Date: Sun, 30 Sep 2001 12:48:15 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: Blissy's Song - 17
Blissy's Song -- 17
(M/b, anal., rom.)
by
Feather Touch
Nothing should be inferred from use of media personalities.
Chapt. 17
"What is it about faces?" Steve Brady mused. He was mildly a fan of
cable's Tech TV, probably more about computers than you ever wanted to
know, but it beats Old Face With Red Glasses who bring us more about fat
people than we ever want to know. On Tech TV as a thing called a Mitnik.
So cheap, so sleazy, so vapid, so irredeemably without personality and
character it was almost less than a garish impersonation impersonating a
person. And the fact the Mitnik was there, in the first place. His claim
to fame is a felony conviction as a hacker, six years in a penitentiary.
In summary, a Mitnik didn't look any better than a Mitnik should.
Speaking of ugly and speaking of face, I think Maxine the Absolutely
Holy of South Central self promotion just made my exceedingly restricted
nigger list. Way, way back I mentioned my extensionist philosophy. What
if the entire congress was made up of loud nigger ladies?
Breakfast Monday morning. Ten a.m. They hadn't gone nudist, nor
even bohemian. However she might want to in her little girl soul, Cindy
was not vamping for Pete. Jan was acting soft and friendly toward Gregg,
attentive but not lingering. Everyone tried not to look at Marsha,
swelling and bruising aside, softer, gentler and seemingly radiant unto
herself. She grinned a little embarrassed at the half diversion of her
family, while vastly understanding it.
In fact, the only problem child of the morning was turning out to be
Bobby. Steve had ordered a Bobcat so they could begin excavating on their
new lot, and the thought of driving it had the ten year old stirred up. It
was a cinch to read his face. Of popular culture figures, Carson seemed to
have the cheapest pan. He was followed by the Jew in Big Glasses in the
beach flick with the bag of reefer, who is followed by Mr. Nerves on
"Murphy Brown.." Travolta came next. Letterman was on the list. The
outstanding single collection had to be the day players on the black and
white Perry Mason episodes. Did they end up actors because they were too
weird to have any other job? Frank Gorshen had made it big off of weird.
Bruce Dern, ditto. And today? No more weird day players, they were often
better than the stars, in LaSalle's case, always better than the star; no,
it had gone on to the politicians. All the New York mayoralty candidates.
Yes, the bunnies belonged to history. Now they were more like wise
old turtles, with a trace of the eagle that ran deep. His little truants.
They'd covered themselves, but there was no time to waste in setting up
their complex Flower in the Attic scheme. Soonest gone, soonest forgotten.
Alice had purchased their new home in her sister's married name. The
Bradys would be history, close to the black boots of the new national fad,
but not too close.
Steve thought he had a project for Bobby, who would check the size
of a Bobcat driver? Plus, their waste neighborhood was probably safe
enough from official eyes or nosey noses for the kid to operate in safety
on an ad hoc basis. Ah, but the plans of mice and men. It turned out
Bobby had the agenda, so an hour was given over to the tyke.
"Are you happy?" Steve asked the boy.
"Making good progress," the youngster acknowledged.
"Did you and Cindy sleep together last night?" he queried.
"Down in the laundry room," the boy said.
"Is that going to work out?" Steve asked.
"It's like sleeping with a big, soft, friendly kitty. She makes me
laugh."
"Great," Steve responded, "but keep in touch on it. You guys are
awfully young to be together like an older couple. If it works, you're
very lucky campers."
"I don't like the sneaking part," the boy said.
"Sneaking is pretty standard in kids," Steve responded, "but it
shouldn't be much longer. Marsha is going to work on her mom, and that
should free things up so we can move from secrecy to privacy."
"Fine with me," Bobby agreed.
Were Brady silences the best New thing of all? To just sit with his
boy for ten minutes with not a thought in the world of having to say, or
listen, to anything seemed pretty ultimate. Surly teens, well that was
another story, but it was sure cool to just sit and not Word with a tyke.
Of course, nothing perfect lasts forever, nor can anything perfect
be exceeded.
"Can I take a shower with you?" Bobby whispered. Now it's okay to
say perfection cannot be exceeded.
Steve hardened like a spring. Grievance steward to the gland
department. "Yes," he choked in answer, reddening like a kid.
"Get me naked, slowly, okay, Dad?" the boy said, pushing the tall
athlete into an armchair and straddling his lap, staring with hot boy eyes.
As they began working on each other's buttons, Bobby asked about
Marsha.
"I beat her up," Steve said. "The story about her getting caught
between gang -- bangers at Seven Eleven isn't true.
"You did a super job," the boy lauded.
"It's definitely the kind of thing you want to do right, the first
time," Steve pointed out.
"You probably saved her life in more ways than one," Bobby said. "I
mean what was she going to be with all her personality? A waitress, a
cocktail waitress, then no waitress, at all? Plus Pete is no one to joke
around with, at all. Anybody tries to come between him and Kelly? call out
Stephen King."
"We're all like that now," Steve said. "We are entering an age
where threats have to be taken care off. You know, think globally but act
locally."
"And Marsha was a global threat?" Bobby asked, having the grace to
let a trace of mischief into the hot young orbs fixated on his tall,
handsome father.
The books and magazines called it quality time. Bonding was also
commonly used. Quality time equaled bonding, which, in turn, equaled what
they called, in Jewish America, a relationship. Ha! Anglos didn't fit the
boxes, and their chief had more money than all the Jews in the world.
Cruddy little boxes. Shiva. Dietary law. Millstone mink hats, even in
the tropics. Relationships. Rubbish. Steve was an okay guy, Bobby was an
okay kid, they'd knock about together either more or less as time went on.
Pretty much the story of happy people, wherever they might be found. That
they are never found in Israel might give more astute readers, who don't
automatically blame someone else, food for thought.
Food for Steve's thought was there for the picking. He started,
like a cat, with the brain of the little white boy..
"They've written from Mars and Neptune to say if Marsha represents
life, the Old Marsha, of course, they don't want any."
"Now she looks like she belongs on Venus," Bobby commented, his face
delicious and soft.
"Do you know where you belong, Bobby?" Steve asked.
"Half way between the little blue one that says Cold and the red one
that says Hot," the boy replied without thinking.
"I can think of something more exciting than that," Steve whispered.
"Not." replied the boy, now on his dad's last button.
Both males stripped, and Bobby held his hands high for his dad,
leaning close. Steve started with the turtle-tiger face, ran his fingers
down the child's jaws, his neck, and over his slim, eleven-year-old
shoulders. Then he started again at the up-stretched elbows and fondled
the youth across his inner arms and down the slim, bare chest, finally
gripping Bobby gently, low on the boy's waist.
"Not, not, it's true," Steve said. "I'm just you're plain vanilla
thirty five year old. Out there are older teens and guys in their young
twenties. Plus, they're not related to you, which will make a difference
when something happens."
"You're not exciting," Bobby shot back, "you're awesome."
"And you, Bobby, are inexperienced. At the most fantastic time of a
young life. Experimenting. I don't want you -- any of you -- to miss a
minute of it. There's damn little chance of any us getting much older, but
if I'm wrong I don't want you lying in a bed somewhere, dying, late in the
century, and weeping to yourself about all the things you missed."
"I don't know what the definition of impossible is," the boy
retorted, "but I'd say you were pretty close to it."
"Was Marsha impossible?" Steve queried . It was unfair, and he knew
it. The kid was a veritable pipsqueak. Dangerous governments motivated
excessive behavior, and that was an imperative; but, even without doomsday
out of the fiord, he would have worked on rallying his young troop.
Bobby did look taken aback. Seemed to be thinking at an accelerated
rate.
"Jeeze, dad," the boy replied, mocking an Old-Brady whine, "you got
me twice with that one. She was impossible, and it is impossible she is no
longer impossible, but she is, or isn't, depending on how you cast the
sentence."
"So it makes sense?" Steve asked.
"Hey, it's still September," the boy said. An entire mouthful.
It had been nice sitting with the boy, but it was nice getting naked
with him, even more. They stripped, and Bobby remounted, bringing his big
boner against his father's, feeling the bare, powerful chest against his
smooth child's skin. As he cuddled and began masturbating Steve, he
whispered, "What could be more exciting than this?"
"Picture it," Steve began, "you're in a cut-off tee, a pair of last
year's shorts, too small, barefoot, carrying a pair of sandals. Hitching.
A car goes by slows, speeds up a little, slows, and finally stops. You run
up, as hitchhikers will, and open the door. Behind the wheel is a nineteen
year old boy. Maybe bookish looking and even with a bad complexion. He
looks scared, not nervous. Since you sense cool, you get in. You begin
the conversation by saying you're not going anywhere, that you just got
bored and hoped you could meet someone nice who was just riding around.
"Are you with me so far?" Steve questioned. He'd never told a story
while being gently masturbated against the chest of a child.
"Isn't it super dangerous?" Bobby asked.
"It's super exciting, is what it is, but if you hike with your
brain, not your thumb, there's just enough danger so you'll know you're a
man, if you have the chops to do it, without enough to make you a fool.
You know, like flying a kite in a thunderstorm or diving into a strange
pond." Not likely in Los Angeles, but Bobby seemed to cotton on.
"Anyhow, as I started to say, the car is nice, you look in; the kid
is scared. You're eleven and you're a freaking doll in an overcoat, never
mind with a bare tummy and long legs rising up into short-shorts. Dig?"
"So, what happens?" Bobby dug.
"His name is Kevin. He's almost twenty. He spends most of his time
either reading or working with computers. He has beautiful brown eyes,
with long eyelashes. He's craggy, a little, slim, a little, and tall, a
lot. He answers that it's his dad's car, and he's just driving around,
too. You ask if it's okay to hang out. Very likely tell him he's
attractive; maybe that you hope you look like him, when you grow up."
"What if he doesn't look like that?" Bobby asked.
"If you're hitching with your brains, you don't get in the car. You
open the door, if you're not excited, just say you left your watch at you
friends house, sorry, and shut the door. Note the car so you can give it a
miss the next time around, even take a break, if you have too. Check the
plate as you approach from the rear, see if it's local; dealer tag, too.
Local is extremely unlikely to be trouble."
"How do I know any cars would stop?" Bobby asked.
"If five cars in a row ever pass you," Steve replied, "I'll be
surprised. A boy in a cut off and short shorts is as likely to get a ride
as the president."
Bobby giggled. His dad was masturbating him now, and so any levity
was soon replaced by a gentle panting.
"So now you're riding around, talking about computers, you guys are
so lucky to have them as a common ground -- all ages -- and you don't even
know it. You have ten dollars in your pocket, and you invite the boy,
Kevin, for a burger or some ice cream. That is, if you like him after a
few minutes. If you don't, just say you have to make a phone call, and
thank him, and head back out on the trail, or come home. But, if he's
nice, and lots of guys are, treat him to a meal, then he'll know you're not
a hustler, and, you know, things will develop along a line that may last
more than five minutes.
"After you've eaten, and I'll bet you ten to one, Kevin pays, you go
back to the car, again, having an option to politely break off if he's not
the right type. You ask if you can take your shirt off. He's probably be
beyond speaking very much, by this time, but will nod. Tell him, and this
is just an idea, that once when you took your shirt off in a boy's car, the
boy touched you. Ask him if a man or an older boy ever tried to touch him,
when he was a kid. There's a good chance the older boy will make some
attempt at telling you a story, but, if he doesn't, just point out that the
boy was really gentle and didn't hurt you, at all.
"You can just ride without saying anything, then. Listen to the
radio. Get more excited every second, you know, that kind of thing."
Bobby chuckled. His dad really knew how to tell a story.
"After awhile, you ask Kevin if he wants to hear what happened to
you. Now this is the tricky part. You have to tell the truth. Phony
stories are a turn off. So if he replies in the affirmative, and he
obviously will, you tell him you were kidding about getting molested in a
car, just to see if he wanted to talk about stuff like that, and that in
truth you're getting molested by your brother and your dad. After that,
only tell things that really happened, and don't exaggerate."
"Like I could," Bobby whispered, stroking the huge penis against his
tender boy skin.
"Thanks," Steve whispered, "you're the son I always wanted.
"Ask him, again, if anything exciting has ever happened, or if he
has a teacher or older friend he'd like to experiment with. By this time,
you'll be looking for a private place. Most common place would be an outer
parking spot at a mall, or parking garage. Griffith Park has plenty of
hiking space, Kenny Hahn is prettier, or you can commune with the Long
Ranger up at Will Rogers. Perhaps go to Kevin's house, if you really like
him, and, definitely, guess..."
"Bring him here," Bobby responded after a couple of seconds."
"Well," Steve replied, "not here, but to the new place. It's so
full of weird little rooms and crawl spaces you'll be best friends before
you've shown him half of it.
"But that's only for special, you know, friends, right?" the kid
asked.
"Bobby," Steve said, taking the boyish hand from him and looking
into the youth's eyes, "that's the single problem facing us. Disease, rape
and violence are possibilities, but the certainty is that you, all of you,
are going to have to learn where to draw lines. Who's special. Who you
bring home. How often. How many. There's food, there's tobacco, there's
booze, gambling and drugs. There's love, there's sports cards, there are a
number of things any one of us can become addicted to. It boils down to
character. If you happened to take a long cruise on a ship, after a few
days you'd find your group. It wouldn't be exclusive, but it would be a
mainstay. If I didn't think you had the sense to deal, we wouldn't be
doing this, and I wouldn't be suggesting you go hitching or sitting in the
back row of theaters or loitering in the stalls at bowling alleys if I
didn't think you would enjoy it, and not overindulge for all the tea in
China."
"Or all the sperm in a whale," the boy commented. Ah, healthy lad.
So much you could do in the world, with a healthy lad.
"When you've found a place, see if he likes to whisper. Just ask.
Some guys love it, others think it's sicko. Generally you will find big
brains on the former, and small brains on the latter, but cute is cute, so
it doesn't always matter in the short run.
"At this point," Steve went on, "ask him to take his shirt off, if
he hasn't already. Be mildly aggressive, going after his buttons. Do not
rub him on his crotch or pull any hooker moves. Just tell him he's
attractive to you, and you'd like to see him bare chested
"If you're parked somewhere even vaguely public, the act of getting
an older teen or young man naked, in the bushes, or in a car, takes on a
very carnal and exciting dimension. It literally adds a thrill a minute.
"What most mature males like to do with a boy is what we're doing.
They like to ejaculate on the boy's body, especially his chest and face.
This is cool, because what most young boys like is to watch a mature male
climax. There's other stuff, like what Pete was doing with you on Saturday
morning, also, oral things. But the biggest thrill is simply getting naked
for the first time, and jerking off together, cumming on each other while
you watch each other cum. And you try to overlap your climaxes, not cum
together. Usually the adult will let go first, because it's twice as
exciting to watch and share what happens when you're totally excited, and
the man will want that for the boy. But, if you really like a partner, you
might let yourself go first, as a special way to share."
"You mean like on his birthday, or something?" Bobby asked.
"More than once a year," Steve advised. "Maybe like once in every
five or ten times you're together."
"But wouldn't that be like once a night?" Bobby quizzed, with his
father searching his eyes for a healthy glow of mischief. On the other
hand, he was a kid beauty. High hopes would not be out of place in his
life. In the end, there was little doubt that the tyranny of the masses,
peddled, such-a-deal, as democracy would claim him, but with vitality, and
an early start, he should lead a full and productive life in spite of the
calendar. Futureless, but satisfying and happy for all its brevity.
Forever young. Absolutely charming. Totally sexy. Good kid. All-`round
good kid.
Steve began cumming on Bobby. The boy grunted like a pig with a
steak, covered his right palm with the hot athlete's first strong geyser of
semen, and quickly fisted the throbbing, wet shaft so he could pump
urgently. Steve shot four long ropes of sperm on Bobby's front, then
pushed the boy gently, rising slightly in the armchair. Bobby got the
massage instantly and zipped his little-boy feet under his dad's thighs,
lying back so he war arched hard back over the man's knees. Steve wiped
his palm quickly on the child's wet tummy, and found the swollen boy.
Stroking gently for a few seconds, he changed his rhythm to hard and fast,
which made Bobby start to spray like a hound dog.
Too weak to retrieve the child, Steve fell forward on top of him,
and soon they were licking and kissing like bitches in heat. This led to a
shower. Taking a shower together, one of their last in the relatively
opulent Clinton Way bathroom, led to Bobby betaking of himself a Bic shaver
and freezing his dad against the shower wall, using a single kid finger, so
he could make his dude look as young as he seemed to feel, and certainly
was beginning to act.
Steve couldn't resist the boy's activities, but did recognize a
point of no return. Carol was bound to notice, and how was the world's
non-kinkiest husband meant to explain showing up like a Little Timmy? Did
they make, you know, a wig? Not the time, not the place for a fit of the
giggles. Good thing the boy was rubbing soap around as he worked because
the young hands stimulated a safer breed of thought. For a moment the
young father fantasized a heaving deck and the slack-and-haul thunder of
three spiring masts readying for a new tack and fresh fathoms. White water
with a big blue slot. She pitched gallantly, foaming herself a hundred
feet at a lunge. Stull pools leeward. Get thee, bubbles, astern. An end
to the thunder. A hundred lines popping heavy mist as they hauled through
the rudder scratching and clawing her to that patch of blue. Life to the
bubbles. She was... she was... she was... sailing. Salty dog, bowsprit
wild, horizon magic.
The Bobcat was a lesser beast. Was it groveling, plowing as it was
deep in old L.A. dirt? Not with the shiny eleven year old at the levers.
The machine seemed more a new dance partner. Sy Jinks sat with Steve on
the veranda of the strange house and watched the boys work. The second
male was his son, Cliff, fourteen. Bobby had fiddled with the controls of
the little bulldozer long enough to irritate the handsome black teen, and
had thus goaded him into riding along as an instructor. He would still jam
something a bit awkwardly to throw things around a little, and it seemed
young Cliff was beginning to twig to the ingenious ways of the cute little
whitey. How ever NewBradyLand ended, it was getting off to a marvelous
start.
"I think the boy's over his temper," Sy observed. "He's on the swim
team and he wanted to go in for extra practice. It's teacher's convention,
so no school. I've got three jobs, so if you could find him something for
his lunch, I can make a day of it."
"He does seem happier than when he arrived," Steve noted.
"He was right, the team's great. I should have given in. Does
Bobby swim?"
"Not at school," Steve said. Sy was two streets down, and a good
person to start moving in with, so to speak. "Carol and I are going to
homes school our gang. But look at him. If Cliff likes to swim, Bobby
will, and I think it would be terrific."
"White folk," Sy commented, "I always say to the missus they're the
problem solvers. Find a pool and you've got a coach." Steve didn't know
exactly what his new friend meant, but if he'd known the quality of bitch
after the young athlete he would have understood.
Sy roared off in his dump truck, trailer bouncing noisy life into
the neighborhood for half a minute before being clouded out by the exhaust
of the little dirt machine. If the boys were whistling while they worked,
who knew? All Steve could see was a fleeting smile as the Bobcat spun
about on its appointed rounds. Time to cook late lunch, or, an idea. How
to win friends and influence people? Try this. Try giving the keys to a
Jag to a fourteen year old, then sending your eleven year old along to
tattle. The boys yipped and skipped, questioned everything. Steve assured
them that Jewry had all available officers driving people absolutely
fucking nuts at LAX. Not to worry. He added that he'd grown quite
accustom to cold pizza in grad school. The boys didn't take his meaning,
and returned inside an hour with piping hot pizza. He'd just have to try
again. Kids. He showed Bobby a sly thumb. The boy give Cliff a quick
look and went after his backpack. He hadn't found a pair of hitching
shorts yet, but he did not let that deter him. He put on a short cut-off
and wore his underpants.
"I was going to take a shower," he said as he entered the living
room. "I can wear a towel or something, if you want." Cliff looked like
he wanted alright, but towels? What for?
"It's cool," he stammered. "I want to take one, too, if it's okay?"
This question was directed at Steve, with a look as hot and receptive as
was possible under the circumstances. Good thing the Bobcat had
headlights, and their tract was isolated.
Bobby eased himself into Cliff's lap, facing his father, jockeying
back hard against the stunning African lad and bringing the fine black
hands on his bare stomach. "Show me how to lower the bucket while backing
up in a left turn," the boy said. "That's one we need to practice."
Coy? It was unimaginable, the moreso because Bobby could have been
playing his little game dressed in a snowsuit and sitting on the lap of a
football player. He was as lost in the sequence of levers as only an
eleven year old can be. Cliff was lost, too. Steve couldn't have been
found by Sherlock's bloodhounds.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" Bobby whispered after a few minutes of
his child's play.
"No," the boy said. "Something went wrong with the machine about
the time I was born. Black girls are all hard-mouthed junk. I never heard
my parents say the f-word once, not once, in my life, and I don't know a
girl that doesn't say it like big old Shaq was driving her right down
through a haystack. It's no world for a black boy."
"The Jews have been meticulous in their destruction of all schools
and family media," Steve said. "Your sisters have not been singled out."
"Then they've helped me out," Cliff said. "I wouldn't want to go
around half interested."
Good point.
Bobby brought the slim fingers lower toward the band of his
underpants. His penis bulged hard off to his left. Cliff, unable to help
himself, had his face in the back of the slim kid neck, his eyes shut, his
mouth yawning and slack with lust.
"Cindy's pretty nice," Bobby whispered. "She's my kid step-sis.
Only eight, but she's real smart and lively. Pretty, too. "
Cliff's eyes seem to say something about Why take chances, and he
let himself be led to the first blue stripe. Steve knew he couldn't have
seen Bobby's massiveness but felt the teen was probably using his
imagination, full blast.
"Did you ever get molested?" Bobby whispered.
"No," Cliff whispered back, "but I did it to a boy, once."
"Did you like it?" the little white boy asked.
"I really liked him," Cliff whispered. "It was totally interesting,
I have to admit."
Cliff had opened his eyes and was staring over Bobby's shoulder,
gauging Steve. The only question that seemed to lurk in the friendly
response had to do with why the teen was overdressed.
"How old was he," Bobby whispered.
"Old enough to ask a lot of embarrassing questions," Cliff commented
with a giggle into the back of Bobby's cute little head.
"Must have been eleven," Bobby said. "That's the age when curiosity
overcomes being scared about stuff."
"He was from Maine; never seen a real African before," Cliff said.
"He had these huge eyes, and they worked like you wouldn't believe. Plus,
the peepers were just for openers. We were on a cruise ship, in the pool,
and he decided piggy backing would be lots and lots and lots of fun. He
underestimated."
"He was using it as an excuse to ask questions, right?" Bobby
queried.
"You could say that," Cliff replied, grinning softly over the
shoulder of his kiddo.
"I'm not psychic," Bobby explained, "it's just what I would have
done. "I would have started with lying about something so you'd let me
hang on, then I would tell you a lie about what I let my gym teacher do to
me after school, you know, to find out how you'd react, then I'd tell you
the truth about my family, which would have been impossible until the
weekend, because I didn't really have a family, just a collection of
Brady-Box role players."
"I'd say things are looking up," Cliff commented.
"I've been so up, it looks like down to me," Bobby said.
"Dad says white folk may suck at jumping, but they can think fast
and sharp. Mick was the same. Cute, fast brain."
"Was he getting molested before he met you?" Bobby asked.
"After school. They had a little library. A biker who'd spent ten
years on cargo ships started it. Mick liked him and started hanging out
after school. Charles, he was the librarian, had pictures of his little
friend in Norway, and Mick got interested, so Charles finally showed him
some mature pictures."
"Did he tell you all the details?" Bobby asked.
"Shoe on the other foot, I guess," Cliff explained. "First he was
asking question, then I was."
The massive pizza was done and Steve went out to the car where there
was a couple of bottles of burgundy stashed in the trunk.
"Your dad is awesome," Cliff said, the moment the door closed.
"Little do you know," the youngster giggled back.
"If we do stuff, will he come upstairs?" Cliff asked.
"Only if you really want him to," Bobby said. "He wants me to go
hitching, so, you know, its okay if you want it to be private."
"On the ship," Cliff said, "we could hear a girl getting molested in
the next stateroom. That's what got Mitch and me off on the right foot.
And I guess off all our feet."
"Giving up feet for inches," Bobby quipped. "I'm not sure I'd want
to play that game."
"I guess," Cliff responded, with a wink at Steve, "it would depend
on the score."
"Point taken" giggled back the little whitey.
"Who was molesting the girl?" Bobby refocused.
"Her sixteen year old brother. Becky was nine. She wanted Raven,
her brother, to get on top of her, `Tiger Style' she called it. I could
guess what that meant, but Mick knew."
"Could you see anything?" Bobby asked.
"It was a Plunkett ship," Cliff explained. "The only place it
didn't have holes was in the hull."
"So you could look?" Bobby exclaimed. "That's like where Pete went.
He said don't even think `awesome' because it wouldn't do any good."
"The ship was the `Yes,' Cliff acknowledged, "as in, `Yes, We Have
No Piranhas.'"
"Sure," Bobby rejoined. "It goes with `Tame Animal Farm.' Always
thinking, those people."
"So their guests don't have to," Cliff replied. One day he would
grow up and write brochures.
Steve entered with the wine. It was delicious and fit perfectly on
top of the pizza. It was fun drinking alcapela with the boys. Big thirst,
bursting vine, drink no wine before its time. Present place, present
company? It became a heady kaleidoscope of art over appetite and beauty
over the beast. They didn't play mincing games or After you, my dear
Alfonso. Just toasted quietly and drank happily of numerous heady bitchin'
brews.
"If you're dad can come late for the Bobcat," Steven said to Cliff,
"we could go up and take a nap. Don't want any drunken masters of
earthmovers, no matter how small."
"We can leave it overnight, Mr. Brady," Cliff replied.
"Yeah," Bobby peeped, "and Cliff can stay to keep an eye on it. We
can work `till midnight. Call Mom, okay Dad?"
And so a nice long nap was arranged. They searched for a suitable
room. The place once must have been a cat house for cats, Steve mused. It
was like the moronic Winchester house, vastly scaled down. Ladders,
trap-doors, cubicles; Spartan pine flooring in one room, in the next a
remnant of Persian rug. Dozens of mirrors, superior recessed lighting with
rheostats in every room, cubby, or semi-private ledge. A rat would get a
boner exploring this place, Bobby thought to himself. It was a weird,
mysterious house, more fun than a palace, especially with one's pants off.
And shirt. And shoes and socks.
Carelessly, or it could have been the wine, they kept running over
each other and bumping against one another. Cliff used his color to hide
and spring. Bobby took his underpants off, and used tender corporal heat
as a lure to the others. Steve was of a mind-set to let the boys make up
the games and just carry the baby oil. Architect, right? By definition, a
planner. But being in the right place at the right time also counted.
After some little separation, and a sudden burst of silence, Steve caught a
flicker of light at the end of a dark crawlway. He crawled, glad of the
carpeting thoughtfully laid where such activities were necessary. Well,
surprise, surprise. Cliff was flat on his back, twin candles at his head,
his hands behind his neck. Bobby was kneeling between the swimmer's
chorded legs, hands on the teen's waist, pulling down his underpants. His
eyes glowed as he noted his dad's presence and pulled the briefs down and
off. Steve skinned out of his own shorts at the sight of what Bobby was
doing, then the young father and his beautiful boy knelt side by side and
stared at the ebony stripling with the huge, thick boner.
To warm things up, Steve maneuvered Bobby in front of him. The boy
raised his arms and arched to his father's touch. Cliff's big penis
engorged and distended at the sight of the boy being openly molested and
masturbated by the handsome man. Gently, they lay on top of Cliff, Bobby
staring long and deep into the glowing eyes before him. Clean chin, high
cheekbones, dazzling skin in wicked reverse. Powerful chest, still boyish,
slim waist, long legs with just a hint of down on the calves. Black was
beautiful, but Cliff was ridiculous and hee felt as good as he looked
against Bobby's sparrow chest and up along his tender kid tummy where the
big teenage penis burned against him, long, thick and hot.
Steve used the baby oil on both the young males, and guiding Bobby
by the youth's slim waist with his crooked left arm he used his right hand
to couple the lovers. "Very gently," he whispered as he eased the panting
Bobby onto the thick, long cock. Cliff remained rigid, sweating and
panting. Steve wanted to hear more of what he and his little friend Mick
had seen, but the extra stimulation of whispered voyeurism, especially of
activities between a sixteen-year-old boy mounted tiger style on his ardent
nine-year-old sister might have been, well, not exactly anticlimactic.
Bobby was different.
"Did Raven sperm in Becky," he whispered.
"He didn't want to get her pregnant, so he make it go on her back.
Plus, I think he knew somebody was watching. You know, like he was showing
off."
Bobby was silenced when Cliff's powerful, throbbing penis reached
the boy's prostate. His pretty used of wit and language dropped with a
whoof to the feral grunting of animals in a bush. Steve slowly brought the
youngster upright to a squatting position, and help the child surge the big
boner deep inside himself. Cliff was sweating, panting and lolling his
head from side to side, trying to thrust gently into the beautiful young
boy held by the chest by the handsome young man. He wanted to cum all over
both of them, but instead he just came, hard, fast and repeatedly. Bobby
shook with each of the seizures deep inside him, jaw slack, eyes unfocused,
hair lank with sweat. As he started spilling his hot, thin seed over the
arching male underneath him, Steve found a way between the copulating young
males, and in a second the tip of his penis was free and he began spurting
fast ropes of cum along side those of the boy. For long moments the
shaking grunts of their huddled bodies left them all but mute, after which
they collapsed in a glowing heap.
"Dad," Bobby whispered, "guess who's coming for dinner?"
Once again we assemble for a harangue typical of the writer.
The Jew in the Chair, with Canadian prime minister. Gives
impression of being a loud and stupid man. The four-one-one on Canada is
that the Chinese in its cities had to tunnel underground to keep from being
beaten on the street; the treatment of orphans sent from England to Canada
is simply the most mindless brutality in the record of human existence,
plus the place just kinda sucks. It is a mean, miserable neighbor and the
best thing that could happen would be for it to tear itself to pieces over
frogification and at least give us a laugh.
Four flags for just $19.95, and, for the first five hundred callers,
this brightly colored patriotic lapel pin, absolutely free as our gift to
you. Each flag is carefully crafted of a color-rich durable material,
stain resistant and easy to clean. May be displayed in all weather from
your car, on your bike, or buy several sets, and use them around the entire
house.
At first the ad seemed offensive, then kind of amazing, and finally
downright degrading. Look at it through royal eyes. Tacky plastic
overpriced flags. Garish, like Seinfeld's giant Jew face. Then, wait,
let's think about this. So fast to market? Concept workthrough, ads,
maybe a little fab somewhere that could actually make some product. All in
two weeks plus four days. It might be an odd little sign of life. The
degrading part? Well, it would appear to be the first entrepreneurial
venture pulled off without the blessing of Lower Manhattan. Not possible.
On the other hand, it may be that we come to find out that the twin towers
and other properties were essentially a log jam; that everything flows
along more sensible and efficient patterns, without them. Ah, the
never-moreso mysterious future. What a great time to be the most fabulous
writer of all time. Here's to the red white and blue, plastic and shiny
and new. Mine's bigger than your, like Hugh Heffner's whores, and that
shows my stripes through and through. Any questions?
Writing a book like this, especially publishing chapters on a
frequent bases, is probably the world's best Alzheimers test. At this
point in time I'm nurturing doubts as to Mr. Brady's first name. I keep
hearing Shelly Long saying, "Now, Mike," but that could have been from
Cheers, except the boss is Sam. Then where did I get Steve? An associated
problem is inconsistencies which are a by-product of not having a story
editor, and of writing at such length it is prohibitively time consuming to
"go back and check."
"Powerless" -- film title. A jetliner ditches successfully in mid
Pacific. Conflict is based on the passengers, who are relatively few in
number, and have everything they need in the downed craft, not wanting to
be rescued.
The old general from Maine. He made a brief appearance some months
ago. Kindly, soft spoken, low-key; loved by colonel and corporal, alike.
He was less loved at the end of the war because most of his roses were KIA.
Today's numbers: Seventy-six percent chance of world-wide implosion
by 2004, with resultant return to unpredictable age, likely dark with
struggle pockets. Twelve percent that there will be no significant change,
one way or the other, as with Y2K. Spot of bother, muddle through, to cast
it in English. Twelve percent that the twin-towers episode will amount to
some sort of economic catharsis; that it will inspire the best and restrain
the worst. The only overall variable would be success with activities
against congress. That would lower the doomsday number from seventy-six to
seventy percent. Add five percent in this direction for the executive
branch, and maybe even more for the judiciary It should be noted that the
seventy-six percent probability is not related to the activities of
September. Paradoxically, there is also a fifty perecent of none of the
above. For example, we could be weeks from a collapse. Hit by an
asteroid. Smothered by a volcano. Respond dramatically to a wizard king.
Earthquake in Japan. Be lost to the latest generation of consoles. I
suppose it will still be none of the above, but at least I tried.
Related factors to survival are the "Alabama," the ICC and space
medicine. But let's start by once again mentioning Iridium. All those
doctorates, all those consultants, all those surveys, all that analysis.
All as wrong as a dog trying to hump an ox. The "Alabama" did a mush-mouth
ambush cruise and made the Yankee merchants howl. It is said by maritime
historians that the merchant marine never recovered, and, as the son of a
merchant master, I agree. Mercifully the land of magnolias and tender
slave flesh has never recovered at I have personally stood eye to eye with
ridge runners who went all gut sick at my first utterance of beautiful Damn
Yankee English. The ICC was utopianism put on rails and by the fifties had
pretty well done in the iron horse. Space medicine? Longevity during
weightlessness is a terrific problem that will take billions to solve. How
ironic to say that to admit defeat would be un-American. After all, in
spite of the vast documentation related to inefficacy of chemo, we not only
still peddle it, we peddle pills so gramps can go upstairs and get his
camera, on national television. No future in either of these, but we do
them because it's, you know.
All this is a long way of saying if you want to die, fuck with
whitey. And don't feel sorry that we're going to shuffle off to Buffalo,
too. We built a sizzling, dazzling world, a billion trillion times better
than all other tribes, combined. We each have lived the lifetime of a
Chinese emperor in each year of our existence. Life as a berry picker,
stone compiler or mud puppy is not really an item for us, so you'll go to
your Jewry for they have Solomon, wise enough to lead the dead.
"Depends" for the eyes. I need little spikes like this in order to
warrant a change in name. I've never liked Feather Touch -- sounds wishy
-washy, which I'm not, except when it comes to writing for free or possibly
selling millions of books, but, hey, anybody would under those
circumstances. As my illustrious ancestor said, A foolish consistency is
the hobgoblin of a little mind. No, I need a bolder handle; need to earn
it, then anoint myself with it. So far my favorite is "Blackheart the
Clown." What do you think?
cowards and marmadukes
Tiny paradox. Afghanistan wants its king back and he wants to go.
You don't have a king, and he doesn't want to go.
I've been hoping not to have to spell Giuliani. He wants more time
in office. Is this man not capable of disability or death? Should he not
have teams in place which will function just fine, without him?
Roosevelt's commitment to the constitution, the nation, and its people can
be measured by the fact that Harry Truman was never included in squat.
Roosevelt was for Roosevelt, and taught the Kennedys. I'm a different
breed of cat. My outline is on these pages. Any upper middle management
denizen of GE could probably implement and execute better than I could.
It's the plan, not the man, and the god thing is for entertainment
purposes, only. Sorry.
Does anyone work with satellites? The problem is probably related
to a footprint. Dangriga is on the tip, tip edge of one, so The History
Channel and A&E are often blocked with a 002 (Ch. 171 and others, Satellite
119, Transponder 16). What I, or we, need you to do is gyrate the
satellite maybe an eighth of an inch to the south. Please do not do this
if it would deny coverage to any far northern neighbors. We in the tropics
need cable far less than those in the artic because half of what is shown
on the system is pretty much what we see out the window.
The subways seem to be working so far. The relentless smoke and
steam rising from the wreckage bear out my earlier comments on the massive
heat generated by compression of all the energy needed to build the towers,
or at least much of it, compressed in both time and space. I don't see how
the prognosis can be good. That part of Manhattan is as flat as a pancake,
and six feet above sea level. If they remove the rubble, there is every
chance the dams around the foundation will be breached, and flooding will
spread through the subways and basements much like it did in Chicago in
1998. The holes should be filled with concrete to ground level; as much of
the wreckage as possible should be saved to rust over time. Any other way
risks further calamity, and untold millions in wasted time, treasure and
effort. One idea might be to rebuild in Central Park. Not all of it, but
maybe a third or a half. New Yorkers are going to have to get out of the
"Cats" mentality, or be marginalized, probably Jew dragging gentile on his
bleak road to absolutely nowhere (the Jew's road, that is; we had a
humdinger before they scuttled their big faces down to Roosevelt's big
face.).
Andrew, my second eldest, brought a bootleg copy of Encarta.
Everything here is bootleg. The excellent cable, software, music
cassettes. The paradox is that if these various products were made
available at regular prices, not one soul in several hundred would be able
to purchase them, which would make it useless to import them. Bootleg
distribution does lead to sales. It is entirely forgivable in a third
world which provides popular products and low prices, without getting
vaguely right in the process. (I've lived on my street for seven years and
Santa has given it seven obvious misses.) For myself, I rationalize that I
work for free, myself, and that I use about one percent of the engineering
that went into my choice of software. Also, I've spent at least
twenty-five thousand dollars on computers in the last eighteen years. I
repeat this to emphasis the fact that laws are like skeletons. Firm and
flexible at the same time.
The laws should have been bent for Napster, because fifty million
people liked it, and music has always been widely available at no direct
cost. Ilian Gonzales should have been kept in this country out of respect
for the woman who gave her life to bring him here. The challenges we face
define absolute. Absolute adherence to the lines written by legislators,
most decades out of date, will define absolute disaster. And never forget,
the constitution, itself, and particularly the bill of rights, are the
product of anarchists selling liberty so they could get away with crimes.
All the prose surrounding the documents? Read me, moron, I turn the stuff
out by the yard. All it takes is a knack and a pencil.
I once applied for a job at Olgyve and Mather. Sent a sample ad
which reminded high school and college age people that in their future they
will almost surely have to take polygraph tests, and be asked if they have
ever stolen anything. The ad agency didn't respond, which is why I'm
writing fiction for adoring fans. Talk about win, win, win. As the
greatest living artist and artist of all time, I feel any real co-tribalist
should be thrilled to death his product is loved and try to arrange his
practical affairs so neither he nor his kith and kin starve. Period. I
use as an example the actor who played McFly, senior. Possibly the
greatest single tour de force in the history of the stage. Wanted a
million to play it again. No. No. And Steve McQueen, who left "Butch
Cassidy" over billing status with Paul Newman. They both put the weird in
Holly, disgrace themselves, and lose their audience, their immortality, and
presumably everything but what the mush-mouths call pride. Southern Pride,
Peasant Pride. What's the difference? It's all they've got.
Anyhow, my theory is any artist who is good will be compensated, and
any compensation over a comfortable basic norm cannot but interfere with
his ability to focus and produce. It takes real intellectual firepower to
pull this off, and the character issue is more germane than anything to do
with gift. I met my wife at art school. She was more gifted than I, and I
realized she would do far better in her early years than I would. After
about four years in Santa Fe, she went all House, ditched her art, and
dumped me for a lawyer. (Tom Cruise. How would you like to be dumped for
a lawyer named Tom Cruise?) Probably a great artist lost to the world. I
stuck it. And here I am. Ta-da. Pass my little pink house and you are
passing the studio of the artist who stuck it. Simply showed up. (And
yes, her final kiss had that soft sucking to it, plainly telling me what
she was going to do to Tom Cruise's penis. (Never did it with me.))
Anyway, her new man undoubtedly made a fortune off the Los Alamos fires, so
somewhere there is likely a splendid house, full of budding attorneys, and
a few cute sketches.
Two weeks and one day for FBI to post pix of Arabs. When McVeigh
was captured, the only photos released were incidental footage of him
walking out a door. Shouldn't, under the circumstances, he have been
photographed, not only as captured, but with typical wigs, beards and
mustaches? Shouldn't a voice sample have been played? This could easily
have prevented a second incident, had one been intended, and, if it was all
a mistake, just compel the justice department to clarify in a distinct
manner. The pictures of the high flyers have been in federal hands for ten
days or more. They should have been released as soon as possible.
Mistakes can be retracted and compensated, a hard thing to pull off with
corpses.
Provengeance. Prophylactic vengeance. Call it a condom with
quills. A procupine. I won't bore you with the reason I mentioned these.
Assume for yourselves.
It appears Jesse Jackson may not speak a word, nor move an Afghan
inch. If he holds fast, I owe the man an apology. Now if we could just
get rid of Jordan, once and for all; if Magic would lose the phony grin.
Writers dream, too, you know. Sometimes those dreams are small. For
example, Frontline (PBS) is doing a series on American Porn. This is my
rookie year. What are my chances?
Posted by Thomas@btl.net
xxx