Date: Mon, 14 Apr 2003 00:20:44 -0600
From: thomas <Thomas@btl.net>
Subject: MISSISSIPPI STORY - RYAN
MISSISSIPPI STORY -- RYAN (M/b, M/f, inc., rom., lit., humor.)
by
Pen Dragon
Nothing is implied by the use of public or private figures in this story.
Since it was impossible for Ryan to be cuter than
his twelve-year-old brother, Stephan, I decided to dwell on the fact that,
at thirteen, he was perhaps five percent bigger. Stephan and nine-year-old
sister, Janet, has spent the previous weekend with me and I was flattered
when the older brother called me Monday night, inviting himself over, more
excited than polite. Since polite only wears with me in adults, we chatted
until he grew up a little, and, since the answer was You bet, it was a
pleasant conversation.
"Just you?" I asked.
"Is that okay?" he asked in return.
"Certainly," I replied, "I just want your brother and
sister to know they're welcome."
"They want to book the `Chateau Unbelievable', as they call
it, for the weekend after next, if that's okay, and this weekend they're
going to Racine to visit our dad."
"Great," I said, "we can slip each other booze and pills
and get lawless." He laughed happily, and I tried to restrain panting
aloud until the handset was securely in the cradle.
I had a little luck in being halfway through "Space Quest
V" (this was '93), so the work week managed to pass. Stephen, my luridly
bi-polar erasmus graced me with a Tuesday visit, leaving three days (and
nights) free for anticipatory fantasizing. It takes a lot to excite me to
the hands-off stage, but Ryan was a lot, and being alone with him boded
nothing short of a nirvanistic counterpoint to the past weekend with a girl
avid to hasten her physical development, so she could get pregnant, the
little earth mother, from copious freshening (their family line was dairy
farming) by Stephan and myself.
People who say dieting doesn't work have simply not starved
themselves sufficiently to attract children. I wasted time reviewing
nonsense like this, occasionally including an especially moronic nugget in
my work in progress at the time. The venue for all these happenings was
745 Main Street, Dubuque, Iowa, where I'd moved in hopes of furthering my
career as a novelist with some mainline heartland. The experiment worked,
and, since Dubuque is a church town, and Catholic, to boot, the pedantic
minds of the humorless tillers, with a clerical intellectual class to add
little interest and less excitement, left, say, twenty-three hours a day
free to play games and work on the current script. My family thinks it's
worth a million dollars to keep me at arm's length (I know live 2,325 miles
from home, which is why I see a lighter side to things), leaving me free to
dither as I would, running a small bookstore because if you're going to
live it you might as well get to know it, and how better for a writer than
by operating a book store? It still makes a certain kind of sense, because
how else would one come to know that a town of sixty thousand wouldn't buy
a single used encyclopedia, no matter how recent, how excellent the
condition, and how low the price, unless one had five A-Z sets, starting at
thirty dollars, and failed to sell one of them in three years?
The Friday wasn't a holiday, but Ryan was some kind of
campus superstar, so Karen, his mother, dropped him at noon, giving the
entire wonderland of the John Fitzgerald Kennedy Shopping Mall a miss, in
favor of me and a .32mm dot pitch monitor (my eyes hurt just recalling that
wonder of its day, and I need to take a moment to add a note: I use a
.25mm, today, and it's screaming fine; next to an optical, scrolling mouse,
the best bang for the buck in the business).
I turned the boy loose with the puter and joined his mother
for lunch. "Keep him for a month if it suits you," was the gist of her
conversation, "Stephan and Janet have reinvented themselves and I think
it's permanent.."
"That's great," I said, "it's a little intimidating playing
papa goose, wondering of the goslings will overindulge and act out."
"You took them right to the limit," Karen laughed, "they
cuddle in the Lay-z-boy, pretending she's asleep in his lap, head on his
shoulder, cute enough for those home video programs, and, you know, I
really can't tell." That was as far as we went, I being enough of the
upper crust not to elaborate to the girl's mother how effectively the
beginner had stimulated me while in a frozen tableau involving her brother,
who had also remained all but motionless as he flooded her mouth the week
before. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, not an explicit recipe.
I'd left Ryan flipping burgers to earn money for I now
forget what, that was a stage of the game, and when I returned we had
enough to buy whatever it was, which took us to some new scenes. As with
his brother and sister, I settled in on the arm of the chair, serving
customers as I watched him play th. "Stephan said you closed early last
Friday," the boy noted after several hours, "can you do it two Friday's in
a row?" Everyone should have a million dollars to realize how small a
fortune it is. After setting aside a quarter of the dividends for growth,
and paying taxes, it's about twenty-five thousand a year. The bookstore
kicked in a net of eight, so, while I was, as a bachelor, feeling no
strain, I did not like turning down money, and, more particularly, did not
like disappointing, being a reader myself, customers dropping in at the
last minute for something to tide them over the weekend. "Sorry, I said,"
and we gutted it out until a few minutes after five, which, typically
enough, got us inextricably involved in figuring out a sequence, so, we
stayed on for another half hour. Since the shop was closed, I let my right
hand drop to the boy's lap. Guess I'd never dare creep a child in a
theater, so it was nice to fantasize as I worked my way from Ryan's left
knee up his inner thigh, more than half way. I pretended he was a nine
year old, because I'd never had a partner that young, having first molested
Stephen (as against Stephan) when he was eleven. What would such a child
say, presuming four ushers weren't watching me, only, during the cartoon
matinee? "Excuse me, mister, my uncle likes to do it up a little higher?"
"My sister's too young to come in with me, so she's waiting in the car?"
"I just went to the bathroom, do you want to see which stall I used?".
Perhaps it was Ryan noodling away at "Space Quest" that incited such a
psychic review, because if no one can hear you scream in outer space, why
bother talking? In summary, he should have been playing "Leisure Suit
Larry".
How do boys handle things? How do you work the trade-off
between a curious spirit and the potential for addiction? What is the
relationship between that you bestow, so to speak, and that you deny, if
you listen to everyone else speak? How many boys out of a thousand can
accept this much, tolerate that much, and wish for more than they ever get?
These dormant questions rise a notch in importance with each computer sold.
What is the difference between sharing and inveigling ? Stephen
had turned out to be a text book case, and, indeed, I wrote a book about
him, "An All-New Jaws." He climbed in my lap, a perfect stranger, to look
at what was on the monitor. Yes, the police have authority to eliminate
"attractive nuisances", but I was writing a book on the thing, so I had
laws on my side, too. Anyway, the issue was years in coming up and belongs
elsewhere. I threw Stephen out, first having ascertained he was not, as he
looked, lost or abandon. Indeed, his mother was a deputy sheriff. That
settled, it was street city, and that lasted all of a day. On his third
ricochet back through my door, I wrote his mother asking her to sign off on
his hanging out with me, which she did the next day by telephone. Sex had
been part of the package all along, with Stephen managing to act out right
to the verge, yet never quite get flagrant. At the time and even today I
was surprised at the response I got to having a catamite more or less
omnipresent in a public store. Iowans may not read as they should, and the
light byplay of New Englanders, for example, about Iowans, is lost, by and
large, but they see a man and boy getting along well and there's no
harrumphing and loss of customers, you know, not that I ever had a cute
twenty year old come in and say, "Hi, I'm Al, this is my cousin Eric, he's
a little younger than Stephen, but they might get along," or anything --
quite -- that dramatic.
He was an avid and outstanding lover. As soon as his
mother phoned, I said Yes, he could stay for dinner, no, not overnight,
this time, and he responded by talking about taking a shower. Jose had
been fourteen when we met, eighteen when we parted, and he was the youngest
boy I'd been with, saving two thirteen year olds, who looked nine or ten,
who followed me -- not for money -- home from the park (Torreon, Mexico --
see other writings), and Stephen, at eleven, looked maybe eight. His
medical and psychological files undoubtedly fill shelves, leaving him about
as challenged as a kid can be and still function at all. Since this is not
his story our relationship can be summarized by saying that where in the
beginning, it was half a heart-attack to take him to the nearby McDonalds,
at the end of three intense years, and one physical beating!!! I was able
to take him to the bar at the Clarion where he'd eat grilled cheese
sandwiches and drink kiddie cocktails, the m-f coolest date in town. (An
ugly stepfather had him incarcerated for raping his daughter, a living doll
blond with whom he slept naked and who paraded around either naked or in
her panties looking a whole lot more than three years old. This was
inevitable. Stephen brought seven hundred a month mad money from S.S., so,
according to his father, who knew I was molesting him, there was no chance
of his mother, a lady I both respected and liked,' would relinquish
custody, and I could only do what I could do, which turned out to be answer
questions for the police.)
Much of this happened a year later, at the moment Stephen
was on his grandparent's farm. Ryan eventually found a plateau in the game
and docked it, joined me in the apartment where I was cooking perfectly
executed macaroni and cheese with a half stick of Land-O-Lakes, and half &
half for the sauce. Slice in Hebrew National franks and add fresh ground
pepper and France can to hell, on the extreme outside chance it hasn't
already arrived in the only socialistic nirvana to be expected.
"My mom's is sticky," the boy noted, trying not to gulp
three tablespoons in a row.
"Probably needs to use more water," I said, "read the
directions. The people who make it actually know how to cook and serve
it."
"It's the most addictive food there is," the boy said,
proving it.
"I eat one a day," I said, "perfect starving artist's diet
because he stays slim enough that if an attractive kid comes along to
model, he won't gross the tyke out."
"Are you the smartest person in the world?" Ryan asked,
"Stephan and Janet both say so."
"And how smart are they?" I asked. (He was getting too
close for comfort. I hate telling my mensa story, so a little temporizing
was in order.)
"Have you ever seen Janet draw?" the boy asked in return.
"No," I said, thinking how neat it was to have that to look
forward to.
"She's a genius at it, Stephan's published a play, and they
play duets on the violin."
"Okay," I surrendered. "Yes, I took the test, yes I aced
it, and yes it was in half the allowed time. I extrapolate a bit because I
had trouble with the third question and had to go back and change the
answer, and I was taking the test totally cold, not even a hint of what it
entailed, so, though I'm a maths cripple, I come up with a measured IG of
six hundred. I try to prove I'm like everyone else by writing huge novels,
but everyone loves them -- this is on the Net, mind you, where they don't
pay a cent -- so that was pointless. Now I'm sitting here talking to the
doppelganger of the most beautiful boy in the world, realizing I simply am
what I am, and, like everyone else, have to make the best of it.
"Stephan thought you were trying to be funny a couple of
times," Ryan said, reviewing my weekend with his siblings, "but Janet
disagreed."
"Oh," I murmured, a famous motion picture line surfacing to
ease my writer's mind: "Yes, it's Iowa." I didn't say anything out loud,
but I was keeping score.
"Tell me about your dad," I said as we ate.
"'How many women could a woman chucker chuck if a woman
chucker could chuck women?' The boy replied. "He's like six four and fit
without being buff, so it's kind of girl cocktails with chicks, back."
"And hanging out with him is...?"
"Okay," the boy said, "he's kind of sullen and matter of
fact. Probably still uptight we guys left, but he wasn't half-way about
the stuff he did, so that's that."
"How does Janet feel about spending the weekend?" I asked.
"The half-way thing, again," Ryan said, "but this time her
on fire to get there."
"And Stephan?" I asked.
"He's really changed," Ryan replied, "he used to hate to
go, now this time he wanted to almost as much as sis."
"And..." I probed, looking into his totally blue-gray eyes.
"It's something new for us, now that we're older, I guess,"
the boy said, "wanting to go to Racine, hang out with six hundred cows.
The early part of growing up seems to be cool, what say you about the
rest?"
"I cancelled everything due to lack of interest when I was
sixteen," I replied, "so I'm the wrong person to ask."
"Isn't that expensive?" the boy wanted to know.
"Extremely," I agreed, "immaturity costs a fortune so don't
commit yourself to it without one."
"I think mom has quite a bit," the boy said. Since they
lived in a house big enough to require maps on the wall, he was probably
right.
"Well," I responded, "inherited money is the best thing in
the world, to the extent it's better to die with it than live without it,
but beware because it instills an alternative need to be useful -- to
contribute -- that can be as unrelenting as poverty, and alcoholism, eating
disorders, insomnia, and a long list of addictions and compulsions are the
price of disobedience or neglect."
"I'll be careful," the boy said, no trace of irony in his
voice.
"Pass it along to Stephan and Janet," I suggested, "I get
distracted when they're around and might forget," "twenty times in a row,"
I added to myself.
We'd finished eating and adjourned to the couch after doing
the dishes together.
"Do you take showers with Stephen?" Ryan asked as we
spooned ice cream.
"Just the first time," I said, glad the boy was loquacious.
Certainly I appreciate quiet interludes among lovers, but I also appreciate
growing grass and drying paint.
"I guess that's pretty typical," Ryan noted.
"With the computer so close to the shop windows," I said,
"and it is a shop, so people look in, we didn't dare go too far in front of
the computer. That probably be even more typical, these days."
"Do you like to tell about stuff that happens, you know,
graphically?" he asked, "some people think it's weird, but it seems like
there's just more to it if everything isn't private and secret."
"There'd be less," I said, "if everybody told everything at
the drop of a hat, but I think there's a middle ground for a new couple to
share a few stories."
"Did Janet and Stephan tell you a lot of things?" the
thirteen year old with the softly red hair wanted to know.
"How much did they tell you?" I asked, so curious my
manners took a hit.
"They're so cute now," he replied, "that I think it's cute
to let them be a couple without trying to intrude. They're cool about
promising it won't last too long, and I'll be included, again, but meantime
I just know that they spent the weekend, and it was even the both of them
who suggested the trip to Racine."
"Well," I responded, "you've already mentioned `graphic',
so, with a little imagination, you can considered the question asked and
answered."
"Total VGA, eh?" the boy said.
"Millions of colors," I affirmed.
"We do share one thing, as a result of their staying with
you," Ryan said.
"What?" I asked, as we finished our ice cream and placed
the bowls on the coffee table.
"A new game, so I can take part at least a little," he
explained.
"What kind of game?" I asked, no creepy tone in my voice,
though I'll have to admit fantasizing, a wasted effort it turned out.
"It's kind of intimate," the thirteen year old said with a
slight blush.
"Duh'uh," I wanted to intone, but remained silent, waiting
for my young weekend guest to continue. He did in a minute.
"They cuddle up in the easy chair, pretending they're
asleep, you know, while we're watching the theater. The game is to see if
I can tell when it happens between them. I remember what was being said
when I think he's, you know, letting it into her tummy, and he remembers
when it happens, and Janet tries to remember, too, so, just before we go to
bed we get together in the bathroom so see if we all remember the same
dialogue on television. Does that make sense?"
"It reminds me of the story my special forces friends told
about Vietnam, but they did it for money. They'd get a prostitute under a
table where six of them were playing cards. She'd use her mouth on one of
the six. The others tried to guess who the girl was with, but if they
guessed wrong they had to ante fifty dollars."
"They must call the game `Poke Her Face'," the boy said,
"and thanks for the money tip. It would be fun for Janet and I to bet
against each other."
"Don't you think she'd have an advantage?" I asked.
"She says she can only tell if she hasn't been with him for
like half a day, otherwise she can't always actually feel it."
"Have the three of you ever agreed?" I asked, the writer in
me always intrigued when the young display ingenuity.
"The first time was pretty obvious," Ryan replied, "but
only once after that during the swimming hole commercial that reminds us of
dad's farm."
"Is it just nostalgia?" I whispered.
"No," Ryan whispered back with a blush.
"You like looking at the boys?"
"Yes," he said. "Stephan does, too."
Again with the duh'uh, but I kept it to myself.
"Has anything ever happened between you and your brother?"
I quizzed.
"No," the thirteen year old said, "but I think we kind of
want it to when we get more experienced. Together with Janet, I don't know
about alone."
"Something for the Z-list," I commented, "and the most
unimportant thing that will, or will not, happen to you if you live to be a
hundred."
"That's the hard part to understand," my young friend
observed, "it seems so much at the time, and it just isn't. No more than
whether the ice cream is vanilla or chocolate."
"It's built on ancient biological models," I said, "so as
not to interfere with the hunt, yet insure the survival of the species."
"How'd they get that so right?" he then asked, "and screw
everything else up with strip malls?"
"Religion not only gives us permission to sin," I answered,
"it is founded on our doing so. If you build it, kingdom will come, and it
costs a mere ten percent of everything you earn or inherit to insure words
guaranteeing the outcome."
"What if you gave fifty percent?" Ryan wanted to know,
which is the reason he was sitting on my sofa, in the first place, fantasy
body and angelic face, notwithstanding.
"You've heard of The Mall of America?" I asked
rhetorically.
"So god pretends to forgive," the lad mused, "then says,
`A-ha, I bequeath you this in its multitude.'"
"We've danced with a few wrong partners," I acknowledged,
"and picked up a number of disorders, many of them dietary, but, on the
very bright side, even a boy your age has experienced more than an oil
sultan of my generation, so if it tumbles, hey, we lived through the best
and don't have to be jealous of those leaving us behind."
"Does mensa have an eight hundred?" the exceedingly
intelligent -- in all probability a genius, himself -- boy asked.
"You could get by with the mind of two ants and a frog," I
replied, "something not to worry about, similar to your future involvement
with your beautifully developing nine year old sister."
"I forgot to tell you," Ryan said, "she got two new bras
this week. It was when she got the second one that we had kind of a little
talk in the car, you know, when she told me it was just temporary, her
wanting to be alone with Stephan, even after having spent the weekend
here."
"One facet of graphic sharing," I said, "is a higher level
of general openness and honesty; muted, not throw it to the wind, and I'm
glad it worked out to your benefit."
"She even said it was okay to be creepy," the boy added,
"and spy on them and listen at her door. She said she'd do the same thing
if the shoe was on the other foot."
As a teacher I'd be quite taken with my pupil's apt
adaptation of the suggested and implied, but Janet held no status as a
pupil, so it was a moot point. Besides, we had other things to talk about.
"How do you feel about kissing, strip tease, and foreplay?"
I asked.
"I just like getting molested from behind the regular way,"
he replied. "A dry shower. It's the best for whispering in.
I've heard hallelujah whispered, several times by those who
spelled it correctly, but didn't even dare utter it as a sound. Hoping I
could soon think of something else, I stood and began unbuttoning my shirt,
nodding toward the door of the bathroom. Ryan smiled shyly and closed the
door behind him.
Stephen hadn't been over since Tuesday. Dumbest thing I
could think of, thinking of the flawlessly perfect, milk skinned boy
planning not to use up the landlord's hot water. Would he be naked, or
wearing underpants? If he was, would they be white cotton briefs, the
perennial favorite, or less? How did I want him? Shy and innocent in the
white, or a bit more brash in perhaps something red? How would he be
standing? The two extremes were, a, leaning back against the tile, hands
behind his neck, legs widely spread, back arched, hips thrusting, totally
naked, to, b, half cowering in the corner, briefs pulled up high,
pretending he was a little boy by cupping his hands in front of himself.
The lurid would have him openly jerking off,, the obscene, lingering over a
fallen bar of soap, the sublime standing quietly, facing the tile, arms
stretched high over his head, and the ridiculous, standing on his head. So
many choices, so much time, even with the ethereal Jose and problematic
Stephen I couldn't recall a weekend getting off to a finer start. It's a
theory of mine that the reason thousands permanently damage their bodies in
running marathons is so they can talk about cameling-up before the starting
gun, and, because trendyisms like this are so exclusively liberal, I felt
chagrinned at being a fellow traveler in the sense I was pre-ingesting
imagery and bunkering fantasies so that, should my eyes be closed while we
were together, I'd still have some kind of pictorial reference to see me
through. Much of this thinking was ridiculous, of course, and I moved
around lighting candles knowing even in a small city like Dubuque there
were probably hundreds of boys who's share a shower with a man over the
weekend, i.e., it was no hugely original and unprecedented deal that was
going down. How many boys in Wisconsin, for example, would hear the soft
click of the little plastic locking tab on the shower door? It was
appalling some would wait tense with loathing, the way I remember feeling
when forced to eat cold, half-cooked Brussels sprouts, or when a man
vomited macaroni and cheese into my mouth while I was giving him CPR.
"Wasn't it strange children could be so twisted," I clearly remember
thinking as I sat on the arm of the sofa letting a little time pass before
clicking the shower door myself. In a neutral environment all ages enjoy
sex together, you must be taught -- indoctrinated -- not only to not like
it, appropriate partners and circumstances assumed, but to hate it so that
a chance encounter can ruin one for life. That's the end-game of the
church, terrorism against so nearly nothing I could easily have gone to the
bathroom door, called, "Hey, Ry, I changed my mind, let's go out to the
arcade," and he would have been dressed and at my side before the door was
unlocked. I don't see it as farfetched to say I could have been going in
to help him build a model ship, because that would have been closer to my
feelings than any kind of lust or perversion. Quite naturally, my body
felt differently and I was actually harder and bigger than I got lying on
my left side next to Stephen while he skillfully masturbated me,
fantasizing over his teen climax from between childish legs as I
masturbated his slim, slick, four inch penis.
Moving on, I rose, crossed to the door and tapped on it,
then opened it a crack. "It's okay," Stephan whispered hoarsely from the
shower. I checked the mirror as I walked by, looking not quite athletic,
but pretty teen, and good, if I say so myself. The soft click of the
little plastic lock, I wondered how long it would be before a like shower
door signaled Ryan's entry to a waiting child. He was facing the wall,
arms at his side, head against the tiles, wearing on of my small, gray
towels around his waist. "Hi," he whispered softly and in obvious welcome.
"Sorry about the towel."
"It looks good," I said, "did you wear one the first time
this happened?"
"Yes," the boy said, nodding.
"Did he come up behind you quickly or slowly?" I queried.
"Slowly," the boy replied.
"Did he talk to you?"
"Yes," Ryan said.
"Did you like that part?" I went on with my examination (it
was hardly cross).
"Yes," the boy said, "he told me about what happened to him
the first time he got molested."
"Could you tell me who it was?" I asked.
"It was Marshall," Ryan said, "I met him because the Bears
have summer camp in Dyersville, and one of the players knew him. He, the
quarterback, was pretty frank about what might happen, but I said I wanted
to, anyway, because the riff about Harlem and Boston in "White America" is
the best music ever, so I was a big fan."
"And you don't think Shady's as smart as I am?" I asked,
standing a foot behind the slim beauty.
"He sort of barks where you sort of ripple," the cutie
replied, "you get deeper while he got, you know, not shallower, or
anything, but not deeper; it was like unweaving cloth instead of weaving
it."
"Was he gentle with you?" I queried.
"Very," the boy replied, "Haley was with us, it was her
first overnight with him, so everything was, you know, real slow and
careful."
"Were there any other males present?" I asked, or just the
two of you."
"Just us," he said.
"Do you think the bodyguards and those guys knew what was
going on?" I wondered.
"Haley did," Ryan said with a shy giggle, "she hoped it
made the columns so she'd have a chance to not deny anything. She thinks
they should be open about how they feel about each other so that other
girls who have things happen to them will know at least one girl in the
world loves being alone with her dad."
"Had she been alone with him before?" I asked.
"No, not that way," the boy replied, "that's why I was
there, so he wouldn't hurt her, because, you know, he's kind of extra."
I felt precisely and exactly like Jack Webb. "Son, I need
the details." Of course, I didn't say anything quite so crude, but,
rather: "It sounds like a long story, maybe we'd be more comfortable on the
sofa."
"That would be better," the boy agreed, but disagreed with
himself by raising his arms high against the shower wall. Since more than
I'd fantasized in my psychologically weakened state was being spread before
me, I couldn't resist a side bar into immediacy, and stepped close behind
Ryan, my hands going gently to his sleek, slim waist.
"I'm pretty comfortable here, too," the boy whispered. For
males, activity is better while standing because it tenses the thighs, so I
was happy to stay, myself, thinking, the while, that I needed more tension
like a moose needs a hat rack.
"Did Marshall come up between your legs?" I whispered.
"Yes," Ryan replied, rising, cool kid, high on his toes.
I eased closer, squatted slightly, and as Ryan felt me
against him he brought his legs tightly together, letting me force my way
between his silky legs. Perhaps The Force was helping out, elsewhere,
because it took over a minute of gentle thrusting before I was fully
against his bottom. By this time, I was openly molesting the child, both
hands all over his perfect young body from his long, slim neck to very low
on his belly. I found him after some minutes with my right hand, shocked
at how full and hard he was, slightly more so than his spectacularly
developed twelve-year-old brother, and probably for the same reason. Damn!
"From the beginning," I coaxed.
"I used to ride my bike over to the training camp and the
U. stadium," the boy began, "just to hang out and watch. Jeff, the second
quarter back, asked me to buy some stuff at one of the stores, so I became
an errand boy, plus I'm pretty okay with a digital camera, so I got some
good pictures; different than the pros. Anyway, one day he told me Eminem
was going to play a series of mid-west gigs, and Haley was going to be
joining them, and he, Marshall, had asked Jeff to find a boy for her to
date and stay over in their suite once in awhile. I thought it was made
up, like "Jimmy Cracked Corn," in "Vacation", but he had some pictures of
them together, and he wasn't a make-it-up kind of guy, in the first place.
I still thought it was made up, but Marshall had called my mom to invite
me, so, still thinking it was made up, I went into a trance and when I woke
up he was showing me his collection of digital pictures and I showed him
some of mine I'd brought on a disc. Then we found we both like flying RC
models, and he knew mom was okay for money so I wasn't going to ask him for
stuff, and, we just got along."
"Your brother said you played the violin," I noted.
"No music," Ryan said. "He encouraged me not to take it
seriously because of the hours and lifestyle. `It's only for the poor,' he
said, `to work that hard at something you don't like, and all music becomes
unlikable after awhile, is only to get ahead. If you have any other
options, even factory work or bus driving, take them. Where you probably
won't have to make money, see if you can compose. Then you can hang out
with your family, and not have to live like a zombie.' I was surprised, of
course, but thought it was great that he was so honest with me. Most
people in the same position say You can make it if you want it enough and
work hard enough, where he says Don't bother."
I told Ryan about my first job, writing copy for a larger
radio station. One of my duties was playing unsolicited records that
arrived at the rate of a shoebox full a week. "There was never anything
good on them," I pointed out, "never. There is an awful lot of music out
there, " I added, "so my guess is he's right on the money unless you have
an extraordinary combination of gift and drive, in which case no one can
tell you anything, nor hold you back with anything short of chains." (I
definitely, definitely, definitely know from experience in this
department.)
"He said I should be an accountant, if I want to work at
all," the boy said. Now a note here, a little something to chastise the
uninvolved reader. We have a major time-line problem in that Meatloaf was
the rage back in the early Nineties, while Marshall was kifing from his
mom's purse. There is a class of reader whose sole objective in beginning
a book is to seek out inconsistencies. Other writers neglect these
stalwarts, but I'm a dancing bear, out to please all and sundry. Actually,
serious readers love unedited mss as the winnowing and smoothing process
yields a different product, much like farm butter and farm eggs are very
different from those stocked by the supermarket. I intensely dislike raw
butter and raw eggs, so I make a stab at editing my own work, which is like
a doctor treating himself or a lawyer representing himself. In the end,
perfection would be generally smooth copy with occasional human touches,
i.e., what you're reading right about now. Enough back to the future
stuff.
"It's the entirety of things left out that's important,"
Marshall said to his young guest, "not just leaving out a little of this
and that to do such and such, but leaving it all out so you become sort of
an ape on a banana plantation, unswerving in your devotion."
"If I could leave out diagramming sentences, that would be
good," the boy responded.
"You've got me there," the musician replied, "because a
math guy like you still has to communicate, but it does work the other way;
if you aren't strong in math, you should leave it out, so you can be good
at something else, not music. And ," he continued, "that's where the
danger lies. If you maim yourself by leaving things out, you better be
sure of your alternatives because it's dead easy to find yourself more
useless every day."
"Is that the `no particular cause' from `White America'?"
Ryan asked.
"Probably more rage at the SATs and test teaching rather
than instilling general literacy," Marshall replied, "five hours homework
and ending up a cultural zot has to instill something in someone."
"But that amounts to an entirety of things, you know, like
life, left out, or the next thing to it."
"Exactly," the superstar said, "and we have cheap goods and
vaulting, or at least formerly vaulting, technology as a result, but we
also have extreme levels of overtly dangerous lifestyles, so we've missed
something along the way whether we get fifty million transistors into a
square inch, or not."
Ryan didn't know how to respond and was thrilled to find it
didn't matter. He felt comfortable with the handsome and wolfish young
male whether conversing or just sitting in the easy chairs of the Chicago
suite.
"I've been talking about this with you for a reason,"
Marshall said, breaking the pause. "About not leaving anything out. It's
the most genteel way I could think of to bring up the subject at hand, by
assuring you, indirectly at least, that we want you're here for the entire
weekend, so nothing ends up half. Only idiots deal in halves, especially
when it comes to a nine year old girl being with her father."
"I half to agree," Ryan murmured, so lesserly intimidated
by the star he felt he could get away with being a little cute.
"Well, I'm glad" the twenty-nine year old said, "because
we're going to be leaving out visitors and phone calls and the entire world
for the weekend. The kitchen's stocked and you'd better believe I can
cook, so no room service, and making the beds would be like shoveling snow
against the wind. No liquor, no outrageous pot, no television, no cards,
no pets, no barbecue. Whatever will we do?"
"If we leave out prayers they're sure to be answered," the
twelve year old (at the time) said.
"Cute," Marshall grinned. "And it brings up a touch of
irony because if we left Haley out, the prayers of millions would be
answered, leaving them out as no longer interested."
"So there's a difference between engaging an audience and
pleasing it," Ryan observed.
"Basically," Marshall said, "the masses are pleased by
lottery tickets, it's always been so. Since they're imbued by liberals
with a multitude of choices and outlets for fulfillment in this vein, they,
Mr. and Mrs. Average and all the little Averages, can be written off as
satisfied, or, if they aren't, disgruntled, recalcitrant, and not worth the
effort. All this shakes down to leaving a handful of people who actually
have some kind of life. They tend to be a challenge because of ingrained
doctrine and skewed breeding, so it's at least entertaining to try and
inspire this one and that one to turn over a new leaf. This brings up the
question of which leaf would that be. The guys with the plastic pocked
protectors have done for us as far at tech stuff goes, and we've gone from
innovation and invention to incremental enhancement, with nothing new out
there for the first time in two-odd centuries. New gods are a dime a dozen
-- aroma therapy and feng shuy, or whatever they call it, for example --
and the old ones are becoming so tattered and shopworn even the Archbishop
of Canterbury capitulated in public, acknowledging, in the most gracious
way possible, the irrelevance of old doctrine and ritual to a new world.
So, religion finally filed under Superstition, that leaves politics, where
the files are in lock-step for more socialism more sooner. That, in turn,
leaves art suddenly bearing the entirety of what used to be a tangential
burden, in other words, all the straws. The fact things are getting pretty
thin in this discipline is illustrated by "The New York Review of Books"
trotting out Marsden Hartley, as if the pen labors of Levine weren't ugly
enough even for the New York schmo.
"That's a lot of trouble," the writer went on, "and where
do we find any hope -- anything to live for beyond food? South Beach
stands in for sex, and there can't be good prospects for a culture so
show-and-tell oriented that over fifty thousand families spent half a
million dollars or more, each, on frippery for their daughters' weddings."
"Most of the girls eat so much any investment that gets
them out of the house is money well spent," Ryan said.
"It isn't that you're cute," Marshall said, "that's what
Jeff said when he was scouting for a boyfriend for Haley, it's that you're,
first, very nice, and, second, he was impressed by the fact you are not
only bright, but a engaged. Since we were just speaking of money, you
might be interested to know he's receiving a million-dollar bonus for
digging you out of the woodwork."
The ravishing boy smiled shyly, recalling the line
introducing "Shady's Back": "You really wouldn't want to be anywhere else
in the world right now." "Right now, or ever," he soliloquized in
response.
Marshall returned to the subject at hand, one Ryan had
assumed all along was going somewhere.
"It all leaves one niche for the artist," he said,
"everything else having been said and done, sometimes, more than once, and
that has to do with the family. The way it is now, eighty percent of dads
leave their daughters alone, and the girls fatten up, as you so adroitly
noted just now, and head for the mall. I'm not saying there's a better
way, food is awesome stuff, and the chemists have tinkered it beyond that,
just that there might be another way for some families. That's my new
career goal. My daughter and myself. And she could be my sister, niece,
step daughter, half daughter, adopted daughter, ward, or god daughter, or,
to carry it too far, so you'll know where I'm coming from, my son. The
idea is we throw everything away, as I've been saying, except the books and
each other. Life becomes free of rules, the lot of them being left out as
clothes are left off. Once we've reached that state, well, it's so
uncomfortable to go completely naked only the aboriginals of Terra Del
Fuego are categorized as going completely undressed all the time, so, yes,
we return to the primal state, the three of us, then we build a little
something for comfort. I don't know if Haley's old enough to need a bra, I
haven't seen her for three months, so that might or might not be an issue,
but my theory is that all of us would want to advance at least to the state
of wearing the modern equivalent of loin cloths, which, by the way, are
briefs, not thongs, for he boys."
Ryan nodded, glad, for the moment, he felt so comfortable
with his new friend he felt no obligation to respond.
"I may have a prejudice against a father with his son," the
older male went on, "because it seems to me it would be likely to interfere
with disciplinary issues, but not against boys. You, in particular, have
reminded me how smart I am to feel this way, as an aside. So, we begin to
come to the crux of the matter, the three of us being mutually entombed on
the fortieth floor for a minimum of seventy-two hours, you know, so we're
sure nothing is left out.
"It's no longer that things come out perfect, it's that you
add a new dimension. It used to be that society added them, steam,
electricity, and jets, but that's over, and guess who's left holding the
bag if we aren't to tread water in circles, oxymoronic as jumbo shrimp, for
the next one thousand years, a joke, because we're getting too fat to last
fifty.
"Even if it doesn't work, it will be going out in style,"
Ryan said, beginning to grasp specters beyond nirvana.
"The double-hard part is that the status quo is so utterly
and irredeemably wrong," the vocalist said "You can't be a little critical
and allow as to how a tinker here and an adjustment there might tune the
old jalopy up and get her over the mountain. All mainstream philosophies
are practically soup to nuts religion, which, everywhere and always, has
never amounted to more than thin soup for superstitious nuts. The whole
thing is copy and paste, some fanatic about scroll spelling, others in
selecting the most comely maiden for the volcano, but all unchanging within
the sect, generation after generation. Breaking the mold, admittedly a
risky business, can only succeed if a small number of artists grab the
bridle and say, `Giddyap, big fella, let's bushwhack this path, it's
overgrown with taboo and the nettles of neglect, but is finely graded and
well ballasted, for all of that, and we should try it on the slightest
chance it leads from the ravine.' And yes, that's a lot of words for a
horse, or for half of today's teens, but there's an old adage of liberal
philosophy that argues, `what price a human life?' so it can be adapted to
ask What price a free family?"
"And eclectic originality isn't an issue?" the likely
twelve year old asked.
"Definitely," Marshall Mathers replied, "but the answer is
chemistry over impact. Not in trying to shatter the square-jawed model of
self esteem, but to erode him, dilute his overblown soul, so, while his
druthers remain his druthers, he at least is less of a role model, and
leaves alternative avenues unpoliced, preferably by default, much as the
dinosaurs leave our fields of corn by simply not showing up."
"Well," the cute younger boy mused, "at least I was right
about the originality."
"Easy for you to say," the older male responded, "but think
twice before you get out the hammer and chisel. You're here, sure, because
you're cute and neat, but also as a buffer against just that, excessive
originality. You are the half legitimate partner for a nine-year-old girl,
you are also a legitimate partner, more or less, for a guy my age. Your
link between my daughter and me can be construed to by various media
entities in ways giving it different spins, with plenty of peek-a-boos in
anticipation of drawing wide the curtains. Just a little coyness when they
ask you how much time we spend together - wouldn't you like to know -- is
all it will take to bring the subject to the sideboard, then it's but a
short trip for the tureen, onto the table, with appetites whetted by, a,
waiting these few thousand years for the dish, and, b, the tantalizing
scents giving off by the steaming broth."
"You're going to have to really soup up the lyrics to
message the morons," Ryan noted: "may I suggest a play?"
"Christ," said Marshall, "I'm going to end up married to
you. How's about we forge up some paperwork, first thing Monday?"
"How's about we forge a script," the boy rejoined,
"assuming those things left out don't include a computer or at least a
pencil and pad."
"I told Haley she could bring her laptop so we can play
Pajama Sam games," the hero to millions explained.
"Then Scene One of Act One is two guys waiting nervously in
a suite," Ryan said, "let's try to commit it to memory."
"No," Marshall corrected, "that begins Act Two. In Act One
it is established the girl won't arrive for a period of time, leaving the
nervous guys to talk things out on their own."
"Don't plays have Acting?" the boy asked.
"They sometimes have wedding bells and everything hanging
happily together in the last scene," Marshall acknowledged, "and I suppose
that does depend somewhat on how the characters act."
"Maybe a motion picture would be better," Ryan said, "then,
you know, a director calls out: Action, and everyone gets up and starts
doing stuff."
"Yet love can invoke stupor," the millionaire mused,
"leaving the knees weak and the loins flaccid."
"Then write it for kids and make it a bedtime story," the
bright boy suggested.
"That's a little like saying, `Sarge, a guy could take out
that nest if he circled in from the northeast and chucked a few grenades,'"
the older male noted.
"It would beat writing term papers on dolphins," the
student allowed.
"Call it: `The Tree, Our Forest Friend," Marshal suggested,
"just make it so compelling all the other trees gather around."
"It works," the precocious boy nodded, "you and Haley have
a special tree, right? It gives you a reason to disappear every once in
awhile, you know, hiking and camping. At first you seek privacy and
shelter, so you huddle by the trunk, then you think to yourselves, wouldn't
it be breezier and freer of bugs if we were up a way? Next thing you know,
as the story goes on, you're slicing and dicing the branch and twig set, no
longer huddled in the shadow but ever nearer and nearer the sun, chirping
birds, and blue sky. Then you rain on the audience with an eagle metaphor,
going about your business so quietly and carefully the big, dumb raptor
accepts you as part of the scenery and doesn't come down and peck Haley's
eyes out while she's flat on her back."
"You know something?" Marshall said, "I've been around
people who steamed talent and smoked genius, for years, and, compared to
you, they were those little toy engines that run on an impregnated fuel
pellet. I thought I might try this, Haley and me, as a public service for
all the kids caught in complex situations -- provide some signage of others
having tried this way -- but I never thought of it as a new career,
anything for personal benefit, then you come along and casually outline the
greatest play in god knows how many decades, five, six, seven, and suddenly
it's me, me, me -- the star, the poet of household liberty, the sage of the
stage, and you're twelve."
"Well," Ryan responded, "I'm on a quest for the world's
smartest man so I have to be as smart as I can to attract attention."
"What are you going to do when you find him?" the superstar
asked.
"Tell him all about you," the boy replied.
"Do you think he'll be smarter than you?" was the next
question.
"That's the whole purpose," Ryan said, "to find out."
As we know, this particular quest is filled in the child's
thirteenth year while the boy's play was still in pre-production. Since
the scene, a luxurious hotel suite, is familiar to us, we can cut to the
face of Ryan as Marshall stands in front of the slightly reddish-haired boy
beauty and extends his hands.
RYAN (Standing.)
I feel like I'm leaving my skin behind.
MARSHALL
It's the body's largest organ. Let's
go in and pretend we're taking a
shower together, with, you know,
more modest aspirations in the
leaving-behind department.
Both exit Stage Left. Darkness with voices.
RYAN
Can we leave them off for a few
Minutes?
MARSHALL
Sure.
RYAN
Thanks, it fits this incredible
dream I was having.
MARSHALL
I know the one. Where you're
sent into the coal mine to see
if the workers are taking good
care of your little sister. I
have the same one about Haley.
RYAN
It was geologist spelunkers
scoping out a cavern. That's
the kind of money I come from.
MARSHALL
New territory to me, dude, do
you think I should raise Haley
rich?
RYAN
Buy her a cave, there must be
some on e-bay, then salt it
with relics. That way it would
be subtle and endearing.
MARSHALL
And where should I touch her,
first?
RYAN
A little higher, She's a girl.
MARSHALL (turning on the lights)
So much for caves.
The young man turns the child to face him, his adult
fingers going to the buttons on the boy's shirt. RYAN bids his male
partner welcome by arching and linking his fingers behind his neck as he
leans against a tile wall of the luxurious facility.
MARSHALL
Has this happened before? You
know, sleepovers, uncles, preachers,
coaches, anything like that?
RYAN
Only in my dreams.
MARSHALL
Do they involve a shower?
RYAN (blushing, shy)
I just can't help it. I hear the
click of the little plastic locking thing,
and it's hot and wet, but no matter
how much I stamp my feet, there's no
splashing.
MARSHALL
That's an easy one, shower with an
elephant.
RYAN (looking at MARSHALL'S waist)
Easy for you to say.
MARSHALL
You think I'm speaking rhetorically?
RYAN
I think it would be metaphorically, but
Either way, great idea.
MARSHALL (as both now strip quickly to
their underwear)
Who masters you in your dreams,
Anyone particular?
RYAN
My mom just sold six thousand
books to a guy opening a new store
across the river. He's old New
England, dead cute, and seems to
think life is worth more than one
joke.
MARSHALL
Across the river would be Iowa,
if my geography's correct. If he
can find more than one about a
place so pretty you don't need
funny, he sounds like a keeper.
RYAN
I've only seen him, in passing,
four times. It's just a
fantasy that pops into my
head while I'm sleeping.
though, come to think of it,
I've never dreamed of my
brother's friend, and he's a
six-four Arab with no extra
pounds and black eyes.
MARSHALL
I'll try not to be jealous. Some
guys think it's awesome to be
a rocker, but what it amounts
to is holding a dozen girls you
want to hold forever, then letting
them go for another male to
hold, no restrictions, for life
RYAN
Hire mom's friend, Tom, to teach
Haley on the road. Easy as
showering with an elephant.
MARSHALL
And I thought the play was the
thing.
So did I, but it's becoming too much of a good thing,
however generously I've been treated. The real Ryan and Marshall, not RYAN
and MARSHALL, now stood, hands gently on each other's waists, staring into
each other eyes. "Kissing?" the older male whispers softly to the boy in
his white underpants.
"No," the pre-teen replied in a like voice, tilting his
beautiful face to indicate No to experience, not his feelings. The lips of
the harsh, hard-eyed stage demon and the silken twinkie met in a syrupy
puddle of ambrosia, and it must have been a special, oxygenated recipe for
neither displayed symptoms of drowning, minutes though they remained
submerged, other than a hard, steady panting.
"It can happen either of two ways," Marshall whispered
after a quarter hour. "Do you want me to tell you about them, or do you
already know?"
"I think I know one of them," the child beauty replied,
"but I'm not sure which one."
"You could try the one you know," the older male suggested,
"and I could tell you if it's right or wrong."
This was getting them nowhere. Another time, another
circumstance, they might have lingered long over their byplay, but time was
something they were running out of.
"Let's try it the first way I did it with a man," Shady
suggested, "because Haley'll be here before long and I don't want us so
excited we get the least bit suggestive, impatient, or demanding."
"And it will last longer if it turns out she's that way,"
the younger male said, "as I would be if I were a girl and you were my
dad."
"Her last letters have been on the candid side," Marshall
admitted, "that's how I know she's started wearing a bra, so you get
everything behind curtain number three."
"I always wanted my own Brownie troop," Ryan said, "you're
a peach."
"Just one, dude," the elder cautioned, "it's too hard
letting them go, and, if you don't catch them in the first place, it's not
an issue."
"No music, no fourth-grade harem -- is it possible to leave
out too much?"
The question remained in the air. By accord, the males
knelt in front of each other, Marshall slowing removing the twelve year
old's underpants then leaning, shaking, against the wall as the young
beauty's hands fondled him curiously, then stripped in hesitantly. "This
is the way," he whispered, wrapping the slender torso of the pre-teen
gently in his left arm, then finding the child's frank-sized, circumcised
penis with his right hand. He fondled his juvenile partner's swollen
glans, wetting the boy, then began to stroke him gently as Ryan shook and
heaved in the athletic young adult's muscular embrace.
"He didn't take me all the way the first time he did this
with me," Marshall whispered, "because he wanted me to watch it happen with
him while I was still super excited.
"How do you feel about that?"
"Yes," Ryan was able to whisper.
"And the other choice," the singer went explained, "is for
me to be in your mouth, but Jay and I waited until about our tenth time to
go that far together, so no pressure."
"I like talking to you," Ryan responded, far too excited to
be ironic.
"Tell me what you think it's going to be like," his liver
encouraged, "standing at the foot of the bed, with me lying on my back, my
daughter naked in my arsms, her legs widely spread with my hands helping
hold her nine-year-old legs apart, then kneeling on the bed and looking
over her left shoulder into my eyes as you approach. Her hands will guide
you. Yours will be on my athletic shoulders, watch your grip, because
we'll both be sweating. After she's guided you, her hands will settle low
on your flanks, partly in fear, then in encouragement and welcome. Think
of my penis along side yours as you begin to mount her virgin body, how the
motion of your childish bodies against me will effect me, and how it will
look if you rise on your arms and gaze down over our three bodies and I
start cumming off all over you and my little girl."
"Show me the other way it happened with Jay," Ryan
whispered.
"Okay," Marshall responded, gently guiding the boy from a
legs-spread position in front of him to his, Marshall's, right hip.
Instinctively, the child's left arm went around the sweating, panting
athlete, his right hand also obeying feral command. "If you want me to cum
on you, step in front of me, or pull me against you when I tell you it's
going to happen," the star suggested.
"I do," the boy said.
"The advanced thing at this stage would be for me to lick
my semen off you, then kiss you the way we were kissing before. My tongue
will be very salty, if you want to try."
"I hope it's not too advanced," the boy responded, "because
I'm like totally, awesomely ready for it to happen now."
"Are you picturing us, positions reversed?" the older male
panted, "Haley on her back in your arms, with me over her, supported on my
arms, looking down into your beautiful gray-blue eyes as I go all tense and
rigid over the body of my nine year old child?"
"Yes," Ryan whispered, staring up at the infectiously cute
entertainer.
"Do you want to know what you'll see if you look away from
my eyes and down between our bodies?" Marshall asked.
"Yes," the boy repeated.
"Then look down," the older male panted with his last
coherent breath, "I'm cumming."
The adult was so huge, hot, and hard, there could be no
other outcome, he was gasping and trembling as if testing chairs for
Florida, sweating as if the testing was conducted in the July sun. Ryan
moved in front of the tall stallion, now using his left hand low on the
adult, finding, gripping, and almost immediately feeling a hard, jerking
pulse. A fraction later, the first of the young father's sperm gouted in a
ling, slick streak, a white path from the young boy's belly button to over
his left nipple.
Still attuned to instinct, Ryan ceased pumping the seven
inch erection of his partner, instead sliding his right hand low and
gripping hard. This caused Marshall to buck and cry out, and spray hard
and fast, again and again, all over the bare chest and thighs of his
twelve-year-old lover..
Shady, staggering against the wall of the carpeted
bathroom, dropped to his knees, pulling Ryan to him, then pivoting the
child to brace him in his turn. His mouth found the boy in a moment. Ryan
arched and laced his fingers behind his neck, giving himself entirely to
his first orgasm and, in minutes, spraying his hot pre-teen seed as
copiously as, at thirteen, he was cumming off in my hand, a year later.
"Janet wants to come by herself next weekend," the boy said
as we returned to the shop to find books for the evening.
"Good," I said.
THE END
About the author.
Thomas Cochran Emerson is entering his third year as a Web contributor.
Under the pen name Feather Touch he published "Jimmy and Frogger", "The
Flyyy", "Dennis the...", "Ropeyarn", "Creative Camp", "Blissy's Song",
"Michelle's First Secret" and "Michelle's Second Secret". As R. Forbes
Emerson, he has published "Hollywood Stories", "Santa Fe Stories",
"Stonington (Me.) Stories", "The Tarzan Mushroom Hunters", and, most
recently, four hundred thousand words of "One Fish at a Time", a work in
progress. All his files can be found in the "Nifty.org" Archive. Most are
listed under Bisexual, Adults/Young Friends. Others may be found under
Bisexual Camping and one or two may be filed under the heading sf/fantasy.
"Boxers or Briefs?" is listed under Gay Incest, and his latest, "Rebecca",
under Bi Incest. "Fullerton Park & Ride", bi/incest. Latest addition adds
yet another pen name in Pen Dragon: "Mississippi Stories -- Stephan, again,
under bi/incest. In total Mr. Emerson's contributions run to some 1.1
million words. The author lives in Belize, "slightly addicted to the
Caribbean." While his stories never cheat in upholding the alternative
tradition, readers sallying forth with optimistic outlooks would be well
advised to always download alternative material. It can be many miles of
rough road between this boy losing his underpants and that girl letting big
brother experiment under her training bra. Yes, you have been warned.
Emerson was born in his ancestral home of Concord, Massachusetts, in 1946,
"The Year of the Porsche," in his words. An absolute devotee of the craft
of leading English astray, thus providing gainful employment to those who
would lead it back, he admits to being a hot-house artist with the modern
word processor his soil, water, air, light, and enabling nutrient. "Hell,
all I need then is a seed," he says.
Directly descended from the leading activist of the Revolutionary War, and
scion of a family that includes the most quoted man in history, his poet
and philosopher great great grandfather; the CEO of AT&T during the heyday
of Bell Labs and Western Electric, and other luminaries ranging from two
governors (Winthrop and Bradford) of the Plymouth Colony to the founder of
American Standard, he views his (native) countrymen as his subjects, and
writes of and to them accordingly. His hobbies are limited to photography
and trying to explain Samantha, his fifteen-year-old girlfriend, to an
unamused father. Since flattery got him everywhere, he likes the
occasional reader letter.
Quote: "Was the phrase `adult entertainment' coined just for me?"
Posted by Thomas@btl.net.
xxx