Date: Sat, 4 Aug 2001 13:31:51 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: Blissy's Song Chapt. 1

Blissy's Song.
(M/b, rom, no s/m, etc.)
by
Feather Touch


Forward.

	While not a sequel to "Creative Camp," this is a story told by
Blissy, on of the campers.  The reader might to wish to read "C-Camp"
first.

       					. . .

       It had been a full year, perhaps a month or two more, before it
became generally known as the non-disaster.  At first the epigram had
seemed, well, insensitive, if not downright cynical.  By July of 2022 it
was established that half the surviving few millions agreed, all things
considered, it had indeed not been a disaster.  There was little discussion
as to magnitude.  It would have taken more wit than anyone had to call it,
well, maybe just a little disaster.  Three people stood, today, 2023, for
every one thousand who had lived in 2020.  Nothing small about that.

       Over the three years since The Act the remaining population of under
ten million had instinctively gravitated to the cities, then been repulsed
by the smells, a veritable Vesuvius of miasma filtering, noxiously heavier
than air, down elevator shafts and stairwells to street level, thence
underground where it could even explode violently.  Since there were almost
no fire fighters left, and since the cities were stocked to the gills with
wondrous products of every description, the wiser heads had easily
persuaded the various amalgamated groups to head for the country while
nature took its course.

       By 2023 nature had completed its work in ridding the continent of
very close to three hundred million human remains, but people, by that
time, had become accustom to a rural and outer suburban lifestyle, or at
least thought they had.

       The month of May had been devoted to regional conferences in order
to give full consideration to the substantial percentage of the population
who yearned for urban life.

       At a conference in the Ozarks, Wayne Hancock had met Cal and his
sister, Brenda.  Wayne, a former librarian, was attending in lieu of his
brothers, home minding the horses.  Cal Hawkins, seventeen, a tall,
athletic redhead, and his obvious sister, Brenda, had spent almost two
years on a luxurious hike, trekking a thousand miles south, then round
about, then back to their Ozark stomping grounds.  They were scant days off
the trail and had dropped in at the hotel to catch up on regional news and
happenings.

       The prequel, which constitutes part of Chapter 27 of "Creative
Camp," ends with Wayne and Cal in the bedroom of Wayne's suite, Brenda in
the bathroom.  As we open



       				Chapt. 1

       Fink?  Why had it stuck?  Hell, he shouldn't complain; it'd saved
his life, his stupid name.  Nothing like a good case of depression to pack
a sixteen year old off, trail deep, `tll the trails ran out, then tent and
pellet gun.  A month had turned two, finally into six.  With hardly half a
laugh he'd reminded himself from time to time that at least Fink could
plink.  And a plinker could harvest a myriad of small animals and birds.
Eat damn well, with a few tools, and the scoped target rifle.  Pocket full
of pellets would last a month..  That he'd done, teach everybody, he would,
to the extent that when he finally got entirely sick of his own company and
emerged, there's been major changes.  Wise as a scout, already, he'd looted
himself a tricked out Browning, some slick camping gear, and headed back to
his wilderness camp, brooding the while.

       Fink?  For that?

       The thought wasn't so much I'll show `em as a subtler manifestation
of ill-will and resentment.  More corrosive than acute.  For that?  For
what happened, early spring of what was sometimes called the last year of
chaos?

       Dixie Montez was a boy.  A bashful twelve year old, tall, slim, shy
and quiet.  Brown hair, brown eyes, angular face with fair cheekbones,
light acne that did nothing but draw the eye to the boyish beauty of a
genetic master stroke.  Generous mouth and a trace of overbite that might
not become annoying in a hundred years.  Dixie didn't need lips, at all,
wouldn't you know, but if Bill Gates won the lottery, he'd still be
shortchanged in the physical endowment department when it came to lips.  It
was a rough analogy, but Earl Kettlemen wasn't much into sophistication,
literary or otherwise.

       His, Earl's, ruination had come at being cast in a school play in
March of the year of The Act..  Big school, and they'd come after him, the
drama people.  Not only cast him, he was the male lead in all three
scheduled productions.  A smooth looker, that was Earl, and yet this geeky
little stage-hand guy that couldn't get a date on a tropical plantation,
what was he all about?  Prop master, stage manager, gaffer.  Shrimp.
Twelve years old.  Fat or skinny, short or tall, Earl Kettlemen had boinked
`em all, so why was this big-footed, all-knees - boy - in the shower with
him?  He wished.  That was the freaky part.  Doin' it behind the curtain
and under hot water over the next girl on the list, and, Who invited him?
It was unnatural, even the thought.  I mean, sure, lot of rockers did that
stuff, but that was different.  Different?  Wasn't that what he was?  But
the kid was such a wus.  Not the living-end in the cute department, either.
A loser on every list there was.  Probably hadn't even dingled himself yet.

       Earl made his manners come out really good.

       "Dixie, dude!" he'd yelled at the mall.  Running to catch up to the
little gawk, he'd pounded his shoulder.  "Where you headed?"

       "Bookstore," the slim child said.
       "You're kidding, aren't you?" the sixteen year old taunted.
       "Why?" Dixie asked.
       "This place is an animal farm.  Even if you're only a stage hand,
you should be able to score something; especially if you've got enough
money to buy a fucking book."
       "If that's what I was interested it, you're right, it'd pretty dumb
to buy a tome on the subject."
       "What are you, full of wise issues?  Tome.  Who dorks up the
language with words like that?"

       Dixie was taken aback.  Perhaps it was not the stroke of wisdom to
go out of one's way to avoid redundancies, especially at the mall.  Ah
well, the pen having written, it moves on, and all the tears in the world
cannot change a jot.  Might as well be philosophical about it.  He tried to
move on.

       "Come on man," Earl insisted, "there's skag here.  Can't you smell
it?  I'm hot.  I'm the star.  You gotta hang with the dude!"

       "I'm twelve," the boy pointed out, patiently.
       "You'll outgrow it," Earl retorted.  "Faster, too, if you hang with
trouble on a stick, which would be me."

       Dixie quietly figured to himself that trouble with the stick was
more likely to be a problem for the thespian, who should be rubbing sticks
with his own crowd.  This wasn't an assumption.  Earl had frequently wanted
this and that, sometimes even explanations of ropes and gear, that were
none of his business.  Invariably, these were hidden by scrims or props.
Nothing had happened so it could be spelled out, exactly, while it wasn't
as if nothing had happened.  He stood quietly, awaiting developments.

       "There's a girl from school lap-dancing a gramps type" Earl
whispered, urgently,, "I just passed them going at it a minute ago, come
on, I'll show you.  Hurry up, or we'll be too late."

       Dixie shrugged his shoulder away from the older boy and twisted
himself free.  "I'm going the other way," he explained.

       "Yeah," Earl whispered in a half-snarl, "gnome in search of tome.  I
almost forgot."

       "Better than boy in search of toy who sniffs out mall dickers for
joy," Dixie thought to himself.  He blushed slightly, seeing as how he was
not exactly in search of a copy of Georgette Heyer for his grandmother.
People who live in glass houses...

       Earl picked up the color change.  "What are you," he asked, "bone
zero?  Never done nothin' and don't even want to watch?  I mean the old
dude's got a coat on, girl, too, and she's a bit chunky; not exactly Ken
and Barbie, but it's better than a
       ny bookstore.  Come on."

       "Wrong," Dixie thought, again, to himself.  What was there to say to
the guy?  All his lines came off paper sheets.  The bone he was zero at was
buried at Pecker Lawns and Gardens, and grave robbing was a little necro -
even for age twelve.

       Roger was so right.  Personality was damned near everything.  Not
the made up, situational kind, but rather the deliberately gentle pace of
the real thing; what, Roger said, the Mexicans called simpatico.  Not used
often north of the border To many Earls running around loose for it to have
much relevance.  `Cause the guy was a looker, and that was a moral
certainty.  Mirror magic in any lighting; probably'd look dynamite if some
911 responders crashed into his bedroom at four in the morning.  He wasn't
as sleeked out as the morons of the seventies, but there was an extra
button open, shritside, and chops that seemed to be slaves to a
totalitarian tongue, which was also hyperactive.  "Did the have a Ritalin
derivative for phony smiling?  If they could use recoilless rifles to knock
down avalanches, there most be some defense against all this white.

       The logic was faulty, leaving him at once short of spontaneous
banter and too young and small to punch his way out of the relationship,
besides, he didn't hate Earl, just disliked him, and preferred to keep it
that way.  As far as logic went, it wasn't all common sense.  He should
feel something for this very handsome boy specimen, who in all likelihood
wanted to teach him the same things Roger did, and was years closer to his
age; in fact, the perfect age to be an older bro for the first big trip of
a boy's life.  Common sense said something should be there, but nothing
was.  Interesting exactly how right Rog had pegged it, in what, please oh
lord, was their last con-ver-sa-tion on the subject.  Rude attitude, kills
like a `lude, poisons the well, like the pill from hell.  Beats in the time
of the jailers chime, and he ain't calling for swills to break no ills and
make your belly grow round.  Cause `Tude ain't that way, not his play, not
his joint, not his ride and not his hide; Tude's all new, spit for the
stew, piss in the brew, badder rhymes than any Drew, and the tip of him
sharp like the deal of a Jew.

       That was Roger, rapping, beating his black students at their own
game, but only in private con-ver-sa-tion, and only to drive home his point
about being a B personality every hour he could get away with it.  Let the
kids on television cope the `tude thing, they'd need the money.

       Earl was proof of concept.  Physically, there weren't that many A's
in the alphabet, but the next time he landed was on the far side of P,
maybe on R, for rude, repellent, repugnant.  Choices galore and at the rate
he was going he'd need letters after Z.  Dixie remembered a line from a
film about a guy being an awful waste of a good Corvette.  Same deal,
Hollywood manners.  And, by the same token, Earl was a waste of a hell of a
bod, hair, pecs, the whole package; hell, he was going to be a big boy this
afternoon, if he could scram the creep, that, included.  He twigged a line
for Roger.  "Liquor they got at the package stores, and it takes a lot of
liquor, hanging with package bores."  Almost said that one out loud as Earl
pinioned him toward a bench, keeping it just under the level anyone would
notice.  Playful, like.


       Chewing gum.  In the old days they showed guys smoking cigarettes in
tobacco commercials.  Even in 2020 they didn't show guys chewing gum in
Wrigley's commercials.  Nor did the second-hand sweet smell help matters.
Whatever the old guy and chick were doing couldn't be as offensive as
Earl's chomping.  Then a wave of maturity washed over young Dixie, causing
him to wonder if perhaps he wasn't being critical of others in defense of
having defects, himself.  Or was it insight?  What it was, mostly, was
Roger Fenn, thirty-four-year-old teacher of English.  Not indoctrination,
exactly, but nonetheless influential.  Instead of saying Don't suffer
fools, gladly, Roger would be more likely to put it, Why suffer fools,
gladly, or any other way?  Especially since he'd met Roger through a wad of
Double-Bubble, he should be more tolerant.

       Not.  The crap kid smoked, too.  He was outta there, spinning away
from the half-assed bully and trotting off, pointedly passing within yards
of a security guard.

       Roger had been in the hospital for three days.  Misadventure at a
neighbor's barbecue, tackled a fireball who'd turned out to be a six year
old, pictures in paper, everyone recovering nicely.  Dixie grinned from the
door and Roger grinned back.  "Drop-Dead Dixie," the teacher exclaimed.
"You're a sight for sore eyes."

       Dixie blushed with pleasure.  He headed for a beside chair, but his
teacher patted the bedside and the boy happily settled at the man's waist.
He tried not to stare, but guessed it was probably okay under the
circumstances.  Mr. Fenn -- Roger -- looked at thousand times better
than the nightmares that had plagued him on hearing of the incident.  The
boy had pictured Mel Gibson in "Man Without a Face,", and made a thousand
promises he'd still love his teacher even if he were as crispy as the
smokin' corpse in "Beetlejuice."

       Shit, he actually looked better.  A little color in his face.
Formerly he'd been on the bookish and pale side.  Crew cut.  That was
awesome.  Most guys looked better with and inch or two of hair, but not
Mr. Fenn.  Not Roger.  He'd gone in Casper Milquetoast and come out Captain
Courageous, and it showed.  Risky business, involving one's self in other
people's incendiary adventures, but even dark clouds provided a silver
lining once in awhile.  On the other hand, now that he looked buff and had
been written up like the last action hero, everybody would want a piece of
him.

       "How long can you stay?" Roger asked his twelve-year-old visitor.
       "Why?" the boy asked, "are other people coming?"
       "No," Roger replied.  "They've been and gone, Papers.  Someone --
Herb Alcock -- don't know if you know him, got video.  I guess it is
pretty spectacular.  Anyhow, they gave me some money and I signed a
release.  Who ever heard of getting paid for a haircut, eh?"

       Dixie laughed dutifully.  He'd seen the tape and it was hard to
believe his friend had come out with just a bandaged right arm and side.
The coolest thing was his shirt had gone up in smoke, and apparently he
hadn't bothered to replace it.  "I'd never have wasted time buying a book,
if I'd known that," Dixie thought to himself, glad that he had good reason
to ogle just awhile over the bandage and the new, short hair.

       "So?" the teacher prompted.
       "'Till six," the boy responded, what had he been thinking of?  "Or
later, if I call."
       "If you call, and you mom says you can stay one minute past six,
I'll be the one dropping dead," Roger mused.
       "I wasn't sure," Dixie mumbled, "you know, you might be tired from
the accident, or tired of seeing people..."
       "I was both until a certain angel fire lit my torch," Roger replied
giving the boy a level look.  "Your are, you know, totally drop dead.  I
want to develop you into a beautiful young homosexual.  Boys are bad
enough, without tangling with girls."

       Dixie blushed furiously at the explicit reference.

       "Jeeze," Roger responded, "I'm sorry, Dix.  They gave be a Darvon
booster about ten minutes ago.  It's just kicking in.  Like about eight
drinks in the same period of time.  Didn't mean to go all rude and crude on
you."

       "It's okay," the boy stammered.  He was shocked, but ten times more
thrilled.  That H thing was just what he did want to know about.  Not from
some lout or ass pamper, the Earls of the world, but someone just okay and
average and nice.  Of course, nice wasn't in the picture, nor average,
anymore, but he'd live with the changes.

       "Dixie," Roger said, "I told the head nurse you were coming over to
study with me, you can close the door, if you want, so we can have some
privacy.  My next shot is at six, so we'll have a few hours together, then
you can decide what you want to do.  Okay?"

       "Yes," said the boy, going to the wide door and swinging it so it
closed against its hydraulic strut.  "Pull the half-curtain, too, why don't
you?" Roger suggested, and the boy complied, giving them considerable
privacy, even if someone entered.  "The nurses always knock," Roger
commented, making Dixie get very excited.  Privacy was a good thing.

       "I'm sorry for using that word," Roger repeated.
       "It's okay," the boy also repeated.  He held out a package he'd been
carrying since leaving the mall.  "I read about it in this.  It's the one
you suggested for me."

       The teacher reached with his good left hand and pulled the book from
the Walden bag.  "Advanced Studies in Abnormal Psychology with Case
Histories," Roger read.  "Yes," he said. "and the current edition.  I
haven't seen it myself."

       "Do you think anything has changed?" Dixie asked.
       "Lord, no, child," the teacher said.  "Who'd want to go and do
that?"
       "I dunno," Dixie admitted.
       "No," Roger explained further.  "New editions are just a publisher's
and educator's conspiracy.  The important new data could be covered on a
couple of index cards stuffed into the text, like reply coupons in
magazines.  But the minutia is interesting to a scholar like myself.  I'm
becoming engrossed in graphing how little new information is published in a
new edition, how quickly the new edition follows the previous one, and what
the price differential is, compared with buying used books two or three
years old.  I'm going to plot it over five years, with little dots going
further back and into the future, and see how much the clods in New York
will offer me to bury my thesis, before I publish it with the offers as an
appendix."

       Other teachers tried to be hip and buddy-like with kids.  As if.
Not Mr. Fenn.  He rapped, but in private.  He used the H word, but in
private.  He was working on his doctorate, but in private.  Called Dixie,
Drop-Dead, but in private.  Was awesome to hang with, in private.

       "How much did you read?" Roger asked the young boy, now again
sitting at his left waist.
       "I wanted to read the introductory chapter," the boy replied, "but I
had to get away from some older kid in my theater group.  He has too much
star power for high school and has apparently boinked himself into limbo.
Figures me for next, I reckon."
       "And you've already got an asshole," Mr. Fenn observed.
       Dixie couldn't help another blush, they felt so terrific, in
private.  His teacher again apologized and explained about the Darvon.
Stuff must not be half-bad.
       "So, bottom line," the comic winked, "you're still running around
with that dangerous thing known as A little knowledge."
       "Yeah," the boy agreed.  "Who did it, Greeks, Royal Navy, Ninjas,
Nazis, and monks did it, that's why civilization survived the middle ages,
monks after boys, turning out scrolls and wine because the boys weren't all
that great.  Who.  And why.  Because it keeps us female free, always a
choice, and can heighten friendships.  That all makes sense.  Leaving a
single yawning gap in my knowledge.  What did they do?"

       "Oh, what didn't they do!" exclaimed the hopped up teacher, then he
gulped another apology with a quick, "Sorry.
       "I sound more like I'm trying to run you off," Roger went on, "and
I'm not.  I'm super glad you're here."
       "I'm glad, too," Dixie replied.
       "Okay,": the teacher continued, "as to what they do.  Bottom line?
All but identical to the things a boy and girl do together, starting with
hand-holding and including sexual intercourse, with minor variations in the
latter act."

       "What do a boy and girl do?"
       "Get in trouble," came the answer.  "Eighteen years of legal
responsibility, and a lifetime of worry; all in all, life's most
comprehensive and enduring payback for run amok emotion.  And I ought to
know.  I've just been half-roasted in the name of backyard heroics, and
that's nothing compared to the wrong mate and wrong kids.

       Dixie Montez shuddered visibly at the thought, and his teacher
reached for his hand to comfort him.  He might as well have used a cattle
prod.  Was his hero still on fire?  Holding hands, he'd said.  Made it
sound like a casual first step.  The old joke went it wasn't' the fall, it
was the sudden stop.  It wasn't the touch of his fingers, it was that it
would ever stop.

       "Bad touching must be really bad, if it was half as bad as good
touching was good."  Had he read that somewhere?  Not likely.  Must have
made it up, himself.  And while being touched.  No wonder he got such good
grades in English.  It way a phony world; a world of lies and crazy people.
They said this, and they said that, boasting about roasting and toasting in
hell.  For this?  With someone he liked?  At his behest?  He was twelve,
not defective.  Mozart wrote operas at nine, and a nervous-Nelly would
freak at a masher in her thirties.  When they'd been talking Who and Why,
Mr. Fenn had explained that it was men searching for alternative sex who
had financed the crucial embryonic stages of the development of the
appliance computer.  Added to preserving the writings of the Ancients, the
total was life as it was known in the modern era.  When the computer
revolution had flagged at the turn of the century, due to saturation,
another boy lover had come along with a reality game -- "grow Pedro" --
which had developed into an economic engine with all the power of Microsoft
and Intel.  The game had an unabashed M/b context in extensive side
adventures.  "All in all, the pervs had been in there when needed; we'd be
living in caves without them, " Mr. Fenn said, "and, all the straight folk
have to do is hassle us enough, and caves it'll be again," he'd concluded,
after adding that the cost of exaggerated Puritanism in the matter would be
as much as twenty percent of the male population, outright.

       That was academic.  All of it.  Who: Why, were and when.  How.  That
was clinical.  It was almost funny they were in a hospital.  On second
thought, if touching a few fingers felt like this, he might need medical
attention before very long.  No.  Loads of other boys did it with a man.
Millions.  Some killed themselves because they took it out of context;
probably, if psychiatry could dig more than an inch, more killed themselves
or went to live in dysfunction junction because they couldn't do it.  That
was a feeling he could relate to, if the building shook apart and he was
separated from his teacher for more than a few moments he'd hope he was
crushed, instantly.  Close to wobbly love.  Mr. Fenn had warned him about
that as stringently has he had warned him about rape vectors and disease.
Kissin' `n' stuff were for total privacy.  The best surprise was no
surprise.  Plus, it was ugly, in a civic sense, for any but attractive
young heterosexual couples to display excess affection in public.  Dixie
wondered what his teacher would think of Earl's girl and grandfather combo.
Maybe he should have taken just a peak, the kid had said the girl's face
was slack with what was happening to her.  Real slack.  He didn't really
know what it meant, but figured he was in the right place to find out.
That was the end of the academics, at least for the moment.

       "Have you ever been on a side trip?" Roger quizzed.  The Game.  Side
Trips.  Some kids got their parents to get authorization in their behalf as
young as seven and eight.  Lucky dogs.  Then again, lots of kids never got
it.  Parents choice.  He was meant to get his key at thirteen, a very
standard choice.  At the rate things were proceeding, anything Pedro got up
to on the screen was going to be an anticlimax.  He sure hoped so, and just
a mention of the game, in context, seem to bode well.

       "Can't, until my birthday," Dixie said, wishing he could think of
something more.
       "Wish we were at my house," the teacher mused.  "It's a great ice
breaker for a man and boy.  We could take turns guiding Pedro through
various choices, good and bad."
       "I wish we were at you house, too," Dixie agreed, finally summoning
up the nerve to ask about Pedro's choices.  "What's the difference between
the good things and bad things?"
       "That's kind of in the eye of the beholder," Roger said.  "One man's
meat, that kind of thing.  Some boys like it rough, demanding, domineering,
humiliating; slam-bam, thank you, my-boy.  That kind of thing.  Other kids
like a long, lingering relationship; lots of talk, kissing, cuddling, and
being really tender and gentle when things happen.  Some like to boss, some
like to be bossed.  Some like a secure bedroom setting, some like to be
out-of-doors, others like the back seat of a car, or even front, bucket
seats.  Some like a one-night-stand, others want a long-term relationship.
It's really what the saying "Different Strokes," means.  Guys use different
strokes when they do stuff, you know, masturbate.

       "In all, I guess good and bad are relative," the teacher continues,
"though, to be practical, it's a pretty sure bet boys that bounce around
too much are probably looking for a hell of a lot more than they'll ever
find, while boys that stick with a single partner, or a small group, never
have to look for anything, at all.  To me, that's good."

       "Sounds that way to me, too," Dixie responded.  Somehow they were
whispering now.  It seemed to go with the way they were holding hands.
Fondling, more than just holding.

       "I picked you as that kind," Roger said.  "Not that it would matter.
It's who you are that counts, if you play, or how you play matters, but not
as much as you might think."  The teacher went on to say that homosexual
couples had between fifteen and one-hundred-fifty encounters over the span
of their relationship. "That's a liability, for us," Roger acknowledged,
"because even a once-a-week couple make love a thousand times or more over
the years."

       "So men get tire of boys, after awhile?" Dixie asked.
       "Most often," the older male acknowledged.  "Not to worry though,"
he added, "because sex has nothing to do with friendship, and a male/male
relationship, in the first place. "

       With a start, Dixie realized his English teacher was right.  He'd be
just as happy sitting on the bed if they weren't holding hands.  Just
talking.  Being close.  Being alone.  The subject could have been chess,
astronomy or music.  Could have been nothing, for that matter.

       Yet holding hands was extremely nice.  Looking at Mr. Fenn's lithe,
almost boyish chest and belly was super nice.  Since they were alone
together, and talking about mature things, the man did not attempt hiding
the pole under the thin hospital sheet.  The eight-inch log hardly eight
inches away.  The one that seemed to radiate a cooking amount of heat, even
through the sheet.  The one that stole every third glance of the boy.
Where the other two had been devoted to taking in the new surroundings for
the first few minutes, they now split between Roger's eyes, and polite
glances away and round and about the room, in general.  As a lull developed
in the conversation, the twelve year old found his teacher's handsome
Nordic face and huge erection were intruding into his ocular routine to the
exclusion of all else.  Sure, it was a hospital room, but there was a view
to look at, and gizmos and mechanisms galore; lots of places for a kid to
look, if he wanted to.  Finally, it was chest face, bare chest, boner, and
back to face.  No point in being coy about it.  They'd had mature
conversations, knew where they were headed, and were in accord.

       "Well," Roger finally growled, "enough with the dainty talkabout.
What I need is a freaking shower.  I'm meant to have an orderly with me to
keep the lawyers happy.  Do you see an orderly in the room?"
       "No," Dixie whispered with a giggle, ripping with excitement at the
turn in conversation.
       "That makes two of us," Roger agreed.  "Does that give you any
ideas?"
       His teacher might have had Darvon to lean on, but the boy had his
own little thrill basket.  "Lawyers are very important," he posited, "and
can't have personalities, because if they say anything frivolous it might
get them in trouble.  I think making them happy must be very important."

       "Any ideas on how to do that?" Roger asked his pupil.
       "No," the boy quipped, brown eyes shining.  "If, for example, I were
to help you in the shower, you'd manage to bathe safely, in all likelihood.
This would simply be stealing food off the table of your own attorney for
want of a nice juicy slip-and-fall."

       How right Mr. Fenn was.  They could have been kidding around about
anything.  Man and boy was the living end.  Perfect.  Well, almost.  It was
pretty obvious making two lawyers happy was beyond them.  Maybe it would be
better just to ignore counsel.  Cool.  That left each other.  The staring
went on for more minutes until the two males set up a rocking motion that
ended with Dixie standing beside the bed and carefully helping his wounded
teacher to the floor.  The most exciting part had come when the sheet had
been removed and Dixie had seen his Mr. Fenn was wearing only briefs.
"Burn patients get to wear what they want," he explained, adding that if
Dixie ever wanted to try the bedridden routine, he might wise to do himself
some other harm and tolerate the paper nightie, split-ass and all.

       Dixie was about to comment that he'd jump out the window, as long as
a certain English instructor would come and visit, especially if a shower
was in the offing, when he noted the sound of the door hissing on its
mechanism.  Making sure Roger was stable, he peeked around the end of the
curtain just as the door bumped closed.  No one was there.  Must have
opened it by mistake.  No problem.  He went back to his teacher, and braced
him free of the bed and across the room, into the spacious bathroom.
Hadn't Roger said the nurses would knock?  Yeah, but it might have been a
visitor with the wrong number, or housekeeping.  Anything.  He was just
jumpy because he was alone in the bathroom with a child molester in his
underpants.  Playing the crutch made it legit, he supposed, but, still, it
was the most exciting thing that had ever happened.  More than a dirt bike
on Monday, a horse on Tuesday, a thousand dollars on Wednesday, a dog on
Thursday, and Three Wishes on Friday.  He knew it was just hormones
talking, but, if he wanted to think that way, then the little boy Mr. Fenn
had tackled was merely oxidizing.

       Even as quick as just getting across the room and into the bath,
Roger began finding his legs.  "I'm actually fine, just shaky from the
drugs and being flat on my back for three days," he explained.  Dixie
stayed close, anyway.  He knew his goal was loftier than no happy lawyers,
so he kept his right arm firm around his teacher's .waist, while Mr. Fenn
leaned against him, anyway.  That was nice.

       "Can I still help you in the shower?" the twelve year old asked.
       "If you want," the man answered.
       "I want," the boy whispered.
       "Better if we close the bathroom door, too, then," Mr. Fenn said.
Dixie left his teacher braced against the wheel chair assist beside the
toilet, and eased the door shut.  Wondered if he should tell Roger about
the swinging door to the room, but there were other things to think about.

       "Do you want to sit?" he asked the man, nodding at the closed
toilet.
       "No," Roger said, "I'm okay here.  "It'll be easier for you to help
me with my underwear, if you don't mind.  That's one thing I can't manage
all trussed up like this.  Plus, washing, of course."

       He could have washed himself, in extremis, but where would the fun
be in that?  No, Roger thought, seriously, this would be best, wobbly legs,
slippery floor, drugs.  Yeah, why take chances?  The facade of
legitimacy would allow young Dixie to confront his options with bolt holes
at every step.  In fact it was all deliciously perfect.  Duh'uh.  It would
be perfect in a refrigerator box or on a forced march.

       "Does it hurt when it's that big," Dixie asked, staring unabashedly.
       "Does yours, when you get a boner?" Roger asked, in return.
       "Sort of," Dixie said, blushing when he realized that this was the
first time he'd had an erection so hard his penis actually did feel hot,
tight and congested.  "But yours is so much bigger."
       "Well," mused the teacher aloud, "it's not quite as bad as playing
fireman, barehanded, but, yeah, I've been drugged, poked, prodded,
bandaged, questioned, interviewed, and photographed for three days and
nights.  It hurts."

       Dixie could imagine.  He asked if it would help if he got it soapy
in the hot water and gave a massage.  That was the end of teacher's legs,
and he half fell onto the toilet, with a groan.

       "Come sit on my lap," he whispered.

       Dixie responded immediately, would have leapt at the opportunity but
for all the bandages on Mr. Fenn's right side and arm.  Instead, he lowered
himself to the man, staring into the handsome face with it's devastating
crew cut.  They didn't work for most guys, but when they did, they were
totally cool.  Macho and sensitive, if that was possible.

       "Do really want to come in with me?" Roger whispered to the boy.
       "Yes," Dixie whispered back.
       "I've never asked you personal stuff," the teacher went on.  "Is it
okay if I do?  Sometimes guys like to tell everything, other guys like to
keep their secrets private, and most boys your age get totally embarrassed,
either way."
       "I don't mind, I mean, yeah, it's embarrassing, but so is trying to
honk French.  And all you get for that is the lingue croissant. "
       "Not all," Roger whispered in response, explaining there was more to
the culture than nasal vibes.
       "Like what?" the boy challenged, skepticism healthy in his bright
eyes.

       Well, he was almost right.  Miserable place in history aside, they
cooked up good, and knew how to...
       "Kiss.  Kissing.  French.  It's hard to explain.  A case of a tongue
being worth a thousand words."

       Back came that special glow to those brown eyes.  "Doesn't sound
like proper ground for an English teacher," the boy observed.
       "Touche," Roger responded, sticking out the tip of his tongue.
       "How, now, wow, wow, wow!" Dixie cheered to himself, letting his
tongue emulate his handsome teacher.

       They came together staring into each others' eyes.  When the boy
lost focus, he clamped his lids and stuck his fingers in his ears, the
better to concentrate.  It worked.  The first touch was like electric
Kool-Aid.  Sweet and shocking.  No mixing, no fussy ice trays, no sweating
glass pitcher, just flavor and high voltage.  Holding hands was kids'
stuff.  He knew that now.  And it was babyish to have his fingers in his
ears, so he removed them, giving them to Roger to play with.  Yikes, you
could do both at the same time, and the effect was cumulative.  Who Knew?

       "Dix," Mr. Fenn whispered, bringing the boy's ear within inches of
his mouth as he continued to twine the impossibly cute little fingers, "I
want you to know that I love you.  Am in love with you.  It's totally
unnatural and if you want to run away, its okay.  No one would blame you."

       "What's unnatural about it?" the boy whispered back, not seeming to
want to go anywhere.
       "Age and sex, both," the teacher explained.
       "I knew it would be my fault," Dixie whispered, enough giggle in his
voice to indicate he was capable of teasing.  Good.  That was a happy sign.

       "Well," the teacher responded, "just remember the door is open, this
one, the outer one, all doors, all the time.  If you get uncomfortable, you
can split.  No questions, no explanations.  Okay?"
       "What if I love you, too," Dixie replied.  "Maybe I'd prefer it if
the doors were locked so you could do anything you want, anything that made
you happy?"
       "I'd just keep adding locks, in that case," Roger said.  "I'd be so
busy locking you up, all for myself, nothing exciting would ever happen."
       "And they say kids are moron," Dixie whispered, now insanely close,
as if he were initiating more kissing.
       "Yes," Roger nodded solemnly, "but guess who has most of the sperm?"

       The lewd frankness of the rejoinder caused the child to blush, and
attack.  Leading with his sweet boy mouth, he followed with long, slender
arms, kissing and grappling, childishly, to be sure, but with devastating
effect on his English teacher.

       "I love you, too," the boy gasped, wildly predatory, but still at
the verge of articulateness.  Then he was all business, capturing Roger's
roving fingers up around his childish long neck and commandeering them for
duty at the top button of his shirt, as he went back to trying to pull
himself actually inside his ultra sexy teacher.

       Roger seemed to know what to do with the buttons.  Maybe it was
instinct, or maybe he'd done this kind of thing before.  Dixie was beyond
caring.  He wanted to be bare chested, like his teacher was.  That was all
that counted.  Bare chested, and proud.  As he felt his third button yield,
the boy eased himself from the fiery lips of his mentor, and sat up
straight, arching his trunk and slapping his hands behind his neck.
Roger's lips weren't all of him that was on fire.  His eyes looked even
hotter as he stared into his student's beautiful young face while he slowly
coped with the remaining three buttons and peeled aside the shirt, exposing
the extraordinary sweetness nowhere duplicated in nature or art.

       "Be neat with it," he whispered as the boy removed the garment.
Dixie folded the shirt and draped it on the rail beside the seat.  "And you
pants," he added, his eyes now lasers.

       Reluctantly, slowly, the young boy eased from the
thirty-four-year-old man's lap.  Only for this, by god.  Stood as close as
ever he could, hands still behind his neck, young breast still arched, not
coyly, wantonly.  The handsome Nordic teacher fingered his young boy
gently, starting at his collar bone, tracing blue veins wherever they might
wander, just his finger tips, roving, exploring, fondling and caressing.

       Now he wasn't being kissed, wasn't be held, wasn't holding hands,
yet this was more than all of them.

       "Are you going to be a child molester, when you grow up?" Roger
asked his student.
       "Yes," the boy whispered, by now slack faced with what the man was
doing to him.
       "Some men," the teacher explained, "like doing this so much they
marry women they don't love, or even like, to get a boy of their own.
That's not likely to work out well.  The best way is to cop serious grades,
especially in high school and college.  Keep fit.  Then you can get jobs at
summer camps, or be a scout leader.  Dig?"
       "Yes," the boy answered.
       "If you are lucky enough to do this even once with a boy that likes
you," Roger went on, "you will be very well repaid for any and all
efforts."
       "How many boys can you get," the little novice fag asked.
       "Three, in a lifetime," came the quick answer.  "More than that is
simply less.  Less is, conversely, more, but the only way you can find that
out, is by having more, if luck and chance are with you.  And three hardly
becomes a blur, so it's not a high-risk experiment."
       "Thank goodness," the boy intoned, the mockery in-tune and friendly.
       "Cute helps, too," the young man pointed out.

       How did he look like a boy, in his thirties?  Man, that was
motivation.  Stuff up the brain, keep the bod looking good.  Look what
could happen to a guy.  He could have a lover with childishly soft skin and
winsome ways.  Long legs, a slim waist, and tiny nipples just to make sure
everything was absolutely perfect.

       They were cute Dixie wished there was a tall mirror in the hospital
bathroom, but he could understand why that might not be such a good idea.
Lacking something to reflect in, the boy conjured up his own mirror image
of the almost shockingly athletic teacher, behind him, and he didn't look
half-bad, himself, tall, lithe and brown eyed, slightly glazed by what the
man standing behind him was doing with his hands, especially down low on
his childish tummy.  Getting molested.  Why did they call it that?  But, he
could easily guess.  The though of anyone else in that mirror image would
be a definite deal breaker.  Someone could make him do this, and that would
be a bummer, first class.  On the other hand, so would be getting punched
out by a high-school trog, breaking a tooth.  Loads of things.  Even if
Sandusky, the slob janitor in his wing, messed with him, would it be worse
than basketball star Buckeye Chain with his jabbing elbows?  They made such
a deal of it in school.  Dolls.  Bad touching.  Of course even back at the
turn of the century, bad had meant good, half the time.  Was that why Sammy
Eddleston had giggled so much?  Hmm.  Yes!  Of course!  That was so
awesome!  A boy his age.  He could talk to.  Cute, too.  Wow, this was
exciting stuff.  Who even needed mirrors?

       Now that he was standing between his teacher's legs, the man leaned
into him and really went after him.  Dixie pictured his new best friend in
the world, Sammy, standing beside him, letting a nice man do the same
things to him that Roger was doing to him.  Nibbling his neck and touching
him everywhere he was bare, sometimes with finger around his tiny nipples,
sometimes with palms slowly moving up and down his lean young flanks, and
now, worst of all, with his fingers still as death just an inch above his
belt, pushing gently, motionless, yet, for all their stillness, seeming to
yearn lower.  That's what he'd want to do with Sammy, too, go lower.  So
the child understood and raised slowly to his tip toes, bringing himself to
the frozen man, while gently thrusting his hips forward.  His teacher was a
pretty smart guy, but Dixie wanted to be sure he got the message.  He
needn't have given the matter a second thought.

       Roger abandon him, all of a sudden.  No more fingers.  Apparently it
was tactical, because the fingers under his belly were replaced by a
tongue.  That was good.  And the freed-up fingers went to work on his
sneakers.  Very good.  But do hurry.

       Now he was a barefoot boy with a wet belly.  Definitely gettin'
molested.  Being got naked.  The fingers at his belt were doing that as he
stood close to Roger and stared into the beautiful blue eyes staring back
into his.  He was getting made, getting laid, getting fried, fricasseed and
filleted.  Wow!  Any kid who didn't find a nice guy do this was MISSING
OUT.  His belt was just plain being undone.  Pulled apart and allowed to
dangle.  Belt, buckle, button, zipper, jeans.  He braced on Roger's
shoulders as the teacher skinned him to his underpants to the tune of
clinking brass.  Remembering his tip regarding the shirt, Dixie kicked his
pants free, retrieved them, and folded them over the rail.  It made him
dizzy to think his plain white jockeys would soon be beside them.  Oh,
yeah, holding hands was for kids, alrighty.  His body knew it even if his
brain was congealed with petrification.  Is this what they mean by
bone-head? he wondered.  Will I ever have another thought other than on the
subject of what he's doing to my naked legs?  "Does he have to caress my
inner thighs up so cotton-pickin' high?" he asked himself.  Of course, by
this time it was the only cotton he was wearing, limiting teacher's
options.  He was glad even of the stupid thought, for it meant his brain,
even if damaged, was still alive.  But how long would that last?

       Now the powerful male left hand was at his back-side.  Not bashful,
like before, either.  Going right up under dem cotton fields, like it owned
the place, which it did.  Man, did that feel awesome.  Especially when the
invader went down, and toward his front.  Especially...

       And now Roger was kissing, that French way he'd discovered earlier,
his belly, and molesting him back there.  And kissing him wetter, that he
might be able to handle, but lower.  Uh-uh.
No... not... no... not... any... oh, no, lower.  He couldn't see.  Roger's
head was in the way.  What was he doing with his teeth?  If he was Roger,
and little Sammy Eddleston was trembling in front of him like a nervous
school girl, what would he be doing with his teeth?  Playing snake.  That
answer was easy.  Playing cotton mouth.

       Roger was off the seat now, right down on his knees.  He could have
been perfectly healthy and in his own bathroom, or anywhere, for all he was
using his hands right hands, right of left.  Dixie stood, hips thrust
forward, still able to keep his fingers laced behind his neck, so Roger
could see him that way when he looked up from what he was doing once in
awhile.  But it was just a pose.  The second his teacher's probing tongue
touched the tip of his swollen penis, the boy whimpered and bent over the
athletic man with the crew cut, taking his head in his hands and holding on
for dear life.  His young body was rocked to his bones with the slippery,
hot witnesses the teachers said he should avoid.  Roger was really playing
around with his tongue and the school boy thought of the kind of franks
that plumped when they were cooked.  He was getting so big it was weird.
He was also getting completely naked.  Being rendered thus deliberately by
the handsome wounded hero acting out in an unspeakable, duh'uh, manner at
his groin, violating every code and cannon of professionalism.  Doing a
good job of it, too.  What was this all about?  The boy had to find out,
so, bracing his chest and belly against the nibbling head, he dropped his
hands to his waist and peeled down his own underpants.  That did seem to be
what Roger was about, distracted, yes, but even so, it was pretty obviously
what he wanted.  To make love to a naked boy.

       Now the boy was naked.  Since his underpants were unlikely to come
off the worse for wear by sitting on the bathroom floor, he didn't bother
reaching down to retrieve them.  Just flipped them aside, and spread his
legs like he'd have wanted Sammy to do if it had been the two of them
together, this way.

       Roger kept doing things do him down there.  Bent almost double, he
could see nothing of what was happening, just the sexy powerful back of his
beautiful mentor, but he could feel everything.  A toying and licking, all
under his belly and around his upper thighs, without anything sort of
specific and deliberate like happening.  Maybe it was like a movie trailer,
a media tease, a sample, a free trip to view timeshares, a preview, he
hoped so, an appetizer.  Well, that was pretty obvious.  No matter what the
health ed instructors said, something extremely tasty and delicious was
about to happen.  He could feel it all through him, like a tuning fork hit
with a mallet.  Too much.  It was going to happen and he didn't want it
too.  He was horny and wanted to see Roger like he was.  Naked, with a
boner, his legs spread wide.  Two could play at this game.

       Signaling with his finger tips at his teacher's temples, he almost
instantly converted the powerful mature male from groveling cock hound to
beautiful Greek statue, standing tall, heaving chest arched in display,
hands behind his thick neck, waiting for the child now kneeling at his
waist to do his will with those beautiful young boy hands.  He would have
given a moment to what Dixie might have done with that cute boyish mouth,
but he didn't want to drop in his tracks, even with the stainless railing
to break his fall.  Luckily, the boy's curiosity outweighed his homosexual
instincts, so he stripped Roger's briefs to the floor, and eased them from
under lifted feet.  Deliberately picked them up and dropped them on his own
much smaller pair, then looked up to see what he'd done.

       What moron in all of creation had invented cotton?  Roger looked
stunning without an inch of the stuff.  Glorious.  Huge.  A great big ear
of corn thrusting from his waist.  Up against his belly, tight, like he was
a little boy.  Dixie stood, separated from the man in front of him by
inches, and looked up to Roger.

       "Hi," he whispered.
       "Hello, darling," Roger whispered back, adding, "are you ready to
have sex?"
       "Yes," Dixie whispered.
       "Sit on my lap," the beautiful boy man coached, sitting.

       Dixie moved slowly to the man.  Roger placed the fingers of his left
hand low on the child's waist and guided him forward.  His student was
swollen out of control.  More than half a man, the twelve-year-old boy
jutted hugely, beautifully.  His penis was sure on six full inches, long
and beautifully slim, circumcised, an entire carnal gallery unto it's pink,
pulsing throbbing self.  Roger had a momentary fantasy glimpse of Dixie
ejaculating and quashed it as evil.  Thinking like that could ruin
everything.  Which left something else to think about.  That was going to
happen.  Someday.

       Now the child was against him, coming slowly to him, easing forward
on his legs, his eyes stunned at feeling the powerful legs between his
tender inner thighs as he slid ever closer to touching their big purple
cocks together.  Both males looked down as Roger guided the boy gently all
the way to him.  To see and feel the first incredible touch of their naked
penises was indescribable; tore grunting moans from the child molester and
his young boy.

       For long moments they sat, nearly stunned, gently surging and
probing against each other, not daring to think.

       "Would you like to be doing this with Sammy?" Roger whispered.
       "If I was sitting back-to-you," the boy whispered back, "we could do
it on your lap."

       Could it be the boy had a flair for sex?  That was unusual.  Boys
his age were generally too immature to engage in strategic carnality.  It
was either acting out a crush, tender and longing, or acting out the rut of
a humpmaster or hustler.  A cutie with a brain?  He was going to be hell on
wheels.  Lucky little Sammy.

       "Can we try kissing, again?" Dixie asked.
       "I thought you were going to masturbate with Sammy," Roger teased.
       "That's just a dream," the boy responded, matter-of-factly.  "You're
not.  I mean you are, but, you know..."

       Enough of that kind of talk.  The boy surged to the man, almost
forgetting his bandages.  He applied his sweet boy mouth as a drug for
pain, and it worked.  They eased fully together and were soon recycling
their very breaths, too mindless to breath through their noses.

       "What was it you said I was going to do with Sammy, you know,
sitting on your lap?" Dixie whispered after long minutes of kissing to the
verge of cyanosis.
       "Do you know about that?" Roger whispered back.
       "No," Dixie said.  "It's something to do with jerking off, but I
don't know what that is, either."
       "How about sperm," Roger quizzed the young boy, "do you know what
that is, I mean besides being what gets females pregnant?"
       "No," said Dixie.  "Just what it looks like under a microscope.
From books. "
       "Has anything ever happened," Roger whispered to the youth, "you
know, while you were sleeping, and you got wet in your pajamas."
       "Twice," the boy acknowledged, blushing.  "How'd you know about
that?"
       "It's totally common," the teacher responded.  "When was the last
time it happened?"
       "About a week ago," the boy said.  "After our last talk, you know,
about the Greeks and Ninja's."
       "Were you dreaming?" Roger asked.
       "You were telling me about Atlantis, you know, in a Roman bath, and
someone was calling me to come out and play, so I had to leave something
for you because I knew you were going to miss me, and I knew you wanted me
to be with my friends, and I had to thank you, at the same time, so that's
what I did for you, and when I woke up I almost jumped out of my skin."

       Roger's eyes glazed.  "Would you like me to do the same?" he asked,
"you know, give you my cum, that's another name for sperm."
       "And semen, I read that," the boy whispered; "yes."
       "Sit back a little if you want to see," the teacher guided.

       Dixie slithered back six inches and looked down.

       "This is what homosexual males often do their first time together,"
Roger explained.  "They like to watch each other spray.  Get the hot sperm
all over each other.  It's sort of a bonding thing."

       Dixie was afraid of the usual things for a twelve year old, but
Roger's definition of "sort-of" must be terrifying.  Prolific of
imagination, for a moment he pictured them sperming super glue all over
each other, but it was a fleeting image because he had no idea what semen
actually looked like.  His first experiences had ended with a damp
washcloth, and he hadn't thought to linger over the trauma.

       "Is it sticky?" the boy asked, grasping at a thread of reasonable
curiosity in the tumble of hormone roasted imagery.
       "Sticky, in a way, and slick and slippery, too." Roger whispered,
his voice now a barely audible husking rasp.
       "What does it look like," the boy whispered back, equally excited.
       "It's white, sort of, and either thick or thin, creamy and sometimes
almost clotted, or syrupy and loose so it flies all over the place when it
sprays."
       "How much is there?" the child panted softly.
       "You really like talking about it, don't you," Roger said.
       "Is that okay?" Dixie replied.
       "It's awesome," murmured the teacher, "and I'd say that even if I
were not an English teacher."
       "I hope Sammy likes to whisper, too," Dixie said, then returned to
his quest for quantitative analysis.
       "It's hard to measure," Roger explained as best he could.  "How much
there is, and how long it takes to come out are two of life's genuine
mysteries."
       "Like flying saucers?"
       "No," Roger responded, "more like illusion.  Seeing and believing.
Only in this case it's feeling, seeing and believing, but in no set order."
       "It sounds confusing," Dixie said.
       "Well," Roger elaborated, "as far as time goes, the clock says one
thing.  Some-odd seconds, up to half a minute, measured tick-tock.  As to
time, from a personal viewpoint, fully human, fully alive, with a partner
you love, it can not only take part of a lifetime, it can totally change
you life.  Render you a gibbering idiot, which is what they call falling in
love, and that can last fifty years.
       "As to the amount," Roger continued, bemused at almost being
speechifying under the circumstances, "it's like time, only instead of
parts of a minute, you end up with, A, parts of an ounce, or B, parts of an
ocean, again, depending on the overall attachment you feel for your
partner."

       Dixie's mind reeled.  If that was what jerking of was, what was the
rest like?  What could it possibly be like?  The proverbial hand job was,
according to locker-room lore, second base after feeling-up.  It was meant
to be messy, and the boy grabbed this thread back to a reality in which he
was glad he was naked with his clothes neatly out of the way.  If it was
messy, that would be okay.  They were in a bathroom.  Washcloths at hand.
Towels.  A shower, for cripe's sake.  Let it rain, let it pour.

       "Is it going to go everywhere with us?" Dixie asked.
       "It's been a long time for both of us," Roger said, "so everywhere
is about right.  If you want you can move your clothes out of the way,
otherwise we can wipe it off.  But you've got to be careful; you know, if
you do stuff with a mature male in secret, like in a bathroom or something,
because sperm can get where you might not see it and give away your
secret."
       "Do you think I'll do it in a bathroom someday, I mean like with a
stall?"
       Roger gazed into the boy's eyes.  "Could happen," he replied.  "It's
pretty exciting, going with a strange man or boy to a secret place so you
can touch each other."
       "Do you do that with boys?" the child asked.
       "I used to, once in awhile.  Being a teacher limits one's
opportunities for off-the-cuff relationships."
       "Then why be a teacher?" the boy queried, again messaging a filament
of common sense that ran through his precious young mind.

       "Cruising strangers is a novelty act," Roger explained.  "I'd hate
to think I could never do it again, but once every few years is more than
enough gratuitous excitement at my age."
       "Other guys aren't that way," Dixie observed.
       "That's true," said Roger.  "It's like food, booze, dope, gambling.
Man hasn't invented much folks can't get hooked on.  Some people are mad
for pennies, others for diamonds.  Cars, boats, horses, houses, gardens,
chain saws, the list is endless.  It's just that cute juveniles are at the
top of it, and the wise master knows to indulge with the gravest restraint
and discipline."
       "Why?" the young student asked.

       "Because less is more.  Christmas comes once a year, therefore it's
kind of a big deal.  If it came every week it would be a total nuisance.
Stress you dead in six months.  The only successful approach is to be a
good, solid person, teacher, cab driver, whatever, don't get fat, and hope
for the best.  Adventure once in awhile, because plenty of boys like to do
it, and wait and see if maybe once every few years someone really special
might happen along.  If it never happens, it makes for the sweetest dreams
imaginable, and if it does, it's a dream you can share.  Something like
that.  It's all mind and personality.  Cute-and-humpable is worth about
fifty bucks."

       Dixie harkened back to a retromercial he'd seen.  Paraphrasing, he
came up with Copping A Feel, ten dollars, doing the jerking off thing,
twenty dollars, doing whatever else, fifty dollars.  Sitting and talking
about feeling, and jerking, and the other stuff, priceless.  Pretty good
for twelve.

       Less might be more, Dixie acknowledged to himself, but there ought
to be limits.  Luckily for the boy, there were.

       "Do you want to help me, or just watch?" Roger whispered, leaning to
the boy so the tender young shoulder was under his chin.

       "Help," the boy responded, softly as a goose feather landing on a
snow drift.
       "Do what comes naturally, what you feel like," the male coached,
fondling the boys tiny right nipple with his left hand.

       What he felt like?  Getting born in reverse was what he felt like.
Crawling actually inside and curling up for a thousand-year nap and
playtime.  But life was making do.  His hand went to the tip of the big
penis, he toyed with the glycerin-like fluid, clear and slippery; musky
smelling, wildly exciting for all its relatively innocuous appearance.
Dixie had forgotten an important question.

       "What if some gets in my mouth?" he whispered, looking up from the
big penis he was fingering to Roger.
       "You'll have to decide for yourself.  Some people spit, other
swallow.  It doesn't matter, but I think most boys like to try getting it
in their mouths once in awhile.  Some absolutely love it, come to live for
fresh, hot sperm.  Others would barf if they even tasted a drop.  It's one
of the reasons they say Different strokes for different folks."

       "I knew that had to be nasty," the boy giggled.
       The experienced teacher pointed out the fact that twelve year olds
lived in a nasty world.  Dixie figured he probably knew what he was talking
about, so didn't argue the case.  But there was definitely more to nasty
than boogers, cooties and road kill.  Sex with a naked man, for one thing.

       From playing Dixie went to an experimental stroking, firmly and
slowly fisting from the tip -top to the thick, heave base, miles away.

       Everything was changed, doing this.  Time.  Feeling.  Touch.  All of
them.  Breathing.  Boys didn't go through life half holding their breaths,
half panting.  It was almost like being electrocuted.  He'd heard women had
a biological clock.  Poor things.  Imagine having a clock for anything so
exciting.  What would you do when the alarm sounded?  Act wantonly and
irresponsibly, figured the boy, just like a kid.

       Dixie resettled to his task, stroking his teacher's great seven-inch
phallus hard and fast, pumping, with his strong right hand, while with his
left he gripped the rugged shaft along the sides on the theory that if the
sperm was going to spray out of the tip it had to get there somehow.  With
so much magic in the air, something had to be real, so the boy gripped with
his left, way down low, and pumped with long hard strokes with his right.

       Right on.  It wasn't a subtle pulse, it was a hard spasm.  Right
where it should be.  The man almost clicked, he tensed so violently.  Dixie
could see why.  He was spraying.  It was happening.  Cum.  Roger was
cumming.  Big time.  All over him.  Both of them.  Salty syrupy sperm
spattered across his lips.  It was okay.  But they could clean up later.
If the clock ever started again.  Right now, it was frozen as the teacher
spurted on his belly and chest again and again.

       Then Roger got wicked.  He caught some of the sperm Dixie was
stroking out of him on his good left hand, and did to the young boy what
the boy was doing to him.  His motion wasn't what it might have been, but
the results were immediate.  For a few seconds their climaxes overlapped,
both of them coming hard together, then Roger let his last seed spurt on
the child's boner and sat dazed, looking down as his powerful afterglow
faded to the ass bouncing excitement of the boy's grunting climax.

       Moments passed as they held each other, then Roger whispered, "It's
better hot, if you want to get some in your mouth."  Both males wriggled
together, the boy quickly developing a taste for the copious nectar of his
mate.  "Enough," the teacher whispered after a few moments of indulgence,
and bid the boy get a cloth from the sink to finish up and dab the splatter
from his shirt and clothes hanging on the rail.

       "How you doing, Dixie?" Charles whispered after they'd regained some
degree of composure.
       "I'm okay," the boy answered, not quite stunned.
       "Sometimes there's a letdown, you know, after," the man explained to
the boy.  "That's physical, or chemical, I guess; anyway, it happens
sometimes."
       "No," the boy said.  "I'm glad.  I though holding hands was awesome.
Even just listening to stories, you know, over the last few weeks.  I just
didn't know there'd be so much.  I mean, on sperm is all it takes.  Even
one drop feels like hot silver.  So why the flood?  It's just amazing,
that's all."
       "It may not happen again like that," Roger explained.  "From now on,
we'll be together a lot, or you'll be with other partners, so it's pretty
unlikely it will ever be quite like this again, for either of us."
       "Maybe that's why it was a million times more than adequate," Dixie
mused.  "No matter what, it will still be awesome."
       "That's true," Roger concluded.


       The males slowly cleaned themselves and dressed.  Both longed for a
full-length so the could watch various molestation activities, but, lacking
one, Roger molested the twelve year old, anyway.  Slowly the couple made
their way back into the hospital room.  And froze.

       They'd left the bed with the sheet and light blanket folded to the
side.  Now it was across the bed.  On it a small plastic device both males
recognized as a spot recorder with a memory chip.

       The bed wasn't made.  The hospital staff would have taken the
opportunity, it was that kind of place even for non-heroes.  Not likely
they'd go off leaving a recorder, either.  Neither Roger nor Dixie had to
be Sherlock Holmes to determine that something was up.

       Suddenly, a light dawned and Dixie muttered, "Oh, shit."
       "What," Roger asked, picking up the recorder.
       "Dweeb of the universe and interstellar creep," Dixie answered.  "He
must have followed me here from the mall.  He was there when I bought the
book.  Kettlemen.  Kid I know from drama club."

       Roger pressed the play button.

       "Ha, ha, ha," the recording began, "I've got two of these.  Hey.
I'll lend you mine and you fags can hear yourselves in stereo.  I half made
the bed, too.  Just a little gesture appreciation for the book.  I'll be
home reading about what you two are up to in the bathroom.  Should have
left the door open, this machine records a full hour.  Maybe next time.
Meantime, listen up..."

       The tape continued with voices from the hospital bed.  The dweeb had
recorded his greeting over the first part, but there was plenty more.  More
than enough...

       Dixie's shocked mind went back to an old AMC film he'd seen.  Cagney
used the word that was still heard from time to time.  He muttered it
aloud.

       "Fink."

Posted by Thomas@btl.net.

xxx