Date: Fri, 11 Apr 2003 11:14:59 -0600
From: thomas <Thomas@btl.net>
Subject: MISSISSIPPI STORY - STEPHAN

MISSISSIPPI STORY -- STEPHAN (M/f, M/b, inc., rom., lit., humor.)

By Pen Dragon


            I needed used books for my store and that's how I met Karen.
She was a little scatterbrained to attract me in any serious way, plus
older, but we did business and palled around over this spaghetti dinner and
that motion picture.  I was, by the time a year had passed, heavily
involved with Stephen, whose story appears in other writing, so took little
note of Ryan and Stephen, thirteen and twelve, or Janet, trailing along at
nine.  Nice kids; heavy on the cyber world, and drop dead cute, times two.

            Things went along status quo for two years, then changed
suddenly.  Yes, Karen and I had talked about sex in the abstract; Mel
Gibson's "Man Without a Face" had just come out, and she quizzed me a
little about my relationship with the then twelve year old Stephen,
politely assuming we were active with each other without making a point of
it.  Some time later, months, we were walking along Main Street (in Dubuque
where I lived three years to set Middle America as a writer) and she
suddenly said: "Stephen and Janet are going at it."

            "What?" I responded, "are they into pinching?"  I knew kids
once who were.
            She didn't respond, which was more response than I could handle
without prelude, so we continued walking until we reached the restaurant.
She didn't return directly to the subject of her younger son and daughter,
and I didn't know what to say, so we talked about Jerry Brown for whom she
worked while living in California.  As we finished desert she asked if it
would be all right if Ryan -- who was off at the mall (you think a mall's
bad?  Try one named for JFK) -- spent the night.

            "I don't know exactly how to tell you to give him a thumbs up,"
she said, "but if you can somehow indicate that there relationship is fine
with me, as long as they keep it as private as possible, I'd be grateful."

            The subject of Ryan or Stephan staying over to play Sierra
games had come up a time or two over the past year, but had never gelled.
Now the clutch was being popped with the engine wound up good and tight.
            "My brother and sister were active with each other for years,"
I said, trying to participate in the conversation as best I could, "and she
likes him ten times better than me, so I guess that's evidence of
something."
            "I started young, too," Karen said, "but with an adult.
Stephan's just an appetizer; if things go well between you, I'd like Janet
to spend the weekend with you.  They both talk about you, both beg me to
bring them over any time we get, and I think, especially in my daughter's
case, there's more to it than your seventeen-inch monitor."

            That was nice to know.  "Sure," I said, "I guess so.  You've
been at my place (in back of my tiny store) enough to know there aren't any
whips and chains."
            "I doubt he'd use them even if you did have them," she replied,
apparently lightening up now that I was going to take her kids in tow.
            I had a question.  "How much did you see?" I asked, "and do you
want me to twig him to the fact you know, that you actually saw them, or
proceed at a more abstract level?"
            "I don't know," Karen said.  If she didn't, it would be nice
for me to, so I quizzed her a little more specifically -- by this time we'd
found seats on the walkway and were able to talk in private.
            "How did you happen to come across them?" I asked.  "Was it an
accident accident, a Freudian accident, or a deliberate act?"  We didn't
have hours for our dialogue to grow meaningful, as the kids were due to be
picked up within the hour.

            "Deliberate," Karen responded honestly.  "I ran the car into
the woods and hid under a bush outside her window.  I'd even put repellent
on, so the intent was obvious."
            "And you saw them actually mate?" I queried, "or just fooling
around?"
            "I heard the fooling around," she replied, "then she whispered:
`I don't want it on my tummy this time, I've outgrown that, okay, Stephan?'
He asked if she was really sure, and they talked about her getting
pregnant, more for entertainment, I think, than addressing a real risk."
            "So they were comfortable with each other," I noted,
"especially she with him."
            "Completely," Karen affirmed.  I've read so many detective
books I've adapted some bad habits, and I continued with my quizzing.
            "What led you to spy on them, in the first place?" I asked.
            "What I just said," Karen replied, "they suddenly, in the last
week or ten days, seem more comfortable with each other around the house.
They were always pretty nice, as kids go, but recently there's been an
added warmth, Ryan included, an mostly on her part, as if she's come into
herself.  I remembered how I felt in the days after my uncle Phil swept
every trace of confusion away over a three-day weekend," she added.  "It
settled me like ten tons of ballast."

            "At what point did you look in through the window?" I asked,
feeling a little absurd by virtue of becoming aroused with what was shaping
up to be a long night ahead.

            "They were still in the experimental stage," Karen said, with a
quick look around for wagging ears, "and, believe it or not, playing a
game.  Do you want the graphic account or an outline?"
            "I'm a writer on the one hand," I said, "and we have to pick
them up, on the other."  In other words, I left the choice to her.
            "A child waiting at an arcade adjacent to a food court can
endure considerable parental neglect," she said, and began her whispered
story.

            Stephan was so cute it more than half hurt to look at
him.  Where thirteen-year-old Ryan had light orange hair, his was classic
brown, eyes matching.  He was so absolutely perfect in every tone, texture,
and proportion it redefined the word, also graced with a friendly, curious,
interested personality, the diametric opposite of Stephen (it's Stephen
and Stephan), for whom rude, crude, and attitude needed
revising.  Janet looked exactly like the girl whose mother comes running up
to the school honking an air horn, a little bit chubby and ordinary without
being plain.  They'd arrived home half an hour earlier, and, seeing their
mother's car gone, had whispered as they deposited their backpacks in the
study.

            "Do you want to get together after we change?" the twelve year
old asked.
            "You're sure Ryan's staying for computer school?" the girl
wanted to know.
            "I saw him go in," Stephan said, "and even if he got a sudden
headache or something, we'd hear him come through the door in plenty of
time." (Big house.)
            "Okay," the girl said after a short pause.  "I want to so much,
I'm afraid we will when we shouldn't."
            "I guess lots of kids face that kind of thing," the boy said,
"and if they're cool, it probably works out."
            "I'll just stay in my room," Janet said, giving the quiet boy a
soft, welcoming look, and disappearing as her brother followed, slowly,
trembling, and yawning.  The first time had been so wracked with confusion
he hardly remembered anything that had happened.  It had been only
accidentally successful for him, and hardly that for Janet.  Second time,
three days earlier, had turned out much the same.  They'd learned they were
both eager to continue, so they tended to dismiss their mistakes and false
starts as there'd be plenty of occasions to turn them from curious bumbling
to a hard, steady, and enduring affair.  "It will be making love," was her
comment.  Even knowing, instinctively, they were right for each other
didn't help much now, and a preliminary debate raged in the boy's mind as
he reviewed the happy fact that, a, he'd never been naked with the younger
female, and, b, that what rearranging of clothing that had occurred during
their tentative play had been accomplished, together, and out in the woods,
at that, with campfire and Indian motifs quite foreign to the soft wool
carpeting of the silent house.  Finally the debate settled on a single
issue, whether or not to wear his underpants when he walked down the hall.

            The child's door was a quarter open and Stephan tapped gently.
            "Are you really scared?" came the girl's wavering voice through
the opening.
            "Yes," the twelve year old said.
            "Good," she whispered back, "because someone who was brave
wouldn't understand how I feel."
            "Do you want me to come in?" the boy asked.
            "But not in a rush," the girl said, "I want to ask you some
stuff, first, okay?"
            "I guess," the boy said.
            "Are you naked yet?" was her first question.
            "Yes," he said, "but I'm wearing my cross."
            "Oh," the nine year old said, "that's cool.  Do you want to
know what I'm wearing?"
            "Yes," Stephan answered.
            "White knee socks with my saddle shoes," she said, "only.  I
don't know why I thought it was right, I just did."
            "Where are you?" the boy asked.
            "Lying on my back on the bed," she whispered, "with a pillow
under me."

            Both were mature enough to devote several long moments to
silence, though not so grownup as to be able to keep shocking fantasy
images from flicking behind their glazed eyes.

            "Do you want to count or something?" Janet asked.
            "If you even say one two in backwards order I think it will
happen on your door," the brother replied.
            "Okay," the schoolgirl said, "I'll stop rubbing my legs where I
want you to touch me and just lie here in the middle of the bed with my
hands stretched as far as I can reach above my head, only I'm lying down,
so it's not really `above'."
            "Are your legs together or apart?" the boy wanted to know, the
miracle of his survival tempting him, as young males will be tempted, to
explore the edge of the edge.
            "Way apart," the girl said, "is that too much?"
            "And your bottom is on a pillow?" he furthered his luck.
            "I don't have one under my head," the girl decided to respond,
rather than risking uttering a number to the quavering voice eight feet
away.
            "Can I just stand at the foot of the bed for awhile?" the voice
said.
            "Yes," came the hoarse whisper in reply.

            Stephan swung wide the door and shuffled his bare feet slowly,
alarmed at how even the slight sway of his movements raced and ricocheted
around his young thighs resonating and focusing, it seemed with fiendish
deliberation, on his huge erection.  How would she react?  It had been so
fast, furtive, and uncomfortable out in the woods, he'd never reached half
what he was now before he'd spilled hotly all over her soft, cream-white
belly and thighs.
            "Stephan," she whispered softly, her gentle voice belying the
fire in her eyes as she stared at his fully adult penis, circumcised and
exceeding six inches, with just a juvenile hint of slimness.  He wasn't a
coltish boy, rather, perfectly proportioned, so his size doubled by virtue
of the fact it probed at a forty-five-degree angle from a slim, girlish
build, almost like something added by a twisted (but inspired) sculptor
with a dirty mind.

            However inept their first experiments, the young couple had
found a high level of psychic value in their commitment, so they were able
to stand staring at each other, the girl's arms high, the boy's at his
side, for minute after minute, soaking and marinating themselves in the
fear of what was to come.
            "Your nipples look bigger," the boy said softly.  "They're
pretty when you stretch back like that."
            "You're bigger, too," Janet said, "much."
            "There's kinda a reason for it, I think," the classic twinkie
said.
            "Is it secret?" Janet asked.
            "I guess," he replied, "but I could tell you.  In fact, I think
I want to so we don't have any secrets from each other."
            "Do you want to experiment more with making out?" Janet asked.
She'd pulled her knees against her chest as her beautiful brother entered,
spreading yet wider for him when she saw the adult hugeness spiking
obscenely from high between his legs, but, whispering with him, her craving
changed from a base, carnal need of completion to a fiery desire to hold
and play with him, tantalized to the marrow with how it must end, this
time, even if it took an hour.
            "Yes," Stephan replied, "do you want me to lie beside you?"
            "Here," the girl said, patting the bed at her right and
stretching her legs to a more comfortable position.  She remained on her
back in giddy response to Stephan's hot eyes on her swollen, pink nipples
as the boy shyly lay beside her, also on his back, emulating her by lacing
his fingers behind his neck.  For long minutes they stared at each other's
perfection, lusting at their obvious -- him and her -- perfection as a
couple.

            "I wanted to kiss you in the woods," Janet said.
            "I messed up," the boy replied, "I should have been teaching
you, because Nelson Atwater told me everything about his sister Maggie and
himself, so I knew better than to get all steamy and lose control before
you were ready."
            "You've improved very dramatically in that department," Janet
responded.  "I'm so ready I don't even want it to happen for awhile because
it feels so good just waiting."

            "Nelson and Maggie play a game," Stephan said, twins with his
sister when it came to a waiting game that had them flat on their backs,
half an inch from touching, completely naked, "they put pieces of paper
with dates and times written on them, in a hat, then draw one out.  That
will be their next time together.  It gives them a lot to think about and
he says that really adds to the excitement."
            "I hope we can wait a few weeks or maybe a month before we try
it," the girl said.
            "Yeah," he answered, "he said it wouldn't have worked at the
beginning."
            "We could try minutes instead of days and hours," Janet noted,
giggling.
            "Don't do that," Stephan whispered urgently, "you might touch
me, then it would be like the woods."
            "Sorry," the girl whispered in response, "I love it when you
spray on me, but I can't pretend you're getting me pregnant and I want to,
this time."

            "I want to, too," the boy whispered.  "I want to be holding you
in my arms, with your arms around me, and I want you to be able to feel the
baby passing from me to you.  Nelson says when they're really careful and
do it perfectly, Maggie orgasms for a whole minute before she can even
start breathing again."
            "If it's that strong for kids," the girl observed, "think how
it will be in a couple of years when it could actually happen."
            "I would think for a girl it would be pretty out of this
world," the boy said, "with her dad or her brothers, then she'd have a
daughter and sister or daughter and niece, and only have to change one
diaper."
            "Think if it was twins," the girl added, giggling happily.  "A
whole family from one spray."
            "Did you like watching me?" Stephan asked, his voice a husky,
pre-teen rasp.
            "Yes," Janet said.  "I wanted to lie there for an hour and look
at my wet tummy and fantasize."
            "We could try it here in your bed sometime," he responded, "but
I don't think there will ever be that much again."
            "Why was there so much?" she asked.  "I mean, it was my first
time to see anything, and Tracy Albright has some videos, but I haven't
been able to get over to her house to watch them, so I don't know
everything, but when it happened on me it was more like some big tiger than
a cute twelve-year-old boy."
            "It could be natural," Stephan replied with a blush, "or it
could be something that's happening when I'm not home."

            "Could you be inside me and tell me?" Janet asked.
            "Nelson says Maggie and he talk a lot to make it last longer,"
the boy noted, "so we could try."
            "And," the girl said, "it would be the right place for an
accident, you know, if one did happen."
            "Do you want to lie for me the way you were when I came in?"
the boy whispered, "it was totally beautiful."
            "Yes, darling," the nine year old whispered.  "And I took care
of myself with a magic marker, so don't worry about hurting me."
            "Do you want to use your hand to bring us together, or should I
do it?" the young gentleman queried.
            "I want to," the girl panted, "if you promise your penis isn't
hot enough to burn my hand."
            "I'm kinda on fire all over," the boy said, "so why don't we
try kissing.  If you can stand that, there's a chance for us."

            At this point in Karen's story, I should note, I was feeling
extremely flattered that she'd chosen to share the private lives of two
vivid children, my favorite kind.  We checked our watches and gave
ourselves another ten minutes.

            Stephan rolled on his stomach as the female child remained on
her back, arms still raised, hands behind her neck, so the boy could enjoy
her pre-nubile body, she hoped, half as much as she was thrilled by his
wild combination of delicacy and utter maleness.  The twelve year old boy
rose to his hands and knees, positioning himself at the child's right flank
so he could stare at her from a new angle, then chastely lowered his mouth
to hers for their first kiss.  They touched and froze, lingering over the
shock of their first sensual touch.

            "This is a good kind because we can still talk," the girl
whispered against the boy's cute mouth.

            "Let me try," he responded, and, indeed, the sensation, if more
delicate, seemed equal to the hot stuff they saw on television.
            "Get comfortable," the girl said, "take the pillows from under
my bottom and put them under your chest.  Then we can really talk and you
can tell me your secret."
            "I was thinking along the same lines, myself," Stephen replied,
wishing he were more erudite so as to dray out every fluttering
conversation with his technically plain but inwardly lovely kid sis.

            And that's where Karen left it.  Was she being perverse, or,
nurturing a grudge (over what?), taunting and cruel?  No.  She just thought
it would be trick if Stephan told me the secret, himself, so we were off to
the Kennedy Mall.
            My Subaru had a hill-holder feature on the brakes.  Give the
pedal an extra push, and the brakes locked until you engaged the clutch.  I
mention it because I needed it, my legs were shaking so much.  Since the
buggy was a stick shift, it didn't have cruise control, though how I would
come to need it, and immediately.  "I think they should both stay with
you," Karen said.  "And for the whole weekend.  It's halves that cause
trouble; the unrequited.  It was thirty or forty hours before I could leave
my hands off my uncle, and he felt the same way, but afterwards, because it
had been so full, there was no lingering question, no uncertainty or
confusion, just an amiable, confident relationship, and we were often
together in private without even thinking about it, and that meant when it
didn't happen, is was of itself and not some neurotic response to
unfinished business or unfulfilled lust."

            If the light had turned green at that moment, there would have
been honking half way down the long hill.  A quarter minute's grace did the
trick though, and I was able to ease the car forward without killing the
engine.  Very well done.  That left the trip back down the hill (and it's a
hill I never managed to climb or descend without a tear in my eye for the
animals who for centuries gave of their brutish strength to haul from the
river to the mesa.  It's a hellish hill, perceived quite differently by the
atheist and the god-fearing sojourner.)  On the lighter side, but barely,
were two kids skipping across the food court and throwing their arms around
me.  "Will he let us, mom?" Janet asked.  "Can we stay with him?" Stephan
added, leaving guess which brutish beast the challenge of descending Hell's
Own Hill.

            They weren't giddy or bouncing off the walls I was half way
through "King's Quest VII", and they quickly focused, remaining so for the
rest of the afternoon.  This was 1992 and the Internet was basically AOL
for a non-poweruser like myself, but the Web, even in its embryonic state,
did help out.  "There are some chat rooms that are too mature for us,"
Stephan said after we'd figured out a major advance in the game, "do you
want to try them?"  Glad I wasn't driving.  It was true, and it's the
greatest joke in the world today.  AOL, in 1992, was nothing but pedophilia
-- nothing!  I'd searched for photography sites and found week-old
messages, most of which read: "Hi, is anybody in here?"  Zero.  I tried
other topics with the same results, and the only mitigating circumstance I
can think of, even at this date, is that I wasn't involved with any sports
team at the time, so never checked these categories.  It way zero times
zero until you got to the Private chat rooms, and there were dozens of
them, full, all the time, and it way zero times zero, in the rooms, for
anything but kiddie action, because the first question was always "how old
are you" -- and I leave it to the reader's imagination to determine how
many questioners were hoping for the answer: "Eighteen."  Ha, ha, ha.

            I have been asked quite recently why I write about sex, and
this is one reason.  It, pedophilia, is solely responsible for taking
computer communication from the institutional to the personal level.  AOL,
in '92, is more proof than a hundred lawyers could document in their
careers.  The chat rooms were, in fact, quite stringently monitored, but
not the Instant Messaging.  The age question could be asked and answered
inoffensively, and no one knew what else happened.  I never used this
feature: it was expensive, and Stephen and I were mating very frequently
and successfully, so the motivation wasn't there.  It was a way cool
system, I'm sure, and probably fostered a hundred good relationships for
every bummer.  I suppose, as time went on, the occasional horror scenario
was acted out, but how many happy, if totally inappropriate relationships
are there amongst the kids who did run to a Net mate?  That's what I'd like
to know.  Anyway, AOL was built on the sexual pursuit of children, the
younger the better, by educated, wealthy, dedicated men.  Surely you don't
think I'm kidding.

            "Stephan," I said, "your mom and I had a long talk before we
came out to pick you guys up, so I don't think we need to spend five
dollars an hour to chat about mature subjects."  I was trying to be funny,
to check the wit and mental textures of the youth.
            "That would save logging on and listening to the moron with the
mail," the boy responded, Janet nodding on the chair beside him.  I was
sitting on my desk, looking down at the pair, and decided to remain seated
a few moments longer, though I did test my legs.

            "Okay," I said, to pass the time, "first card on the table,
face up.  Yes, Stephen spends a lot of time here, yes he's spent the night
on several occasions, and no, we don't always behave ourselves."
            "He's such a brat," Janet said.
            "He had open heart surgery three times before he was three year
old," I said, "he's used to everyone approaching him sticking him with
needles and causing pain in a dozen ways you will with luck not experience
until you're in your eighties, if ever.  Given an inch, and then a thousand
or two more, he's a delightful and engaging companion, okay?"
            "I'm sorry," the girl said.

            "It's okay," I said, "apparently childhood is meant to be tough
to see if there's any art or gifts in kids, to force it out.  Stephen can
sing like and angel and mimic perfectly, so if he ever catches three breaks
in a row, you'll be paying to watch him Not the kind of stuff guys your
ages are meant to understand; you're meant to be out there hounding the
different and mocking the insecure, otherwise we'd grow up in a tapioca
world with sugar-water sauce."
            "Are you trying to make us fall in love with you?" Janet asked,
indicating there was perhaps more to youth than my glib assessment of the
class acknowledged.
            "Just pandering," I replied, "on the assumption you have a best
side I can play up to."  Honesty is especially important in dealing with
juveniles, and critical with those under ten.
            "I was just asking to be polite," the girl said, "because
reason says we're too young to be in love with you, no matter how we feel
and now how excited we got talking about the chance of staying over."
            "Feelings are incidental at your ages," I agreed, "they come
and go too fast, are what's called `mercurial' -- like mercury, you know,
it runs a mile if you tilt the table an inch."
            "Bad mercury!" the girl said with a giggle.  Jeez.  Playful,
too?  Who knew.

            While Janet was responsive, Stephan seemed more reserved; not
up-tight, quite, but more tensely engaged and involved.  "Do you guys want
to start saving five dollars an hour?" I asked, to two instantaneous nods.
I'm always open, week in, month in, even year in, times two, the lights are
on -- sort of a creed thing, I guess.  By now it was four thirty on the
holiday Friday.  How deep does Calvinism reach?  To play the decent host,
did it warrant locking the door half an hour early?  I looked into the
sweet, yearning faces and picked the keys up off the desk, to smiles as
quick to appear as their nodding heads.  "Chill for a few minutes while I
lock up," I said nodding to the rear and the door of my apartment.  They
were frequent casual visitors so scooted off as I changed the signs and
locked up.

            I hadn't laid my trap well, because I didn't know flies were
inbound, but still, for Stephen, I had a selection of plug in games and a
big set to play them on, surrounded by a good stereo.  With cable, it gave
plenty of options to a visitor who wasn't in the mood.  I seduced a man
when I was Janet's age, and he was so thrilled by my shy aggression he
ejaculated wildly in thirty seconds each of the several times we stole a
few private minutes.  I suppose it's like heroin, having stimulated him so
dramatically I was searching for a repeat of the experience in having the
tables reversed, not in tampering or inveigling, but remaining passive
while younger, healthier folk took the initiative.  Let me sum up my
entrance to my apartment this way: "Dragonball Z" was off.  The Sony was
off.  The Sega was off.  The lights were off, other than a single candle,
and their shirts were off.

            "We just wanted to start it," Stephan said, "so you wouldn't
think you were messing with us or anything."
            "You have to be alive to mess with anybody," I said, faking a
heart attack at the sight of a beautiful boy and ordinary girl sitting
demurely side to side on my sofa, Janet's very plainness rendering the
scene three times as erotic as had she been a pouting, simpering Lolita.
            "She needs a bigger bra," the twelve year old boy said, "but we
thought she should wear this one in case it was okay if we stayed with
you."
            "It's not the most comfortable thing," Janet adding: "and my
brother knows how to work the catch -- okay?"

            Was I to live forever in the doorway between my shop and
apartment?  It seemed I already had.  Stephen was so different.  He'd
invent new ways to sprawl while I was closing up, legs spread, five inch
penis wet at the tip, so on display it was a wonder the walls kept it in.
This pair, except for their bare chests, could be waiting at the dentist's
office.  I crossed to the sofa and knelt in front of them, comfortable on
the rug.  Janet leaned forward and I cradled her head in my hand, watching
Stephan fumble briefly with the catch.  It freed in a moment, and the
straps fell to the side.  I eased my hands to the girl's shoulders,
slipping the garment completely from her.  Stephan slipped from the couch
and I made room for him to kneel in front of me, quickly stripping off my
own shirt at his suggestion.  His flawless back nestled against my bare
chest and his hands found me to indicate he wanted to be molested.  I
fondled him from behind as Janet slowly rose to a sitting position, then
took the position her mother had described, with her fingers linked behind
her neck and her back arched toward her brother and me.  For nine she was a
raving beauty, her budding pink nibbles offsetting her regular features and
adding electrical allure to her slightly chubby frame.  "You are one lucky
older brother," I whispered in Stephan's ear, feeling a little lucky,
myself.
            "I know," he responded, "isn't she beautiful."  It wasn't a
question.

            This was a good time for an anchor or two off the stern of the
runaway barge (we were a scant thousand feet from Big Muddy, thus the
analogy), so I asked if it would be okay if we talked for awhile.  They
observed we had all night, settling the issue.

            "Do you guys know how much your mom knows?" I asked.
            "We're going to tell her," Janet replied, "we hate being
sneaky.  Private's okay, but she trusts us to behave, and we can't, so she
should at least know it."
            A line from a contemporary song flashes through my mind as I
write this in '03 -- "baby I got news for you, I got news for you."  But
I'm a writer, more devious, need to draw things out in case something
interesting comes up.

            "How much has she told you about her uncle?" I asked.
            "She talks about Roy a lot," the boy replied, "Fred and Allen,
too, but Roy spent a lot of time with her when she was our age, so mostly
him."
            "And have you ever gotten any ideas from the way she mentions
him?" I asked.
            "He was a senior surveyor in California back before the dust
bowl," Stephan said, "so he had a pretty interesting life."
            "Maybe more interesting than we know," Janet chimed in.  To
think she talked.  To think anything so fascinating could serve any
function but collecting seen and making babies for those pretty breasts.
God dealt so many such wicked hands, how could he deal a lazy writer one
like this?  Perhaps he couldn't, just as I couldn't mess with kids after a
fatal heart attack.
            The comment had burst spontaneously from the girl, and now the
brother and sister stared at each other, eyes big as eggs.

            "You know what I want?" the girl whispered.
            "What?" her brother answered.
            "I want to get a baby from him, after yours, because he really
knows how to bring a family together."

            She meant me, and I knelt there behind the bare chested boy, my
mind going a million miles an hour, with highly successful results.  I mean
there I sat, hoping it would be a girl.  How quick is that?

            "Yes," I said, remember how Karen had emphasized lack of
confusion, "she spent a week alone with Roy when she was your age, Janet.
She's been optimistic about the two of you for some days now, and availed
herself of an opportunity to clarifying the situation by spying at Janet's
bedroom window the other day."
            "She told you?" Stephan said, blushing.

            "Maybe half," I said, noting a tidal wave of irony crashing
down on my head.  "She said you had a secret, and guarded it for you."

            Judging by the boy's expression, my words were verbal super
glue (certainly not the Krazy kind), bonding nearly instantly and very
strongly.  "Can I tell you?" he said.  "Janet understands, but she's my
sister, and I hate it that no one else knows so they can tell me what they
think."
            "When I was your age," I said, wincing at the cliché, "I
wanted to know what people thought so I could figure out a work-around,
because they were so often wrong."
            "This is ipso facto," the boy said, "no one can prevent
anything, because it's already happened, more than once, so it's more for
frame of reference, and to not keep a secret since we all have our shirts
off and are looking at each other."

            Again, there was the notable difference with Stephen.  He was a
savant who chattered in luridly fascinating circles, and who couldn't tell
an hour from a minute or a foot from a mile; this duo could probably divide
a millimeter into microns, and what they could do with a single minute on
the clock is the reason for this story, in the first place.

            "Do you want me like this while I tell you what's happening to
me?" Stephan ask, sighing comfortably, "or do you want to take me a
different way?"
            "As you said, we have no time limits," I reminded him, leaving
the ball squarely in the court of the young activists."
            "I like it here," the boy mused, "but it would be even better
if we were like pretending we were at a nudist camp."
            "Duh'uh," I murmured silently to myself, standing behind the
silken pre-teen.  Janet stood, too, once again displaying as Stephan and I
removed her shorts and panties, then took care of each other.  I'd wanted
to play with the super twinkie in his underpants, but realized I would have
been missing out when I saw his long, slim shaft jutting fully as long as
mine.  "He's a man," Janet exclaimed softly, then blushed at the
possibility of being misinterpreted by her older brother.
            "I feel like a kid, being so close to you," I said, thrusting
my hips gently to show we were very close to equal.  If a non sequitor it
was enough of a diversion to pass the moment.
            "Just be as cute as he is when you grow up," the girl advised
her brother, than returned her stare to the two of us.  We resumed our
sitting and kneeling positions and Stephan shyly gave his permission for me
to masturbate him, his eyes obviously hot on his sister's swollen breasts
and her eyes as she stared him up and down in return.

            "Get behind him so I can see everything," Janet suggested.  I
guess we both knew what she meant, because Stephan rose on his knees, I
half squatted, and eased myself between his silky, warm thighs, then thrust
forward so the child on the couch could have her wish come true.  We
wiggled to get comfortable, now using a cushion which I forgot to mention.
I found him, hot and very hard, and gently began wetting and stroking both
of us, still amazed at his maturity and the feeling of a tiny amount of
stubble at the base of his twice-sized phallus.
            "We shave each other in the shower," he said in reaction to my
touch, "with me it's mostly a game, but it keeps him looking like a super
kid, and that's definitely cute."
            The subtle yet frank introduction of a momentous topic.  Was I
holding a born writer in my left arm, or a quick-witted burnout?  The
things I wanted to tell him.  To go slowly, read manically, not try fiction
until he was forty, give your life and live like a crab in a shell, needs
be, though, if you're smart enough to succeed, you should be able to find a
livable shell or two along the way.  Of course, since he was obviously
coming from a perfect one, with a perfect mother and sister, that might
more of a challenge than was realistic.  In any event, we'd talk about that
subject -- later.

            "Does that mean it really happens with you?" I whispered,
appreciating, at long last, Karen's reticence of some hours before.
            "He says it's the most he's ever seen, even from a nineteen
year old," the boy answered.  "I mean, mostly he knows from kiddie porn,
but he's molested a few other boys, so he knows from that, too."
            "That's what I found out in the woods," Janet said, perceptive
enough to realize I'd heard that part of the story.  "It kept happening
until I started wondering if the -- baby -- was going to happen all at
once, just from his sperm.  It puddle all over my tummy, running down both
sides and down between my thighs, there was more all over each breast, and
when it really started, I was holding him against my face, too afraid of
drowning to even try the ways they talk about in school, like using my
mouth."
            "Have you tried that, since?" I asked, aiding and abetting, or
being aided and abetted, I still don't know which.

            "We've been saving so it will be extra special for her," the
nine year old's brother said in the tone he might have employed to describe
an upcoming birthday present -- for his bride.  Yes, there was a tenderness
and sureness about both of them that registered despite the tentative
nature of our previous acquaintance.  As we all know, there's planning, and
execution, the latter highly responsive to diligence in the former.  In
other words, the stage was set.
            "How many times have you mated?" I asked, happy to feel no
impulse for more base language.
            "We thought it would be tacky to count higher than ten," the
girl replied, "but not much more than that, and we've only been alone
together twice, for maybe four hours total."

            "That should change no that the air is free of secrets," I
allowed, "and it's cool that you're cool enough not to abuse the privilege
by acting out any time and any place it isn't one hundred percent
appropriate.  That, by the way, is the only message she passed on, however
indirectly.  She's thrilled for you both, and for Ryan, if that's your
decision, but there's a time, as mentioned, and a place, as mentioned, and
it would be heavenly for her never to have to mention them, herself."
            "I wonder if that's why things that used to be good are now
called `bad'," the twelve year old mused.
            "The devil is in the details," I reminded the boy promptly.
"It's the details that count with the two of you; how you conduct
yourselves in a hundred small ways, that count, not the fact you're
engaging in a historically and currently common activity."  Sometimes I
like sounding like a preacher, though, admittedly, it depends on the
congregation.

            Preachers, historically, aren't very intelligent, but I was.
My active mind reviewed our recent conversation, and, on this review, I
realized I'd overlooked something most crucial.  "Here," I whispered,
slowly standing behind the child, bidding him follow.  As we reached our
feet I nodded to Janet, indicating the cushion on the floor.  She was on it
in the time it took my boy and myself to settle to where she'd just been
sitting.  With minor adjustments we were comfortable and perfect, her face
at the ideal height to experiment with her lips and tongue -- god forbid --
on either or both of us.  Her brain was apparently as big as mine.  Instead
of following the obvious path to Shatterville, she took a more devious
route, once again pinioning her hands behind her neck, arching her back,
and then creeping on her knees, slowly, ever, ever closer.  She looked so
shy doing it, and whether it was act or temperament, I didn't know, just
that it was devastating to watch a fifth grader of a next-in-line
appearance inching toward her loving older brother.  Terrified is cold
rubber, predatory, little more than steam, but a shy and softly willing
child is everything there is and renders the entire universe superfluous.
Was contemporary developed civilization going to reduce itself to the
penury of not having the resources for anything else before this home truth
replaced existing pandemic hypocrisy and freaking gave everyone, a, a
reason to stay fit, and, b, something to fill those off moments when the
family is tired of reading?  That's not the devil taking the pulpit, he's
already there -- telling, for openers, a literary god he's wrong.  What?!
Get thee behind me preacher, or I'll brace you with another salvo, and you
won't survive at all.

            I was in the process of withdrawing, assuming the female wanted
her brother's seminal fluid against her swollen nipples, either first or
only.  "No," she whispered, sensing what I was up to, "both of you, but
Stephan against me on the lefts side, you know, the heart thing."  This is
how we ended up as the girl closed the last inches.  The contact was flame
throwers against nudity and the added carnality of watching the boy swell
and stiffen, instantly, just as I did, added nothing less than luster to
lust, high art, in fact, in that it would have been sensual if merely
graphically represented, leaving to the imagination the tactile sensations
of a very immature breast against a highly aroused and equally sensitive
male.

            "This is more our first time than our first three times," the
boy remarked to the now panting child.  After all is said and done, sex
depends more on opportunity than any other factor, and these children
illustrated the point in their relaxed and comfortable responses, a perfect
combination of patience, decorum, anticipation, and excitement.  They were
not thrill seekers or lust sneakers, they were discovering something as
forever as it's given the those suffering the human condition to realize,
writers, artists, and a handful of enduring public figures, excepted.
            "It's more than all my times together," I contributed,
regretting the understatement at such an intense moment, but distracted
from retrieving a more appropriate expression, and so left with just
telling the plain-Jane truth.

            We maintained the tableau for long minutes, Stephan lolling,
legs spread, in my lap, my erection dominated by his, Janet with her hands
yet behind her head as she nuzzled us in a delicate yet fervent dance of
inches.  The boy's hands were like his sister's, leaving me free to molest
him with both hands, and I fondled his panting young body gently, stroking
his belly and thighs within inches of his flaming penis.  To quote the
opening line of the famous short story, "The Ransom of Red Chief", "It
sounded like a good thing, but wait `till I tell you."  Only, as you may
have guessed, it wasn't me who told, but Stephan.

            "Can you tell us who it is?" Janet asked, her eyes soft down on
her lolling, panting brother.
            "You've probably figured it out," he said.
            "Nobody can be that lucky," Janet hissed.  (While he'd been
graphic in his tales of what had happened, he'd apparently left out crucial
information.)
            "Well, who else could it be?" the boy responded.  "We could get
back from karate in half an hour, and it usually takes us two, and yeah,
we're buds and listen to music and play videos, all the usual stuff, but
there's a shower in his apartment nicer than the one at the gym."
            "It's John Rawlins," Janet whispered for my edification,
"formerly Mustafa Habeeb, a six foot six Iraqi who, and under two hundred
pounds, is something of a local legend for breaking racial stereotypes by
being cool and self depreciating, which he actually manages to pull of in
the role of a police officer."

            The mental image of this perfect-o-boy showering with a tall,
slim, hawk-faced Arab was not displeasing, but, thanks to his sister, the
fantasy faded seconds before I climaxed over two sweating, panting
children.
            "Was it wet with him the way it was the first time with me?"
Janet asked, challenging my narrow escape.
            "I was curious about it, just like you were," Stephan said, his
voice matter-of-fact, not hinting at reproach.
            "Was it at his apartment?" she asked.
            "We couldn't wait," the boy replied, "we pulled into an orchard
on the way home."
            "Had you been talking about it?" she wanted to know.

            "Yes," the boy said.  "I'd read some Clavell, and asked him if
he thought some of the subtext was true, you know, about the Ninjas bathing
with boys and doing special things with them in private, and if that kind
of thing happened where he came from."  Things have deteriorated with the
place since, but in that day the rich peasant oil crude mentality was less
an end all, be all, and nice guys showed up from time to time.  If we'd
sent a few thousand cute, curious, milk-skinned American boys over in
timely fashion, the first war wouldn't have occurred, much less the present
one, for the simple reason it's hard to fight and hold one's place in line.
(And I hate that American trendyites now say "on" line.  Same sleazy crap
as soccer, which the painfully correct call football.  Crummy morons.)

            "I think I know what you're going to say next," I interjected,
having read "Shogun" and two or three others.
            "What?" Janet asked.
            "The opposite of sun and draught," I replied, holding my right
cheek against his left ear.  He conjured, oh, maybe the best part of two
seconds, and nodded so I could feel the movement.
            "That's what I asked him about, and he tried to explain..."
            "Explain what," Janet asked, no trace of whine in her voice,
merely healthy curiosity.
            "Okay," the boy responded patiently, "think back carefully to
our first time in the woods.  How your tummy looked.  Think of a way to
describe it besides Ivory dishwashing liquid.  Then review what Tom just
said.  `Opposite of sun, opposite of draught.'"
            "Way, way cool," the girl whispered, looking us both in the
eyes and arching suggestively (for her).  "Clouds and rain.  White and wet.
Sure beats pearl jam by a country mile."
            "Language is extremely important," I reminded my students.
"Just as Higgins says in `Pygmalion', it utterly divides and has no
hesitation in conquering.  One four letter word changes everything like a
splash of turpentine in a gallon of latex.  There are millions of people
out there to keep the great American pottymouth from becoming grammatically
endangered, so let them have the honor of preserving the f-word, c-word,
and their ilk for future generations."

            "Do we have to sign anywhere?" Stephan asked, delighting me
with his independent take.  Stephen was a master of the sarcastic putdown,
or yelling faggot stuff at McDonald's if the mood seized him, and it was a
relief because I was hitting a very serious stride as a writer and needed
buckets of cold water so I didn't spoil things by taking myself too
seriously.  Additionally, I knew how to heavy up his lighter mood, and do
it fast.  I gently eased Janet back, separating her from the two of us,
then coaxed her onto the sofa, adjusting the cushions so her head was
resting comfortably on an armrest, her school-girl bottom high in the air.
Stephan I guided to the same sofa arm, indicating he should stand, legs
spread as far as possible, in front of Janet.  I mounted the nine year old,
whispered to her for a few moments, then half passed out as she reached to
the rear to guide me to her.  I held her slightly plump body just above her
hips, met her soft wetness, and as Stephan stared down between us, slowly
and gently completed my mounting of the little girl.  She was vastly hot
and indescribably -- it seemed almost deliberately -- tight, and not
statically, either, live, gently surging as she experimented with milking
me.  Jeez, what a lucky twelve year old, if he survived their practice
sessions and lived to see thirteen.

            I was with the girl for ten minutes.  Even in that time she
improved, especially when I moved close and held her still and tight.
Heat, wetness, and a staticy clenching and exercising of her young body
were a sensation sandwich of raw and subtle flavors, and would have been
unendurable if I'd shifted my tiger leashed thoughts from piles of bread
and rare meat.  So much as the mention of a chicken, with it's breast meat,
would have ended things for priceless minutes.  But food it was, jelly-side
down, and survival it was, just.

            Stephan and I gently butted our foreheads together over the
girl.  She found him with her mouth and he gasped in my ear.  By accord, we
males remained nearly motionless, save our rapid panting, realizing,
somehow, this was a very special and intense passage for the nine year old,
and she craved intimacy more than action.  We did not pound and ravage her,
as so often happens in the stories, but rather gently took her completely,
nursing her along, praising and encouraging her, loving her openly with our
hands on her breasts, belly, and inner thighs.

            This tableau, Stephan standing spread eagle, knees braced
against the arm of the sofa, and in the classic display pose, Janet sort of
on all fours as I lay partly on top of her, my arms and hands alternating
between pert young nipples, the sofa arm, and Stephan's slim shoulders as I
remained frozen inside his little sister's hot tightness, turned out to be
far more durable than I ever would have expected.  Ten minutes passed, then
twenty, none of us moving more than a few careful inches as both Janet and
I, as the aggressors, worked feverishly to eliminate all distractions but
the total intimacy of the passing moments.

            To the reader, the scene undoubtedly carries with it the
baggage of monotony, but it was different for Janet and me because she'd
coaxed her brother into telling the story of his first time with John
Rawlins.

            "I forgot to ask you on the way over if you minded riding in
the cop shot speed machine," John said a minute or two after they'd left
the gym.
            "Stigma is my middle name," Stephan replied, "I live to live
things down, therefore I am."
            "It's nice to hear you talk," the twenty four year old said,
"on the way over you seemed preoccupied, which is fine, but it's nice to
hear you, just the same."
            "I've just never like met anyone like you," the boy said,
"don't you half scare a lot of kids?"
            "I never thought of it quite that way," the young man laughed,
"but being different is just interesting, sort of; you get used to it as
fast as anything else, except riding along with an exceptionally cute
karate kid -- hope you don't mind the observation."

            The boy did blush.  His mirror didn't lie, he was just
absolutely perfect and cute in every light from every angle at every time
of day and night and he could comb his hair with an eggbeater and it
wouldn't make any difference.  A hundred pimples would just draw more
stares to the big brown eyes, and he didn't quite know what to make of it,
especially when he looked across the dining room table and saw Ryan, an
almost enhanced version of himself, only slightly bigger and with silky
hardly reddish hair.

            "Sometimes I wish I was regular looking so I could tell more
about stuff," the boy responded, "but, as you said, it's easy to get used
to being different if you are."
            "The whole way over," John said, "I had the feeling you wanted
to ask me something, so if you do, go ahead, whatever it is."

            They rode a minute in silence.

            "It's some books I've read," he said slowly, "they're about the
way different cultures behave in certain instances, you know, details of
lifestyle different than what we're used to."
            "And I take it these differences don't have anything to do with
housekeeping or gardening," the man said.  The boy laughed nervously.
            "Workman's compensation policies?" John teased.
            "I think you're guessing right and playing dumb cop, stupid
cop," the eleven year old (at that time) noted.
            "Since we're meandering along an empty road at twenty, I guess
I'm smart enough to want to hear what's on your mind, and books indicate
literacy, or at least sometimes it happens that way, and literacy indicates
curiosity, and curiosity in a to-die-for-cute friend is why the speedometer
indicates twenty, or will as soon as I step on the gas."

            The pair seemed well suited, and, ice broken, settled
comfortably back in their seats actually trying to delay the next wave of
excitement rising at the bar mouth.

            "Stephan," John said after another interval of silence, "I
don't want to ask in an oblique way, or pretend anything, so I'll just ask
you outright if you'd like to pull over and park for awhile.  There's a
road up ahead that leads up to an apple orchard, it's private at this time
of night, and actually quite awesome because the trees have just been
pruned.  It would be something to see, even if you just wanted to talk."
            "I'd like to," the boy said.
            "How long do you think it would be safe to stay," the young man
wanted to know.
            "Mom said by midnight," and she knows you have a phone and
radio, so it's probably okay even later.
            "Would you like to take a lot of time?" John then asked,
"because I'm ready for it to happen if you know, you're feeling ..."
            "Yes," the boy replied, "a lot of time.  I'm pretty scared."
            "Fear builds with proximity," the officer said, "and it's at
its height when the tiger leaps, so it's natural for the time when
something's going to happen to build fear, the closer it gets."
            "There's that, too," said the boy, "but it was more because I
wanted to ask you questions about the book and they're really
embarrassing."
            "Like the tiger, the unknown inspires fear," the beautiful,
black-eyed Arab said, "and it would be sad for us if it didn't; if, for
example, we went blandly from virgin to lover, like eating an average
banana, it would be the worse for us in the long run."

            John slowed the cruiser and eased it down a short roadway and
through a gate, then carefully in amongst the trees.  He switched off the
engine, leaving the radio playing softly and reached across to the glove
box to retrieve a short candle which he lighted and stuck on a glob of wax
to the dash.  "I'm taking a lot for granted," he said, "but I think you're
having the same feelings I did at your age for a man who looked, and I'm
just stating a fact, much like I do now.  At your age I read the same books
about different cultural ways, only in my culture the ways were quite
similar.  Boys were guarded until they were eight or nine, it depended,
then the rules were lifted and they were permitted to spend any time with
any male they wanted.  With me, it was my uncle Said, tall, like I am, my
build.  Except for the racial difference, I was much like you; slim, lithe,
perfectly proportioned.  And that's what I want to talk, because this is
the tradition where I come from.  The Muslims have contributed little to
the world, are basically a shame to the human race, but on piece of
information we have gleaned over the hundreds of centuries is of
considerable practical use.  My uncle Said bestowed it on me, and I wish to
do likewise, with you.  It has to do with the books you speak of, of the
acts in those books, of men and boys being alone together in pools and
tents in peace and war.  It's a story common to the Greeks, to the Royal
Navy of England, and, in our day, to the proliferation of the Internet, to
give some perspective.  And there's a physical side in a way we learned in
ancient times.  I'll be specific about it.  A boy who sports with a mature
male in a certain common way will develop, physically, you know what I
mean, more than a boy who hasn't the opportunity, and not only is this
true, it is also a fact that a boy who overindulges in the carnal act I'm
speaking of will, in his turn, overdevelop, physically, making him
unsuitable for females and a freak amongst males."

            "So if you act like a greedy jackass you end up hung like one?"
the boy asked.

            "There's also an emotional side to what will happen out here,"
John said, "for example, it is possible for a male my age to actually fall
in love with a male your age, should such a boy be graced with charm, wit,
and perhaps an edge or two."
            "You scare me into silence, then restrain your feelings because
I'm not all cheery and bright," the boy said, "you could have told me on
the way over."

            "You scared yourself," the man responded, "I never went over
the speed limit."

            Both laughed and relaxed, more than meant for each other.

            "Do you want to watch?" John whispered after some minutes had
passed.
            "Yes," Stephan whispered back.
            "Do you want to help make it happen, or just watch," the tall
athlete prodded, "because it makes a difference what position I take on the
seat."
            "I want to help," the boy said.\
            "Do you want to be naked while it's happening?" was the next
question.
            "Yes," the boy again responded.
            "Foreplay is overdoing it the first time," John said, "so you
undress by the trunk and I'll go in front.  When you get back in, kneel,
facing me, where you're sitting now, and I'll join you so we'll both be
comfortable, okay?"

            It took all Stephan's training in manners to remember to hiss a
fast Yes as he exited the car.  As he stripped, he heard John make a quick
call, reporting in, then the tiger left the den, moving quickly, himself.
Stephan returned, his clothes laid out on the trunk, and took his position,
closing his eyes to enhance the racing excitement.  "I did that with uncle
Said, too," he hear the man whisper as he entered through the driver's door
and settled on the bench seat, taking a few moments to position his left
leg carefully over the Motorola and lock his right ankle in the small
window connecting the back seat of the cruiser.  He linked his hands behind
his neck, wriggling to be comfortable, and whispered Peek-a-boo.

            Moon, candle, and man, not bizarre, but beautifully giant and
absolutely hard, circumcised, colorless in the combination of light.
"We'll date frequently and you'll take my spray frequently," John
whispered, "but our first time, you just watch.  If you need help, it's
okay, but I was very proud of discovering my uncle fully as he lay for me."

            There was no more conversation.  Stephan began slowly, taking
minutes over his first touch, instinctively finding a position for each
hand, wetting the seven-inch penis copiously and finally masturbating John
with a delicate, experimental touch more sensual than any pounding.
Several times he sought his athletic lover with his lips, each time
stimulating a gentle shaking of the head and kindly whispered, Later.

            The boy was so perfect nothing happened, no panting, no
sweating, no whispered coaxing or urgent instructions.  It was solely
physical, the beautiful hand of the beautiful eleven year old raising the
young adult until there was a gentle flow of sperm that went on for nearly
two minutes.  With a touch, John guided the naked boy to his belly and the
story ends with a lapping tongue, Janet squealing and half choking on the
hard pulsing of her stone rigid brother whom I braced and I began cumming
gently and maturely deep inside the nine year old.

            			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.  In total his
contributions run to some 1.1 million words.  Mr. Emerson 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