No," Larry replied. "It was you. You were helping me haul traps
and asking me questions about Susan, then I started getting wet and I woke
up."
	"I hope this is better," Jack said.
	"Ten times," the boy affirmed.

	"It feels that way with Audrey, too," Jack said, "ten times better
than anything you could dream of. When she asks me to jerk-off and cum into
her, I get so excited she can make it happen the way she wants just by
telling me she's ready for me to play daddy in her tummy.
	"Have you ever been with a girl?" he asked Adam.
	"No," the erstwhile rancher said, "but that's just the breaks; how
it's worked out. Lack of opportunity, plus lack of pursuit of opportunity
due to there always being willing boys enough to keep me veryhappy."
	"Are boys better, Jack?" Larry whispered.
	"I think it's going to be more exciting with you than it is with
Audrey," Jack whispered back, "but it's going over the moon being with her,
so it's not really the kind of thing you can measure."
	"It doesn't seem scientific," Larry agreed.

	By now the hands of both the older males were at the waist-band of
Larry's jockey shorts and they were fondling him from his belly and out to
his hips, even trailing their fingers over his bottom covered with the
stretched cotton.
	By accord, they began to strip the child off. As their hands worked
down over his hips the boy began to shudder tensely.
	"It's going to be really embarrassing when I turn around," he said,
but he brought his feet, which had been slightly spread to help balance the
two adults leaning against him, together, his body instinctively obeying
however confused and distracted the boy might think he was.
	The white cotton underpants could only be eased a few inches down
the long, white thighs; there they hung stubbornly.
	"Do you want one of us to reach in front for a little while?" Adam
asked.
	"I'll get the tree wet if you do," the shaking boy replied.
	"If that happens," Adam coaxed, "tell us so we can turn you
around."
	"You want to watch me cum-off?" Larry queried.
	"Yes," Jack and Adam whispered as one.
	"I want to watch you too, if you're going to do it."
	"We are, and we want you to watch," Jack said.

	They all knew they had to stop or there was going to be an
accident. The fog was stilt thick, they had plenty of time, ah, but how to
spend it. Luckily, as national scribe, I can always think of something to
rant about; being perhaps best fit by virtue of background and attitude to
act as the numbing jelly Prolong.

[Author's note: This was the first of my stories to be withdrawn from
publication as originally submitted.  The reason was anti-Semitism.  I'd
like to step out of this manuscript for a few moments and address the
subject.  Janie Graham Knowles has been, to date, my longest, at seven
years, romantic relationship.  Her mother's maiden name was Louisjohn,
which I've undoubtedly misspelled, but which is on of the families featured
in Steven Birmingham's "Our Crowd."  Dan Swartz and Al Tannenbaum, both of
Brooklyn, were classic bosom buddies on the DMZ.  And so on, and so on, and
so on.  For all I know, Anne had Jewish blood, I never would have dreamed
of asking.  My perceived anti-Semitism is in fact nothing more than a) a
reaction to having WASPs portrayed by the likes of Thurston Howell (a
family name) on "Gilligan's Island", and Harry Emerson Winchester, on
"M*A*S*H", and, b) the fact that a two-percent minority dominates the media
to such an extent that when Billy Graham is caught on the Nixon tapes,
commenting on this anomaly, he apologizes and retracts his opinions within
hours.
	I have read 3,000 books in my life, over ten percent of them aloud
to my maternal grandmother, who, in her long life, may have read as many as
20,000.  I have lived in three widely disparate countries, and visited
others for long periods of time.  Although I live on a modest income, I
never stepped inside a store for a period of five years, and I have never
held a broom or mop in eight years.
	If I don't know American, if I don't know life, and if I don't know
the human race, then no-one does.  And in the vast epic of recent and
current events, one special serpent's tooth is found.  It is a religious
cult with the peasant like intellectual arrogance to claim to have invented
god, and themselves in his image.  To a writer whose ancestry includes the
founding engineer of the entire democratic movement, and a host of other
essential luminaries, I feel if I don't have the horsepower to tell it like
it is, it simply won't be told.  If you think I'm wrong, may I ask: based
on what?  Do you write as well as I do?  Work as hard?  Have you read as
much?  Traveled and lived abroad, as much?  If you point to your Ivy League
credentials, aren't these the same credentials that would have been found
in the offices of Iridium?  And a hundred other giant, total failures?
	According to the Transcendentalists, he who is most gifted is
closest to god.  I would substitute the idea that he who works the hardest
developing his talent, is closest to god.  Either way you slice it, I'm all
there is.  If my arrogance is insufferable to you, your obesity and the
dangerous and strung-out way you live is insufferable to me.
	Chime in.  I write the best stroke-off material in the world.
Should I let it go at that?  Publish on ASSTR, where the single story I
posted eighteen months ago is still going out to from four to seven hundred
readers a week?  I told David, my editor at Nifty, my mail runs a hundred
to one in favor – great favor – of my work, with long, specific
letter more common that the quick attaboy.
	Okay, thanks for you attention during the time out.  I have changed
the manuscript.  The writer is the horse, the editor is the rider, and the
audience supplies the oats.  Can't we all get along?]


	For instance, it was interesting to see the final act, last night,
of the country being delivered unto its urban Socialist masters. Over a
hundred canine handlers from all over the country were flown to New York to
honor, with a twenty-one gun salute, a police dog whose kennel happened to
be at the World Trade Center. The flabbergasting emotion of the leftist;
the utter filth of degrading combat heroes with the same slobber of
loathsome emotion gouted over a caged animal. Sure minor, but you shouldn't
have even let the thought tickle you, because if you want major, how about
AOL's quarterly loss of fifty-two billion dollars. Will that suffice?  How
about that emergency beacon of the active family, the telephone, ringing
twenty times a day because a liberal interpretation of the First Amendment
allows freedom of speech nee telemarketing?  That oughtta hit you where you
live.

	I was on AOL in '92. Any reading of the archives of the site will
show that it was only viable as a sex link, men pursuing young boys, or
girls if necessary. I was on it, I know, and so this porn site ups and pays
one-hundred-fifty two billion dollars because, according to the chicken
executive who lucked into running the place, AOL customers love Time/Warner
content. It is a stupid, filthy enterprise, weird to the core. And it lost
fifty-eight billion US dollars in three months flat. And this is no Monday
morning review; my commentary is included in stories I posted early last
year.
	You need to be told you are in desperate trouble, you are fat, you
are greedy, and you are acting like monkeys on drugs. You are at the brink
of populist-infested democracy killing you to the last man, woman and
child. Take New York and the attacks, as a small example. On Sept. 11th,
itself, several commentators pointed out that there were thirty million
square feet of vacant office space on lower Manhattan. The ruins should
have been allowed to stay almost exactly as they fell. Now they want to
spend twenty-nine billion dollarreplacing thirty million square feet of
office space. The greatest complex of ruins in all history; tourist draw
for an easy century or more, thrown away as if it were junk so more of
what's not needed could be built. New York is a stupid place, and it will
destroy the world. It is a self-promoting parasite. It's Sinatra's kind of
town. Schmo City. Schlong-Schleppers' World-Rule Headquarters. New York is
so bush league and Horner's Corners, it thinks Woody Allen is funny, Fran
Drescher, and Seinfeld. It is an ugly, pushy place with Travolta and his
gallon of paint, and insomnia statistics that make a Yankee like me get
goose bumps of I Told You So. Hymie town, in a rare intelligent comment
from Jesse Jackson..
	In all the world there is only one place worse than New York City,
and that is Harvard University. I know, you were expecting Hollywood, and
half of you were probably right.
	What goes around comes around. The man-dumping women of the fem-lib
magazine culture are doing enough damage - clearly seen in stressed (fat)
kids and fat adults - of an by themselves to spell civil doom. All churches
contribute by preaching hypocrisy as a way of life and addicting children
to dead ritualism. Dead, for sure.
	Ice-cold milk, warm apple pie with American cheese, Lawrence Welk
and Billy Graham. Hello! It's "7th Heaven" with little Ruthie writing in
her diary about watching her parents have sex. It's freaking parents
empowering their kids with trust; funny stuff when I write about it, but
remember it took a hundred thousand hours of intense practice over thirty
years to make it sound funny, nor does a private income hurt.

	Let me try to convey the seriousness of your situation by pointing
out the fact that even though hundreds of thousands of readers have read my
postings over the last year and a half, not a single one has written
supporting in any way the beliefs and opinions stated repeatedly in almost
every story I publish. I get hundreds of letters on writing style and
erotic content, all exceedingly positive, but not a single offer of any
inclusion in anything political, whatsoever. What does this mean?  Well, I
guess plenty of sleep for anyone I might have offended.  You've won, I've
lost, and I'm sure I can look forward to my country reminding me about the
holocaust every day for as long as I live.  Maybe someday I'll actually get
the message.  They funny side to this is that by the time you get mine,
you'll be so caught up in the vortex of chaos inevitable under
short-sighted populism you won't be able to let out a peer.
	There, the offensive paragraphs are duly sanitized, so we can get
back to the show.

	Larry's back was still turned. Adam's right hand was at the boy's
slender right hip and Adam was testing the stretching fabric just below his
left hip.
	"I don't think I'll be able to play that game with you," the boy
whispered over his shoulder to Adam.

	"Do you want it to happen here?" the young man whispered back.
	"Yes," Larry said to them both.
	That meant doing something about his underpants, and Adam nodded to
Jack, stepping aside so the boy's long-time friend could position himself
fully behind the boy. Jack's eyes glowed with gratitude, saying "I owe
you," though the expression was years from popularity.
	Jack kissed the back of Larry's blond head and wrapped his strong
left fisherman's arm around the slim, pale waist. Larry gasped at being
fully taken by a single male, his sensations now full and uncomplicated.
	"It's harder than getting Audrey's panties down," he whispered.
	"I know why," Larry whispered back.
	"Are you ready for me to be in front of you," the cautious man
asked.
	"Yes," Larry replied.

	Slowly, shifting his feet for balance, Jack eased Larry back from
the tree so Adam could watch what he was doing. Keeping his left arm around
the lower chest of the child to steady him, which was getting to be like
the blind leading the blind, he reached to the band of the underpants where
it was pulled away from Larry's navel, and inserted two fingers of his
right hand.
	"You're really close to me," Larry whispered, shaking and sweating.
	"Has anyone touched you before?" Jack whispered back.
	"No," Larry said. If the boy was this hot, not knowing what he was
about to share, all indications led to the inescapable conclusion that he
was going to be a gold-star lover.
	Adam was staring down at what Jack was doing. "Didn't your gym
teacher ever have a talk with you or want to spend time alone with you?" he
asked Larry.

	"No," the boy replied. "He's kinda fat."
	"Must be something," the former westerner thought to himself. Larry
was obviously very mature for eleven, and most gym teachers knew that early
maturity always translated into a sexually oriented child, and often a
child who benefited from a tailored support ritual in a semi-club setting
over being left, hormones rampant,to face the conventional circus of
romance and dating on their onesies.
	Adam was going to suggest changing schools, forgetting, for the
moment he was at the tip end, off the end, technically, of an island lost
in the middle of nowhere. On the other hand, the boy did have a wizard kid
sis,so maybe he'd survive, after all.
	Thinking now stopped. Jack's fingers were moving over Larry as the
boy shook and panted. He fondled him carefully and in a lingering and
sexual manner, moving his fingers back and forth under the child's
underpants. Eventually, they had to see, and Larry, too, for he'd never
been half this big, half this hard, or half this excited even during his
most private talks with his pretty little Susan.

	Adam could tell from the outline in Larry's straining briefs that
the young boy had not been circumcised. He was proven right when Jack eased
the boy's big penis free of the elastic. It's glans were covered though a
tiny slit at the very tip of the boy showed he stayed barely within
himself, barely covered, then not covered as Jack used the fingers of his
strong right hand to slowly peel back the dewy soft skin, and show him to
Adam and himself, Larry.
	"That gym teacher ought to get himself tested for every mental
deformity known to man and beast," Adam thought as he stared down at the
newly naked beauty of an aroused eleven year old. He was huge for his age;
very long, six inches and some; also very slender and delicate, his
foreskin curtain to the greatest show on earth. Adam, though only seventeen
years of age was well read and well traveled; he found himself wondering at
the blatant homosexuality in religious art, young and old, backs arched,
bare chested, Christ, always effeminate, often with alluring wounds that
made a boy wonder what it would be like to touch him just a little bit
right there.
	What ever it might have been like when he was seven or eight, it
could not have been more evocative or erotic than looking down as Jack
gently exposed Larry. first by pulling free the bulging foreskin, then by
pulling the boys underwear down, getting him completely naked.

	Standing close behind the boy who had surrendered completely to the
six-two male behind him, Larry bent to his knees, and guided by Jack,
pulled Adam's briefs down, then yielded to Adam and got Jack naked as the
visiting missionary masturbated him from behind, hauling him quickly to his
feet when Jack was naked and whispering to the boy to arch his back and put
his hands behind his neck.
	Larry complied instantly, and Adam continued masturbating, now
doing it openly but not wildly so Jack could watch. Larry began to gasp and
shake, so gently Adam slowed and ended just fondling the boy's erection,
whispering to him that he could spray in a few minutes.
	Once under control, they formed a tight circle to look at each
other, arms hanging at their sides.
	"Susan's lucky," Jack said, making the boy blush and think that
Audrey was in for more than a little luck, too.

	"What do you want to do?" the eleven year old asked, once he began
getting used to the sight of two thick adult males, both circumcised; Adam
bent slightly to the left and Jack, just huge and jutting hard against the
trail of black hair trailing down his lower belly. Adam looked almost as
much a boy as he was, and the preteen felt he somehow looked twice as naked
for both his boyish appearance and the size of his swollen, purple tipped
erection.
	"Do you want to watch it happen with one of us?" Adam asked.
	"Yes," the boy whispered, flushing again.
	"I was that way, too," Adam whispered; "it's what they use as the
standard to go on the cattle drives. Boys who like to watch it happen with
a man, and stand close while its happening make super alternate lovers,
damn near as good as a devoted wife; guys that don't, well, to them it's
kind of horsing around or fooling around - monkey business - so we leave
them with each other at camp."

	It was difficult for even the well read missionary to define or
even partially delineate what was sexually attractive, and what was not. As
a Mormon, he'd been indoctrinated from birth in one of the looniest and
most bizarre cults ever to appear on earth, and he knew it. He knew they
were frauds to the bone, but he didn't know why two boys, similar in
outward appearance, could be vastly different as lovers, with, invariably,
the more homely child the more eager and both the most satisfying and
satisfied at the end of the day. There were quirky layers, solemn layers,
frivolous layers, emotional layers, love layers, hate layers, fear layers,
taboo layers, prissy layers, aggressive layers, and, most surprisingly, an
extra-size central layer of indifference. He though of that as the healthy
layer. Two hours from now it would not make the slightest difference to
anybody at any time whether they stayed with Larry a little longer, or
dressed, pulled out a deck of cards, and sat and played hearts on a rock
until the fog pulled up its skirts and wandered on out to Isle au
Haute. The most extreme measuring device, if there was such a think, might
possibly show a one-half percent increases in the overall qualities of a
sexually active friendship that a platonic friendship. Big deal.

	And for the kids that got trapped into something they didn't like?
Wouldn't every day as an adult, starting by not getting molested by and
adult, start as a pretty good day, if by default? In a more general sense,
wasn't a bad or unhappy childhood likely to make an adult more aware of any
trace of goodness reaching him? They said it felt good to stop beating
one's head against a wall; too easy; for how did one feel if brutalized
emotionally, physically, sexually, or all three, then freed from all of it
with adulthood and a bus ticket? Would it by sorrow and pain over what had
happened, or joy andhappiness that it would never happen again? Shouldn't
surviving it, indeed, make you stronger; give you added layers of depth and
understanding; insights kept from the more innocent masses who had an awful
way of lying on their death beds ruminating over all they missed of the
full texture and vibrancy of a complete life.

	How did it all relate to misbehavior? Wouldn't a society that read
or paintedexcessively collapse just as fast as a culture who lost work and
instructional time to sex? Wouldn't a society that somehow managed to get
the whole thing wrong suffer so under hypocrisy that disorders and
dysfunction, plain old living crazy, would cripple itself with medical
problems, both real and imagined? How smart did you have to be to figure
this stuff out? Would you ever be able to tell if a co-worker, fellow
student, or the teller at the bank ever got naked with other boys or his
little sister? It didn't seem like sex could throw enough hardballs to even
dent a good family, or mess up a bad one. For the most part, it just wasn't
there, rape and predatory behavior, aside. Beautiful girls were dull in
bed, likewise, beautiful boys. Beyond that it was open season in open
fields with character as deciding force be it food, booze, gambling, heavy
drugs, porn, or sex. And yet they went on and on so about it;forced what
Adam was doing with Jack and Larry from the realm of privacy to that of
secrecy. Well, it made it more exciting, but that was a small payoff for
lost opportunities, whetherinvolving multiple experiences with a favored
partner or a disciplined approach to a handful of partners. On balance,
what? Live in two worlds? Make one's own rules? Get all intellectual about
it? What else was there to get intellectual about? Hadn't the Greeks
covered it, thousands of years ago? If they'd missed anything, surely the
Chinese had picked it up. Of course you could go to low, live, like Dabney
Coleman, proud of being shallow; grunting over sex when you had the chance
to grunt. Tattoos came of this; mutilation - intellectual bankruptcy, as a
cause of insomnia, alone, should be discouraged. Empty heads light on the
pillow. They were bringing this Kennedy guy in; how empty-headed was
that. How could he help but inspire a national attitude of superficiality
and self-indulgence, leading who knew where? Terrible politicians, terrible
churches, and wasn't it nice to have them so far off the beam, so far from
a state of balance, one could ignore them with impunity; even use childish
logic and do the opposite of what they were told, for its own sake? What if
these institutions were almost right; just a tad off? Disobeying their
strictures and commandments would be tough, in that case. Was it all some
monster joke; do this, but act that? In modern times it's possible to link
two improbable subjects in a way that proves the absurdity of almost
everything. The first point is that once in awhile they have a
misadventure, auto vs. train, in greater Los Angeles. The news people come
on and rave at how stupid and crazy a person would have to be to cheat at a
crossing. Then you drive in Los Angeles and realize that if people didn't
drive around gates and duck in front of trains, the city would come to a
stop. On the road, everyone does it all the time, yet the media report it
as bizarre and criminal behavior when an accident happens - once i a blue
moon. An exact parallel is found in the contemporary Catholic church. All
these weird old dudes get up there and hem and haw about this and that,
when pedophilia is what attracts priest to their calling, in the first
place. The real world and the babble world. Nirvana for a writer, of
course, allowing play with both the forehand and backhand; everybody's
wrong but me. All that was needed was a touch of humor and a pinch of sex
and one might actually turn out something worth the reader's time, and not
only that but meet a higher ideal, that of writing to the people, directly,
unfiltered by leftists , uncensored by anybody, which, it seemed, at any
intellectual level, must be part and parcel of rendering unto the page the
truth.

	And the real truth was that Larry was having a hard time making up
his mind. They were both so beautiful, so overwhelmingly exciting. Adam was
new and exciting; appealing because he hated the moronic church as much as
the boy; Jack was a life-long neighbor and friend; both males had taken a
stance with their legs slightly spread and their backs slightly arched with
their fingers laced behind their necks.
	The lanky blond boy reviewed what he knew. Diggy Lamoine, plus the
locker room, plus the back of the bus, plus various and sundry bits and
pieces second and third hand. "What did a Greek boy, with dozens of
handsome young men to choose from," Larry wondered vaguely to himself, then
proceeded the best he knew how.
	He stepped slowly beside Adam, who held his position. He placed he
slim left arm around the tall, athletic Norwegian's waist, and, with his
right hand, took the adult male and used his fingers to spread the
seventeen year old's seminal fluid back over his flaring glans. He beckoned
Jack with his eyes, until his friend was standing inches from Adam.

	Following instinct, following what he would like Adam to be doing
to him, if their positioned were reversed, he thoroughly wet his hand with
the you adult's fluid, then began a cautious and gentle stroking, half
feeling him up, like you would a school girl, nervously, excitedly, as he
found a touch and rhythm that transmitted themselves as perfect shockwaves
through the sturdy man he was masturbating, through his slim left arm, and
into his boyish soul.
	It took him three minutes to make Adam cum. The young man gasped
several warming, then began with a little splashing than almost immediately
developed into a strong, hard pulse, his sperm jetting against Jack's belly
so hard it made noise. At the end, he brought the two adults into physical
contact, watching enthralled as the flood waned to a gentle flow from the
spent male to his panting and sweating partner.
	Now old Diggy really kicked in. If they talked about it so much, it
must actually happen atleast once in awhile, ayah. The boy retrieved a pile
of folded clothing, and placed it on the ground, knelt on it. He began by
licking the sperm from the glans of his friend, then quickly moved in to
use his hot, avid tongue all over Jack's dripping wet belly. Delirious with
the hot salty taste of the male, he again found Jack's swollen penis and
again did what he would have liked had their shoes been on the other feet.
	Gentle and urgent; slow and deliberate but experimenting with tempo
and depth, learning very quickly, excited by what he learned, and,
apparently how fast he was learning it, which added yet to the excitement.

	Jack also gasped a warning, then a second, and, for all the child
knew, a third, which would have been a waste of breath for by now his mouth
was being flooded with hot salt, more of it gushing just like Adam had all
over Jack; unstemmed, untrammeled, unapologetic, just more and more and
more, until he was swallowing like a tiger; gulping like a panther, boy - o
- boy, a boy.
	And that he was as Jack eased himself free, lifted the boy, turning
him in his arms, and pinioned him with his left arm around the slim, white
chest while his right hand, covered with Adam's semen swiped from his own
hairy belly, he found Larry and began to masturbate him.
	Adam stood close, his erection still massive and hard as oak,;
gently he eased himself to where Jack was holding the child as still as
possible, and touched, tip to tip. That made Larry cum, and three long
spurts of his thin boy seed brought the shaking male tower first to its
knees, then prostrate on the moss of the little forest glade.
	God was merciful and allowed the dense fog to remain for a further
half hour.

	Larry's story was very exciting, and he was obviously several pages
ahead. Perhaps I would be able to do a little catching up at Kelsey's
house.


Posted by Thomas@btl.net

xxx