Date: Tue, 10 Apr 2001 12:14:37 -0600 From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net> Subject: Creative Camp 8-10 All the warning, cautions, restrictions and provisos are at the beginning of this story. My other stories on the Net are "Jimmy and Frogger," "The Flyyy," "Dennis the...," and, of course, the first seven chapters of this yarn, speaking of which, there's one called "Ropeyarn" which has not yet appeared; it's a screenplay and is giving us all fits over formatting issues. Creative Camp (8-10) (M/b) By Feather Touch Chapt. 8 The mood at the camp was serious. Something was afoot. The new boy. Something special about the new boy. Who'd seen him? This boy, that staffer. What was it all about? Charles? Had the ice prince finally melted? Wow! Who? What? Where? Why? When? A precept of c-camp, directly from Charles's lips, was essential to his view of his many young charges. I'm smarter than you are, but, if you learn from me, by the time you're half my age, you'll be smarter than I am. This went hand in hand with his simplistic approach to himself as perfect, except for his conceit, which kept him from being annoyingly flawless. At this level it was a good thing to be as good as one's word, performance overreaching such a plane of hyperbole would be something to reckon with. He liked to tell his boys and staff what to think, and, as he took the podium to introduce the new camper, he did not fail to come across as didactic and preachy. It was infuriating that he was always right, but lots of things in life were infuriating. You sort of got used to it, or found another camp. It was years since a boy or staffer had done so, but it was nice to have the option. "Our subject tonight," Charles began to his audience, "is the vagary and inconsistency of genius. I will end by talk by introducing our new camper, Blissy Scopes, and he will challenge each and every one of you beyond your wildest imagination, and, for perhaps the first time in camp history, do it without titillation. Trust me. "I'd like to start," the director went on, "with an example of brilliance and stupidity from the same source. "To play along, you must think back a year or two; some of you younger campers may draw a blank, but other will remember Stewart. Any hands?" Two-thirds of the audience raised their hands. Stewart of the dyed hair selling the online brokerage to his old boss: "Let's light this candle." "Brilliant;" Charles went on, "hell, it's almost possible to remember the product name. Then what did the same think-box do? Came up with Kelly and Mr. Klaus of Klaus Chemical, probably as annoying and offensive an advertisement as has ever been minted by Madison Avenue. "Not satisfied with the ripping putdown of the white male with the nasty Mr. Klaus, the same thinkers approved a large-bodied male, `tatered-out, to the-max, all day on his couch, while the pretty, energetic little wife is out and about. [I'd love to script her day, while her clunk watcher was lummoxing in front of his big-screen. (I doubt she'd have remembered the dry cleaning on the way home.) "Another example of mental deficiency, a very minor but emblematic one, is the way cable displays time. Most channels display three or four time zones in sequence, instead of just Eastern Time. This means every time anyone wants to check the time, they have to do a mental calculation; even when their particular zone is currently being displayed. If ET is displayed, the calculation is always the same. But, if they only display ET once in awhile they'll get an angry letter saying Why don't you post my zone? So, they post them all, creating a nuisance for everybody to placate an exceedingly small minority. By the exact same token, we dumb down our schools, because once in awhile a parent will complain about the cirrocumuli and presentation not focusing on their child. "In short, we've become a nation of jittery titmice. Scuttling and worrying about this and that special interest group. And the raging paradox here is that all this hand-wringing, puling and moaning comes out of the rubber faces of theatric liberals. The all natural liberal, preservers of variants of the housefly in Los Angles wastelands, yet mandating with very word they speak a society totally bent to the will of the very worst; the criminal, the drunkard, any addict of any stripe, the handicapped, the retarded, the old and a long, long list of others who would be DOA in any other natural species. "Not only has our culture become internally resistant to innovation, except in electronics and toys, we have also come to ignore external thinking, almost absolutely. Of course, that's why most of us are here, so forgive me for preaching to the choir. That said, I want to introduce a young man who, though I've only known him since this morning, has already displayed a spectacular example of out-of-box, while extremely close-to-box, thinking. "I want you to listen to Blissy with the utmost care. See what you think when he's done; ask questions, if you want. In fact, while he's talking, I wish you'd actually write down any thoughts you might have. "If young Mr. Scopes is right in the presentation, he will change American history, he will publicize the intellectual caliber of all of us, and he will earn himself as much as a million dollars in reward money. I hope you will attend him with due diligence." [Author's note: Here I go again, this time claiming a reward because an award has to be claimed in order to be rewarded. Something like that.] "I've talked about this with my gramps," said the little boy into the microphone. "He's written the FBI, "Time Magazine," C-SPAN, and several letters to Arthur D. Little, Enterprises, Inc., of Cambridge, Massachusetts. No one has ever written him back, so he told me to tell you guys at camp about it. I mean, it was my idea, but he helped develop it, so it's sort of from both of us for you to thinks about." Looking over the small sea of faces in front of him, Blissy did feel nervous. Everyone was killer nice, just as Charles had indicated. He supposed he could tell them something pretty lame, and they'd be at least tolerant. But who would want to disappoint such a boon group of buds? "This story is about the bombing at the Olympic games, in Atlanta, in 1996," he began, doing a sufficient job of cutting to the chase to stifle any boynoise. "The bomber's name is Robert Gee. He was an amateur videographer, and made a tape of the explosion he sold to a major cable news outlet, who have apparently never licensed it to others, or shared it, because the tape can only be seen on the one network. "I would like to start by describing Mr. Gee's videotape. It lasts about fifteen seconds. "At the opening, the camera is pointed at the stage in Centennial Park. An act has just finished and is leaving the stage, an announcer is speaking into a mic. In short, nothing is happening. "After a few seconds, the camera moves to the right, about ninety degrees. At this point, it's aimed at the foot of the broadcast tower. The camera wiggles and meanders, just a bit, then BAM; the bomb goes off, right in the center of the viewfinder. "Gee holds his shot for a few more seconds, then slowly raises the camera a foot or two into the air, as the first startled spectators start evacuating the area. The scene shown on the news network ends with a couple pushing a baby carriage hastily away from the confusion, which is about two hundred feet distant. "The first reason to point the finger at Gee is the absolute nature of any coincidence involved. Assuming the camera was recording, in the first place, and that's quite an assumption, of and by itself, at one-o'clock in the morning, when nothing is happening; okay, assuming the camera was recording in the first place, why was it pointed almost exactly at the site of the explosion? Perfectly possible in a mechanical sense, but absolutely impossible in a logical sense. "There is a long list of contributing factors; the textures and ambience that always resonate with the truth and against the lie. "First, there is Gee's own utterance. A split-second after the bomb explodes, he emits a `Yo!' To gramps and me, it sounded like a golfer sinking a ten-foot putt. An involuntary exclamative of fulfillment. Not spectacular; he knew the bomb was going to go off, in all likelihood, he'd tested a number of bombs, but off it did go, thus the Yo! of slick execution. "Immediately, we come to the dog that didn't bark. For after his exclamation, Gee does not utter a sound. How logical is that? He has just taken almost perfect footage of what will obviously be a huge media event, and yet he emits not a sound. Just holds the camera aloft in his hand, until the baby carriage rolls by five or ten seconds after the blast. "And this dog never has barked. Sometimes it seems every spectacular piece of video, car crashes, floods, explosions, is played every single week, along with interviews with the participants. Yet neither Gee, nor his tape, has ever showed up even once. The only time you see the tape, much edited, is at anniversaries of the event, or as background to other stories put on by the network in question." A voice came from the seats. "But it could have been a coincidence, don't you think?" Blissy smiled. "I think about it sometimes, yes. I know of two staggering coincidences. The Lockerbie, Scotland bombing, where a tiny circuit-board chip had a traceable number because it was part of a prototype run, and the sub coming up under another ship in the open sea. "Even compared to those, this is over the top. It's one of those shared-computer problems, like the radio telescope thing from Puerto Rico. I mean, first there's the time factor. In all likelihood, with the possible exception of military action in the 1860s, there has never been an explosion on that particular square foot of ground. Again, there's the azimuth consideration; the angle. A man taking pictures of a crowd might well take some pictures of people's feet; he might have the camera tilted up; anywhere, though, admittedly, normal would be more-or-less at the horizon. But in any direction, of the 360 degrees that make up a circle. Then we factor in another crucial element, and that is his distance from the actual explosion. On tape, this looked like something over one hundred feet, but what it definitely was was just the right distance to catch the shower of sparks from the actual detonation, while it was far enough away to avoid being run over by the crowd, if they stampeded in panic. "So, what gramps and I came up with, was no reason to be doing it, in the first place, then perfect azimuth, perfect elevation, perfect distance and perfect time. For such things was the word `preposterous' invented." Another camper with a question. "When did you first figure this out," the boy asked. "It clicked, but I didn't realize it, when Gee was being interviewed, just after selling the film. I think it was very early morning hours. He said he was `Studying crowd reactions..' I mean, if he'd said he was running out his tape, or running his battery flat, I might have let it slip. By why would anyone, at the Olympic Games, be studying a milling crowd at one in the morning? Plus, as far as I was concerned, his voice had micro-tremors. I only saw the interview, once, so it was just a flash impression; but, to answer your question, that's what triggered my suspicion, and I woke up my grandfather, and we watched them play the tape forty or fifty times." "How about the FBI and stuff?" a boy asked. "We kept expecting someone to catch on," Blissy explained. "I mean there it was, during the Olympics on international television. What could be more obvious. I think we wrote our first letter in two days, and two more, then to the magazines when the Feds didn't even acknowledge. They didn't either. So here we are, years later, feeling like fools when Gee has made a fool out of the entire planet, and been paid in cash to do so." "Do you think that was his motive?" "No. I think he just wanted to prove he could do it. Novelty. He would be, my bet is, almost the perfect non-profiler." "So," another boy asked, "what do you think of the FBI?" "I doubt they had time to lie around watching television, like I did; it's just one of those things. Bolt from the blue is bolt from the blue. The media loves to try not to understand so they can sell their story to the lowest common denominator using maximum possible disgruntled peasant logic, exactly like Bolsheviks. I mean, that sub commander couldn't have hit that trawler, without crushing his own conning tower and ripping the sub's propeller, if he practiced for ten years and you paid his crew a billion dollars, each. I don't blame anyone, and the huge grin is, that the media can't either. It was their fucking tape." Cheer from all hands. Charles chuckled in satisfaction. His kiddo was knocking them dead. Totally awesome child. Another question concerned a remedy. "What I was thinking," Blissy said, and not knowing the new kid very well, no one was sure if he was kidding or not, "is that we all write about it; email FBI, bomb, Olympics, conspiracy, anarchy and so on and so forth. If we were really aggressive, we might attract Carnivore." That did stop them. Each boy looked at his seat mate; everyone ended up looking at everyone. Blissy had come in through the door, but that's where any human connection seemed to end. Was he trying to be funny? Over seventy genius minds flashed through calendars. It was not April fist. That would have helped. Any reference would help, at this point. What Charles had said, introducing Blissy, about passive and active intelligence came to many minds. In the OJ case, defective intellects had been highly aggressive; in this case, the aggressiveness seemed to be addressed to keeping the truth out, rather than promulgating weird lies and distortions. Was it a subtle distinction, or not? "Was there anything else on the tape," a camper asked. "Actually, exactly what you'd expect. I think he was there with his wife, and there were typical tourist-type scenes of them at the games." "Do you think she had anything to do with it?" "Most probably not," Blissy answered. "On the other hand, there is a very small chance that he might have had an accomplice. Someone who actually placed the explosive device, then Gee set it off. The Net and Web being what they are, it is even conceivable he and his possible partner never met or even spoke. "My guess is, he carried it with him. Probably in a duffel bag inside a backpack. When he took the bomb out, he made up for its bulk by scrunching up paper cups or something like that. Then he left it, wandered casually back to his firing zone, and triggered it. And this brings up something I just mentioned, but didn't emphasize, earlier. The bomb was placed at the corner of the tower. From Gee's camera position, a hundred or feet or so away, the vertical tower was a perfect lateral reference point. That's how he got the flash right in the center of the screen. "In fact, he got the bomb, itself, so perfectly in the center of his viewfinder, the sparks actually go mostly up the left of the screen. And he was smart enough to jiggle and wobble the camera, just a bit, before the detonation; they called it cinema verite when my gramps was a sixties tiger. Personally, that's why I think he must have practices. He comes from the Pacific Northwest; lots of deep forests for rehearsing fiendish plots. My guess is he even practiced at other events, maybe using a flash bulb instead of a bomb; probably even practiced leaving backpacks unattended on benches and variations along that line. "They found some parts of the bomb, didn't they?" "Yes, including a big six-volt lantern battery. But any of that stuff is useless; could have been added by the handful; all kinds of timers, transmitters, logic chips and circuit boards. It wouldn't mean anything, except the battery, which, if purchased locally, as it was, would be a significant red herring in a geographical sense, as well as making the device look crude, which could be a psychological diversion. Gramps wrote Bubba-bomb in his letter to the FBI; that's just his style. He is a bit of a tiger. Charles made a mental note of gramps. He was chagrinned to feel such respect for the otherwise unknown man, presumably of his own age, who had not molested the child. How would he have felt if Blissy had mentioned him and been a partner. No different; he'd still think the world of both of them. That was the strange thing; a simultaneous difference and non-difference. He gave thanks for current realities; bombs and bombers were simple stuff compared to tender flesh and wandering fingers and lips. Not as exciting, but simpler. More questions. "Did anyone else yell when the bomb went off?" "Yes," Blissy answered. "One guy. Almost the same time Gee said Yo! there's a shout from near the stage. Younger male, half frightened, half excited. Almost nothing happens for a few seconds as the big cloud of white smoke rises under the tower, then people start vacating." "How much money did he get," someone asked. "They never said. Gramps guessed about thirty thousand dollars." "Do you think it's a conspiracy?" "No. I'd put the chance of an accomplice at under five percent; maybe one percent. The only other conspiracy could be if the news network had paid him to do it, and I do not believe that. One man show; one trick pony. That's gramps, again." "What do you think they should do to Gee?" "I think he should be executed. He blew hands off people, blew off noses and blew out eyes. Dozens of people; actually killed one. No political agenda; no act of quasi war, just a how-smart-AM-I prank. I just hate to think he'd get a needle so maybe I'd opt for life in maximum security, with no hope of parole for fifty years. If I were king, I'd send him to Cambodia to clear mines until he didn't have enough limbs left to get out of bed in the morning. That's..." "Gramps, again!" roared the whole boyhood. Was it possible to actually faint from loving someone? Charles wondered as the throng cheered the boy and dragged him around the room, pummeling him affectionately; coping any kind of feel without intruding if they were in the right place as the child passed. Eventually, he was guided back to the podium with cries of speech, speech. At the mic he gave a sidelong glance at the camp leader, who was seated at the side of the stage. Charles had ripped Sally Fields as the lowest of intellectual denominators conceivable so the boy shot his new mentor a wicked grin before speaking into the microphone. "You like me," he intoned, "You really, really like me." The children, all of whom shared Charles's hatred of the noisy actress, were so pleased some actually looked heavenward hoping against hope to see a hundred-some pounds of nun crashing down through the roof, a giant spear protruding as her copious talent spread in a stain flecked with globules of human tissue, gristle and fat. Having left them laughing, Blissy scrambled into Charles's lap and kissed him on the lips, to the heroic cheers of the small throng. He'd made what they call and entrance, and an entrance brought up an exit; it was time for dinner, and both brought up Hollywood. He approached the mic for a quick word. "Just to summarize; Blissy here has provided us with a good example of out of the box, but close to the box, brilliance. It might be fun, in view of the circumstances, to close with an in the box thought. "For you interested in going up to California, remember what that box is like. It runs on chutzpah; form over function; tinsel above all. These are inordinately trendy people. Being young is the trend. Young means under thirty, if there is any possible way. So, not only do they make movies with a ninety-nine-point-nine stink factor, they're on the street about the time they've learned their forks, with nothing, because it costs by the hour to play in LaLaLand. "So that's our little foray into the land of the human intellect for tonight, gang," Charles concluded, and the meeting broke up with the new boy engulfed. The director hadn't brought up lawyers tearing Napster apart, when all it did was provide low quality thumbnail sketches suitable only for miniscule computer stereo speakers. Bill Gates was likewise being harried. His foray into age discrimination in the media was minor league stuff, in comparison; actually added a humorous aspect to thousands of schmoes scuttling around unemployable ten years out of college. Well, some folk were smart, others, not so smart. Anyhow, it had been a lighter note to end the formalities of the evening. The heavy stuff would come up again. The lawyers were now so open in their rape, a hue and cry must arise - garrote or no garrote. He was glad to operate an organization that specialized in solutions and pretty much laughed at troublemakers and the vast misery they brought down on their own heads. Chapt. 9 He had to have been six or so. When the bombing occurred. Charles tried to picture a six year old outthinking the entire nation; himself, included. That was a bit harder to swallow, but, at the same time, his great grandmother had written charming, witty letters at the same age. It brought up more issues of wasted young minds than he felt comfortable with at the moment; why, sometimes it was so difficult to think about the neglect of their brains paralleling claptrap for their souls, it seemed the only relief was to be found in loving them, physically. This was not a healthy attitude so he made sure to surround himself with exceptionally sound minds. Where once that had been no one over thirty, now it was no one under thirty that was to be trusted, the Nasdaq proved that. That was in general, and generalities could be tricky things. Stereotypes. People under thirty sucked; okay, but that was vague. How much did they suck? And did they all? Well, it seemed to Charles the media did a good job of showing how much; a double whammy since it was run by the very children it exposed. Then there was Daliel, on A&E, the attractive detective kissing the cute street boy; long scenes of the street boy (of age) in his briefs. The kid does get killed, so the stereotype is germane, but late, and after being fully developed. Good joke at the end. Title: "Child's Play." Not part of the generality nor stereotypical, yet amounting, sadly, only to an exception proving the rule. Worry warts and imbeciles; shaking cowards and the yammering rubber faces of professional talkers. Kevin Eubanks has never heard of a brick in the toilet tank; Rosie has never heard of being wall-eyed, yet the mic is always on and the clatter never stops. To Charles this was particularly irritating because the thinking never started, except in IT and clever new toys. Fiber optics carrying what? More Rosie? The camp director looked fondly over his dining room full of little content providers. Blissy seemed attracted to Timmy Adams. As the boys fell into their own conversation they became simply another couple in the group. Blissy caught Charles's eye and grinned to the slight nod he received. Timmy was a shy red-headed boy, also eleven years old. Long-legged, Irish, even a former shepherd. His stories were camp legend because as a high-hills summer boy only the most athletic trekkers found their way to his herd. He was blistering on his feet; said sometimes a shepherd boy had to be; the one true athlete in a camp that was ambivalent about most physical activity. Charles had lectured the child about bone and joint damage and he'd eased up at the extreme end and taken to running barefoot on deep grass. He was the kind of boy one instinctively wanted to last and stunting could take many forms. What had happened was the red head had energized some of the worst brain mushrooms, getting them at least to some pre, pre athletic stage. In the end, he was a doer more than being much of a talker; led by example and provided companionship as a reward without ever offering it. That Blissy seemed to be gravitating to him was aceing the test, not that there was a test, or a grade. Still, picking the best of the hundred, all but instantly, was at least A-list behavior, so Charles awarded his newest camper a high grade for deportment. That along with reinventing the game of golf, reinventing a major quiz show, and, finally, fingering a merciless killer, showed a real breadth and depth of character in the new camper, he was a mile wide and a mile deep, and linking him with the exotic Irish boy almost seemed garnishing an already gilded lily. "What was not to like?" Charles asked himself, wincing at the urbanism and a bit chagrined that a mere boy could drive him to such misuse of the language he lived in and dreamed in. Blissy and Timmy. What was not to like? Certainly not Timmy's saga of emerald hill and shamrock valley. Charles spied on his campers with miniature cameras and microphones. The policy was clearly stated in all camp literature and was essential for partnering boys; boys and staff, and, in the end, to the smooth and frictionless operation of the entire establishment. Forewarned was forearmed, and, not to put too fine a point on it, who at c-camp was likely to have a secret, in the first place? Charles chuckled at the notion. It was a little like submitting his porn stories and having them listed under Fantasy. Weren't most of the stories fantasies? Didn't all the campers have a long list of secrets? It was all a matter of interpretation, so he spied happily away, sometimes wondering if there might not be a little showing off going on for the hidden camera. He'd had no such questions from Timmy's first night with Evan Billings, two summers ago, nor last summer, when his steady roommate had been Chic Waterman, with frequent visits from Evan, who'd gone on to the senior camp. Charles guessed their coming together would have been identical if the nearest camera had been miles away. Now the sensations were coming toward him; threading through the thronged rec room; bantering, taking an interest in some of the gamers at play; kibitzing over cards and chess matches, yet moving inexorably toward the master of the happy universe. As the boys approached, Charles looked up from his omnipresent keyboard and smiled in welcome. "I'm glad to see you together," he said, affirming his earlier nod to Blissy. The boys roosted at his table, and Charles sighed happily. Who was it, Heathcliff or Garfield who'd done the hotel ads that went: "Don't change anything?" Both boys smiled back at him Did they have to do that? For ten minutes no one said a word. All watched the rhythms of commotion that followed activities from table tennis to Chuckie Hancock, whose name wasn't anything close to Charles, but was bestowed in honor of the activity in which he was currently engaged; specifically, executing a flawless taxidermic technique on a fruit bat. As close as c-camp ever came to a resident weirdo, that was Chuckie, but one did have to overlook the thirteen year old's six figure income if one was predisposed to think there was anything much too his strangeness. Blissy counted a dozen or more easels, and fully half the boys seemed to be either working or playing at `puters galore. "You guys up for a bottle of wine?" Charles finally asked the boys. "Each?" the Irisher asked. Charles ignored him for a few seconds, then commented on the likely effects of umpty-ump ounces of alcohol on an individual who did not yet weigh one hundred pounds. Timmy took the preaching to heart and smiled shyly. Charles had a staffer bring two bottles for the three of them and they fired corks into the house so the liquor could breathe. After awhile he decanted half his bottle, dividing it amongst his two young guests, reserving half the bottle for himself. He thought back on his garnished and gilded lily; and that had been with a couple of sober-sides; now the lily was to be bathed in an almost ethereal golden glow, `almost' because the kids were going to be cash cows able to lay golden eggs without mixing a metaphor a month. One thing Charles knew was that when his camp became world famous and someone asked him what he was going to do next, the answer would not have anything to do with chain of theme parks. C-camp was the happiest place on earth, because, while a lot undoubtedly went on at the famous entertainment center, it was done in tunnels and on the sly. What was lost in excitement, almost nothing, was more than compensated for by what was gained in comfort. The place hadn't even been half bad before nine in the morning when he'd picked up Blissy Scopes; now he was drinking wine with the boy and the boy was drinking wine with Timmy and they were all seated off in a quiet corner surrounded by several scout troops worth of boys, boys and more boys. "Has Charles ever told you one of his awesome stories?" Blissy asked Timmy. Charles almost gagged on his wine at the question. "Stories?" he thought to himself. "Me? Get this kid back to his Celtic highlands, then you'll know what stories are all about." This was as obvious as the penny lying flattened after the train passed, but, at the same time, was not to be hurried. Charles made light of the remark, and commented on Timmy being a good story teller, himself. Blissy responded by taking a renewed look at the boy sitting beside him. "Wow," he thought, "if Charles says he's good, and looking as beautiful as he looks, I can't wait..." The camp majordomo was more sanguine. Let the nippers rattle and shake; prattle and prance, he'd measure his doses; measure them and space them. Blissy was about to have the entire night of his young life; Timmy was obviously half-way on fire, already, and so the imperative was to sip, savor, relax and enjoy -- for all of them. He brought up a nonsense subject for the boys to think about. Why was it, he asked, that trains didn't run their engines at full throttle when going down grade? If the polarity of the gen set was reversed, all the power from the diesel would act to brake the train by reversing the torque of the motors that drove it. Blissy thought it was a matter of switching. The switches to reverse a submarine were massive; there might not be room for them in a locomotive, other than the relative small devices needed to change direction while the engine was idling. Timmy pointed out that reversing the diesel-electric would provide braking action only at the locomotive, which might cause an accident, especially on a curve. A boy listening from the next table thought locomotives did rev up on downgrades, but wasn't sure. His roommate entered the discussion by commenting that the engineer wouldn't be able to tell if the drive wheels were spinning backwards, and that might lead to problems. A third boy at the table pointed out it would just waste fuel, since the mechanical brakes would stop the train by themselves. It was hardly a question for the ages, and, undoubtedly, thousands of people knew the answer, but at the same time it beat talking about hoops and who was the nastiest of nasties in the nastiest band, or whether perchance The Gap happened to be trendier than Old Navy, or vice versa. There was little bonhomie in Charles; the ghastly over friendliness adults usually have toward children, stereotyped in film, but at least partially acted out in real life in far too many cases. W.C. Fields was asked if he liked children, having worked with many, and he replied that it depended on how they were cooked. There were twenty boys, even a few more, on the grounds, who would perfectly cheerfully not say a word in a week. To an individual, these boys were astonishingly articulate and even loquacious when they had something to say.. Circling his thoughts, as one might wagons to protect from the vagaries of the night, Charles's mind once again returned to a certain quiet lad of the heather, of the high summer pastures, of misty mornings and lingering summer twilight `tll bed time, and of the story the child told to his roommate on the first night of camp. Chapt. 10 The first chapter of the boy's tale took place in the village at the head of the valley. Timmy Adams awoke to the knock of his cousin, Carl, the tallest and handsomest boy in the town. "Happy birthday, tike o' my heart," the older boy shouted as he entered the family room. Timmy jolted the rest of the way awake in an instant. He was eight today; the biggest birthday of his life and his keen cousin was already afoot. He jumped clear of his bed and bolted through the door of his room, down the hall, and into his cousin's arms. "Lord, child, what's with the growing. Will you never stop?" "Not until you can look me in the eye for your blarney," the youngster responded. "Standing flat footed, aye, eyeball to eyeball, then I'll listen to y'er foolery." Carl swung the boy in several circles, then released him so the both tumbled into chairs where they sat regarding each other. The older boy had been away for a month taking exams and sitting interviews; now he was home for the summer. In Timmy's eyes he seemed to have grown a bit himself; must now top six-three. Like Timmy, he was a classic red head and now sported a rugged footballer's cut There was a new breadth to the teenager's shudders and prominence to the youth's chest. He hadn't been just sitting, that was for sure. For his part, Carl was delighted with the new, larger version of his tyke. The boy seemed to have grown a full inch, turning into a long-legged beauty. For a second he pictured them together in a mirror making an extraordinary couple; one tall, the other much taller; both slim, just short of wiry, and milk-skinned. "A lesser tyke you are, now," Carl said after a few moments just looking at his cousin. "We'll have to think up a new name for you, won't we?" "I don't care about things like that," the boy replied. "Just as long as you are here and you plan to spend the whole summer. What about it?" "Well, lad," answered the teen, "you know the answer to the first part, what with me sitting not three feet away, and as to the second, well, the summer it is." "Promise?" yelped the child, leaping into the older boy's lap. "Aye. I'm yours all the way until October, if you'll have me." The two stared into each others' eyes, the child such a lick of a broth of a laddie to the elder; the elder, a rock and a spirit that knew so much, to the brand-new eight year old. Especially, he new the secret of being a shepherd, the most exciting secret there was in all of Ireland; in all of the world, so it was said. No seven year old could ever know more than the basic fact that there was a secret, but that was for seven year olds. Yesterday's news. Carl ran his fingers through the curly red hair of his little cousin, and kissed him on the forehead. "All summer for us," he repeated his promise. "You and me and a thousand sheep. Does that suite you?" "If the summer were to be a hundred years long, then I'd be satisfied," said the youngster. "That would be fine," agreed the older male. "Think of the herd we'd have if we came down after a century. We'd swagger under that load of coin; more likely stagger as we'd be unlikely to draw a sober breath for years at a time." Timmy giggled at his cousin. It was a dream come true just to have him back; just to sit in his lap and hug up against him for a few minutes. No less was Carl pleased with the red-headed stripling squirming on his knees. There was ten pounds more of him than a month ago, every once apparently in the right places; a solidness and lankiness that added dramatically to his former child-like spindly sweetness and delicacy. Especially in his shoulders the little boy was not so little anymore; overall, he was a delight and picture of heaven come to this small parlor in a country village. "When can you tell me the secret?" Timmy asked, his boyish voice urgent with impatience. Carl chuckled at the boy's impetuousness and the power of a secret. Most kids his age would be hell-bent on material gifts; toys, electronics and bleeding-edge fashions, but start whispering about something, and most boys would wear rags and swim a ditch to find out what it was all about. A healthy thing, the older boy supposed. That was a good thing, because, in the eyes of many, there was nothing remotely healthy about being a shepherd boy, fresh air, sunshine, exercise, good food, and the economic imperative of the trade, notwithstanding. Others thought very differently; namely, that shepherd's were the be-all and end-all of human existence, itself, and the fact they were vital to the economy amounted to naught more than a frivolous nicety and tangential benefit. To Carl, the conflict was almost funny. Let the community foment over cream-skinned adolescents whiling away their time on lush, green meadows; all it did was pop the boys out of the stewpot and up the sides of the high hills, where they belonged. In the end, the town pushed, and the pasturelands pulled, and the flocks came and so the boys. It was all utterly delicious, the rich green-grass milk of the common dairy Holstein emblematic of an opulence in the rye. Ah, the Irish love of language, Carl though as he again hugged his child cousin to me. To combine it, to infuse it, to richen and timbrize it with a thousand words and sighs and mews and whispers and whistles of the shepherd's secret life, now there would be a challenge for a master. To draw brush o'er hill and valley; along brook and stream and nipping a bristle into this glade and another into that glen, carpeting all with green and ever richer green, until it almost looked green in the moon, was yet but half the picture and nearly none of the story. All the same, it was a fine place to begin. His drift off into the world of secrets; their potential and their influence, had disengaged Carl's mind for the moment. As he hugged the boy to him and tousled his hair, the older boy suddenly remembered a more practical side to birthdays. He wondered, absently, how long it would take Timmy to finally remember the obvious. The child seemed to have put aside even thought of worldly things, so after awhile Carl whispered a hint. "There's a little something for ye on the porch, lad," he said. "Oh." replied the child, "whatever for?" Had he actually forgotten? About the time this was become a real question to the older boy, Timmy looked up and grinned. "My birthday!" he squealed, not giving a hint as to whether or not he actually had been distracted to the point of being absent minded. "All of that, isn't it just now," Carl said, spinning the boy in his lap and propelling him toward the door. Timmy was gone in a flash, then reappeared in a moment burdened by a large box cradled in his arms. "Lord, when I left, child, you couldn't have even picked up me wee parcel; now look how you run about with it like a fox with a rabbit." "What is it?" the boy yelped, depositing the box on his cousin's lap, then following to perch on his knees, leaning forward to kiss him. "Musty books and dusty flannel or coal and manure; I don't rightly remember which shop I chose in the end, do I now?" Timmy braced his chest on the mysterious box and leaned forward to pinch his cousin's cheeks. "Tell the truth," he commanded in his high voice. "Well, lad," Carl said, "I have no memory of visiting the fish monger, nor do I recall patronizing any shop selling day-old pastries, nor the pawnbroker's. In light of this, I believe you might employ yourself to your benefit by seeing for yourself." Grabbing the boy by the scruff of his neck, Carl half stood, and retrieved a knife from his pocket. Timmy grabbed it as the two fell back into the chair and attacked the string and tape. He flushed and slowed down when he saw the gift wrapping and ribbon underneath the brown paper. Looked up, almost puzzled. "Now here must be a mistake," teased the older cousin, "for I have no memory of extending my custom to the high street." Timmy ignored him, except for a quick bite to the neck, and, carefully now, retrieved the inner package from its duty wrappings. The box had reduced little in size, and none in weight; it balanced all over, not just at the center where a granite cobble might be inside a box inside a box. Shaking revealed nothing, it always did so, but was as much a part of the ritual as opening one's mouth when feeding a baby. A bow on the blue ribbon. This was getting almost dumb. A card: "Breath of fair Eyre's hill; spirit of meadow and sailer of lake; Inside are treasures from the far-off city, and goods from the land of the rake." "Farm tools?" the boy thought for just a second, then he blushed. There was a different kind of rake, one older people talked about. If they lived in cities, perhaps they had more interesting ways than were within the ken of your average country boy. It was going to take awhile to get used to being eight years old and things that took long when one was eight were especially vexing. Timmy forced himself to work deliberately. He tilted the heavy box on it end, driving a corner inadvertently into Carl's groin. Their eyes met for an instant and Carl batted the boy gently on his left shoulder. "We'll leave that for later," he said rather unexpectedly. So deeply ingrained was the cult of the secret the boy almost came to a standstill. The linkage wasn't overt, but the little red-head sensed something mysterious; cryptic and beyond what lay packed in the carton. Perhaps there would at least be clues within. After coping with the ribbon, he used the knife against the taped ends, carefully unfurling the foil along the seam. No scent of mackerel and herring, that was a dead cert; rather, a rich thickness of embossed cardboard. Timmy lifted it and gazed down at boots, knife and a pair of MP3 players. Much of the weight of the box came from a motorcycle battery and what the boy recognized as a voltaic collector. "It's for cloudy weather," Carl explained, answering the boy's puzzled look. "When it's sunny, charge the battery, then recharge the players' batteries from it any time you want. Should last a week or so if foggy is as foggy does." "In the old days," Timmy replied, finally finding his voice, "all the radios ran on batteries. It was a ritual to carry the dead one to the shop and exchange it for a fully charged one." "Thus the collector," Carl pointed out; "the boots were expensive and I hope they last out the summer, which they would not be likely to do if you were traipsing back to town every few days, to say nothing of your being too young for that kind of punishment, run though you love to." Timmy blushed at the compliment, then his attention was drawn to the knife. He pulled the bone handle out, then aloft, gazing at his reflection in the six-inch blade. "Bit of safety in your hand, there, sport," Carl said, "as well as handy all the lovin' day when you're out and about. But only in the country, mind you; give it to your fair mum the moment you enter this house, hear me?" "Yes," whispered the mesmerized child. "Sure?" "Not to carry it about in town." "Never, unless it's wrapped deep in your pack, and then only in and out with no dallying and dropping-by. Just remember, you can't tend sheep from a cell, and children with knives find cells soon enough." "Why are there two players," Timmy asked. "One's for your mate; wouldn't do to have just one pair for a couple; sort of thing that leads to trouble where it need not occur." "Is there music on them?" the boy asked. "Aye," answered Carl, "two one hour chips with each player. I programmed `em meself, didn't I just, and should my choices not please you laddie, well, then it's an ungrateful prat you'll turn out in the end; mark my words." "Well, they're mites of things; easy enough to lose, one would think, what with all the deep grass. I'll start thinking up a story of carelessness and ineptitude, just in case it's all a great joke and I've got two hours of Sinatra singing "Tie a Yellow Ribbon." "Most kids your age," the elder cousin pointed out, "would say that about ABBA. I'm glad you didn't. Anyone who hates ABBA is in for a most extraordinarily joyless life; quite wonderful to think about, actually, because no one deserves happiness who would waste their time hating perfection, just because it is perfect." "It's not all ABBA is it?" Timmy asked, trying to keep any hint of a frown off his face; just act curious. "No," Carl replied; "just two cuts out of thirty-some. But it is all cliche. Your music flits by so fast you'd be down every two days to reload your chips..." "And there would go my boots again," the boy cut in with a grin. "The latest song on there is `Achy Breaky Heart,'" Carl pointed out, waiting for the boy's index finger to plow down his throat. "What?" the child asked and Carl just sighed, Trust me. Holding the knife up, Timmy asked if it was the secret of being a shepherd. Carl's voice changed on the spot, taking on a nervous husk. He asked the boy if anyone was likely to interrupt them and the kid gave the "All Clear." "Not exactly, tyke," Carl answered the question. "Nor is cow tipping or doing strange things with sheep. It's a very mature thing and we need a few hours and complete privacy to talk about it." Timmy reassured his older cousin that no one was expected until late afternoon and pointed out that it was unlikely anyone could approach the cottage without being seen by the tenants. The youngster found himself surging with excitement now that the moment seemed to be at hand. For long moments he'd thought the knife was all there was too the lifelong secret. He remembered the song with a refrain that went Is That All There Is? But the knife had nothing to do with it. Privacy, did, and instinct told the boy that the privacy wasn't needed to try on the new boots. "It used to take forever to tell boys this part," Carl began his divulgence, "back when everyone was even more super uptight about things than is there want today, what with the new century and all. It was devilish difficult, because nippers your age still believed in storks and bundles left amongst the roses. "I presume you have better ideas about things than that?" "Assuming not all the storks and garden bundles have been exchanged for clinics and lawyers, I think I do," the boy replied. Carl grinned inwardly. This little red-head was going to be a triumph deluxe up on those elysian pastures. Unless he was very much mistaken, about the only use the sheath knife was likely to have outside camp utility would be to carve hearts and initials, very small, on the top surface of lower limbs (where they could not really be seen.) Timmy scrambled to the floor and fell back on the couch; sat quietly for a moment. Simultaneously, he wanted to try on the boots and leap back into his cousin's lap. On consideration, the boots looked like they'd last forever, and Carl was just for the summer. He leaped and the strong boy caught him, rocking back in the chair. "Mind you do us both an injury," he cautioned, any more words cut off by the audacious child now biting and kissing his lips. Suddenly the child's eyes practically bugged out of his head. He pushed back quickly and gazed into his cousin's eyes. "Is this the secret?" he asked. "You're getting warm," the eighteen year old acknowledged. "Happy Birthday to me," the boy said. Carl brought the sweet young face to his and kissed again the tender lips, probing gently with his tongue. Again the boy's eyes brightened in surprise. Apparently there was even more to this shepherd's secret thing. Then he stopped thinking and loosed his lips to welcome the first trespass. It was tender and sweet, for long moments before the voltage hit. Timmy felt it all over at the same time and lanced his own tongue to his mature lover. "That felt nothing like a tyke," the older boy whispered when the two finally parted. "Tykes are yesterday's news," the boy replied, launching himself back into his brand new heaven. "Speaking of which," Carl replied, after a minute, "I've got more news for you." "More secrets?" "More secrets, please." "I'll say please if it's one secret, as long as it's a big one." "Large enough, or perhaps I presume, for a boy so newly eight years old." "Show me. Take me up to my bed and show me. We have hours and hours." The boy again became a steroidical leach, wrapping arms and legs around his big cousin. The older male hoisted the clinging child from their seated position and started for the stairs, the boys hands moving from in back of the athlete's neck to the top button of his shirt. In a moment ten fingers were going after eight buttons. "If you get too big a head start," Carl whispered as he climbed to the second floor of the house, "it's going to get awfully messy and you'll miss the excitement." "What does that mean?" the child queried. "How much do you know about mates, blokes; being a man and all that razz-ma-taz?" Carl asked the industrious boy. "I've seen a stallion with a filly," Timmy said. "That didn't leave much to the imagination.? "How about a man, though?" Carl persisted. "Never," the boy responded. "But don't worry; I'm not expecting you to live up to the pasture and barnyard, though I suppose you'll have more to you than a rooster or a rabbit. I mean, I wouldn't mind if you had none at all, you'd still be keen squared" "That's the heart of the secret," Carl said, addressing the boy by his name, "Timothy, the younger; like and lust and love are three separate yet closely related slices of the human pie. Focus the three lenses and you get a rich, fully textured result, just like a television picture tube. As a shepherd you'll be roaming the highlands with a dozen or more boys plus a number of hikers and campers. The real secret is how to come through a wild number of experiences and keep your smile intact; the one that come so easily from inside of you. The only way you can do that is balance the three Ls with time and experience; that's the best way to end up happy, and not only happy but knowing you have missed nothing, and, even further, knowing that though a hundred waypoints must be passed and as many obstacles and challenges worked through, you started off as one hell of a nice kid and by the simple expedient of bypassing the thousand-and-one pitfalls of modern life, by substituting ancient ways, you should end up very nicely off, indeed." "It sounds complicated," Timmy said. "You don't know the half of it," Carl pointed out. "In the old days, the shepherd's secret; what happens on the high moors and pastures, was the novelty of life; drew boys to. Now it's just the opposite. Daily life has become complex, mountain wildness is a dose of reality, of sense, and of a real and bone deep excitement that can lead almost anywhere, and often does. Like fire, it can scorch hair and blister your skin, or keep you warm for many, many years: it all depends on how you sort out Liking, Lust and Love." "This is easier than school," Timmy said. "There I have to worry whether I know the theorem or formula or equation or outline before I can even guess at an answer. But your prerequisites are a dead cert. I've like you since I was three and loved you since I was seven." Timmy, finished with the shirt buttons, but the powerful older male in a headlock, reaching around to tickle his stallion's right ear and caressing his neck with his elbow, then rubbing with a gentle sawing motion. "If you teach me the third one, do you know what I'll be?" the child asked, making the sawing motions with his elbow more distinct. "No," said Carl, "what?" "Well, remember back when you said I was getting warm?" "Yes," Carl replied. "So what am I now?" the boy asked, again, and again rubbing the neck of his mature new lover. "I don't know," Carl said, beginning to be puzzled by the boys somewhat strange seeming behavior. "It's a stretch," the child acknowledge, "but I'm so new at being eight I thought maybe I could get away with it." "Get away with what?" the older boy asked. "Good," the boy gloated, "you asked for it." As he said this, he made a dramatic final sweep of his elbow across Carl's footballer's neck. "What I actually am is a three-L-armer. But not to worry, no need for the brigade, I shan't be bursting into flames." Now the tender arms were against the big boy's shoulders and the child pulled Carl's shirt open and then back so it dropped in a fold behind him. Not boldly at all, the little red-head reached to the powerful chest inches from his own slighter torso. "Is this part of it?" he asked, gently touching at long last the actual skin of his hero; all over his skin, high to his jaw line, low, to his belt line, and back, and again. . The flicker's of current that had sparkled through him moments into the first invasive kiss now became a dynamo; thousands of watts of power seething, focused in his groin. Lust. His question was answered by the pure physicality of soft teen skin over toned, sleek muscle. This was definitely part of it. The next part came on the little boy's bed. Carl laid him on his back, and knelt close; began with the top button to expose naked the little shepherd. "I'm being shorn a bit early in the season, don't you think?" Timmy giggled. "This kid is going to have a rookie season that will go down in the history of Ireland," Carl whispered to himself. His country was having something of a wee tendency to get big for its britches over the digital thing; seemed to be basing overly much on producing vast numbers of machines that were almost perfect and lasted almost forever; a declining market was inevitable. Ah, but this wriggling beauty he was in the process of slowly unbuttoning, put ten thousand like him out to pasture of a summer, and a high grade of tourist would flood the land. Look how they went to Turkey and Asian countries of brown-skinned boys. These were charming and delightful, at their best, but be that as it may, there might still be a market for red-headed lads with milk white skin. And this creamy boy was witty, too. Demanded attention. Carl paused for a moment, then pointed out to the child he'd not even, so far, been half shorn, leaving him little to complain about. "Do I take that to mean you plan on waiting until July to finish your deed?" Timmy asked. "Only if you feel you may as well be stripped for a sheep as a lamb," Carl replied. "Mutton, honey?" Timmy said, paraphrasing an American breakfast cereal advert he'd seen. "Honey bunches of goats," Carl intoned; "that's what you'll end up with if you don't feel a wee bit sheepish about being laid bare by a very bad wolf." "Well," came the instant rejoinder, "if Little Red Riding could..." Lust. With a growl, Carl stood to his height. His hands worked quickly at his waist, and in seconds his trousers were puddled on the carpet. The older boy fell back into a chair and began working on his boots. Timmy, watching avidly, said he wanted to wear his, and was out the door, bounding down the narrow staircase in a flash. Carl worked with all the patience he could muster with his laces, then the boots were off and the socks following. Silence for a minute; a bit mysterious, then clump, clump, clump up the stairs on the return trip. A whisper from outside the door. "Are you looking this way?" it said. "Yes," Carl replied. "Hee's baack!" quoth the child as he shoved the door open, and stood there naked except for the big new leather boots. Carl stared for a full minute, his penis swelling impossibly. The willowy boy, naked in the heavy leather, his boner probing a hard five inches from his groin, was simultaneously the most beautiful thing the eighteen year old had ever seen, and, by far an away the hottest. "Lengthen the runways," Carl breathed to himself, adding, "Cor, will you look at that, now." Timmy wasn't posing or posturing, just standing in the door with his arms at his side looking down at his own huge penis. Carl, finishing with his pants, boots and socks, again stood. He was now also naked except for a cross at his neck and his white briefs. Staring at the boy, he lowered these, hastily at the end, and stepped clear, almost as naked as the child in front of him. "We're running out of secrets," the boy remarked in a whisper. The big penis two feet away was the most perfect thing he'd ever seen. Jutting and powerful, just short of massive and log-like. It was bent to the young man's left, which seemed to add a touch of mystery over that which might have existed had the organ been straight. It looked so real, so perfect to hold of he put his left arm around Carl's waist and reached in front with his little right hand. "You'll do this a little differently when you're with men up in the meadows," the older boy said. "How?" the child asked. "You signal to a boy or man by pulling up the front of your shirt when only he can see you, if possible. He will then probably -- what am I saying? surely -- try to find you alone, and come up behind you." Carl indicated a circle with his right index finger, and the boy executed a half turn. "This is how it always happens," he instructed, coming ever closer up behind the naked child in the big, heavy, leather boots. "He will start here," the athlete continued, tracing Timmy's neck with his fingers. "This is your chance to break off, if you have second thoughts; just say you're sorry, you're not in the mood, after all; it happens, so don't be afraid to follow your best instinct.." "Wouldn't the man get mad if that happened?" Timmy asked. "No," Carl explained. "Most men know how it is being a kid; they'll understand. At the same time, you must break off early. Once a man has both hands under your shirt and is doing to you what I'm doing to you it should be too late. I mean, shepherd boys are always one hundred percent in control; no means no, irregardless; but, at the same time, it's not a place to be teasing, tantalizing or experimenting with the edge of the envelope. "As much good manners as anything else I suppose, if one really looked into it." "Well," the boy pointed out after a few seconds of thought, "perhaps I am to the manner shorn." "You'll fleece the whole of Ireland, with a wit like that, if you've a mind to," Carl said. Then he got serious. "Not for money, though, since there's been the allusion. No coin ever passes, hiker to shepherd. Not here. Other cultures allow boys to sell themselves, ours does not. Free will, laddie; your beauty is yours, alone, to be shared how and as you see fit as long as it's free. "Nuisance, really," Carl's review continued. "I could have done with a little extra of the wherewithal in those days, couldn't I. just. But the cost of a pure heart is high, which is why one is worth so much." The extended forays into logic were fascinating, Timmy was sure they were, and while he wouldn't exactly have accused his cousin of trying to pull the wool over his eyes he thought, at the same time, it might be a bit of an idea to hasten things along. He moved back, deliberately, against his mature cousin. The older boy gasped and the contact of the silky back against his big cock. His hands moved from fingering the child's shoulders and neck down to his slim chest and the milky belly with is beyond soft trace of little-boy chub. Now it was time for the child to react and he hummed softly to the feeling of the powerful, rough athletes hands against his naked tummy. "I love me little laddie, you know," Carl whispered after bending to the boy's ear. "I love you, too," the boy responded. It was nine o'clock in the morning of what was hands down the most exciting day a boy could imagine. Timmy's vague dreams and desires now had a center and a home; made all the sense in the world. He yielded completely to the powerful young male behind him and the wolf dragged his lamb to the bed, lay down, and pulled the boy ba-aa-ck to his chest. He rammed his index finger into the pretty little mouth, and the boy went instantly to sucking the finger, letting instinct overpower him. Carl was electrified by his little boy's crystalline response to every nuance of touch; he was almost an electric eel that shocked the fingers that fondled and lingered all over the boy's nakedness. "Timmy," Carl whispered urgently, "do you remember when we were watching "Last Action Hero" and you asked me what they were talking about when Arnold told the boy about premature ejaculation?" "Yes," Timmy replied. That had been a poser at the time, a year or so ago, and the explanation hadn't meant much. Did it have something to do with what his big cousin was doing to him. I go through these pages as amazed as anyone at my limitless virtuosity, both greater and more consistent than any artist living or dead. My vanity knows no bounds, my arrogance is unfettered and allowed all the rein he needs to play at the top of the mountain, and yet, for all of it, I have human characteristics, too. Challenges I rise to with difficulty and enigmas I'd rather not face. And no, it's not stomping around in my own manuscripts -- my readers are used to that; rather, it is this: how does one draw out and orchestrate the delineation of premature ejaculation? Only a god could pull of a stunt like this, then gild it by so vastly praising himself he leaves his reader free of guilt for not even rendering compensation by means of a little Thank You note. From my point of view treating me thusly is perfectly okay; reaffirms the fact my culture needs a hard god, indeed, and I'm just the jazzbo for the job. Speaking of which... "Did you know what it meant?" Carl asked. "Well," the boy replied, "I know seven is premature to be a shepherd." "Yes," replied the eighteen year old, by now almost groaning with his lust for the naked child he was fondling with both hands. "That's half of it. Do you want to see the other half?" "When?" asked the child in an urgent whisper. "Now," said the athlete as he spun the child to him, looking down at the tip of his huge erection. Timmy followed the older male's gaze; felt his powerful body shake and stagger. Carl, for his part, was surprised to see ribbons of sperm appearing as if by magic on the boy's stomach and chest; he was getting his child wet without feeling... a thing. And suddenly the feeling was there. A hard, fast clenching from his belly to his knees; a ricocheting rocket from his groin than again and again launched like fire through his long penis to almost sizzle as it sprayed against the awestruck little red-headed eight year old. Timmy took six massive spurts all over his upper front, then grabbing his stallion by the waist, he dropped to his knees taking more of the seminal gush on his shoulders, his neck and his face. At the end he moved his childish hands to the foaming organ inches from his nose, stroked it with sperm-wet hands, and finally took the tip to his mouth that brought a feral grunt from his lover and slicked his tongue with a salty syrup of hot teen seed that was freshened three times before the end came. Almost immediately they were on the carpet scrapping their slick bodies, chest to naked chest, together. They kissed wildly, on and on; only finally slowing down and coming to stillness. The boy slithered onto his back, lying on his big cousin's chest and arching to the touch of both the strong hands against his sperm-slicked boy's body. After several minutes had passed he tilted his head and whispered to his cousin, "If that was premature, what's the real thing like?" Chapt. 11 Assuage your guilt and stroke the world's greatest ego, all with a little note that says Thanks, dude. And, hey, thanks back to you, for reading. Thomas@btl.net.