Date: Sat, 1 Oct 2016 11:52:39 -0500
From: Cheeky Chiquito
Subject: "Aidan"

Aidan (M/t, mast., cons.)
by The Cheeky Chiquito

# READERS, BE YE WARNED IN AS LONG-WINDED A FASHION AS MAY BE CONCEIVED: #

Heh, heh. "Conceived."

Anyway, this is a work of gay erotic fiction featuring a teenage male and an
adult male, along with some nudity and masturbation thrown in for good
measure. Who doesn't like nudity and masturbation? Is it you? Then why did you
click or tap through all of the links that were required to get here in the
first place?

I'm sure it's possible that your finger clicked or tapped all by itself. Maybe
your finger knows something that you should know. Might explain why you've been
inserting it into the places that you have. In any case, if you do not like the
subject matter, if you are below the age of consent, or if it is against the
law for you to read about such things, stop reading now.

Yeah, I thought so. Keep going, then, but now you have only yourself or your
finger to blame. That's right, it's not my problem now if certain consequences
occur; consequences including, but not limited to: moral outrage; immoral
outrage; abrupt nudity; tennis elbow; sprained wrists, fingers, or fists; blue
balls; premature ejaculation; prolonged ejaculation; unexpected ejaculation;
sodden panties; cum-stained underwear; soggy electronics; wet dreams; wet
daydreams; neglected partners; excommunication; pleased or irate deities; or
TIFU stories. In choosing to read, you have chosen to accept responsibility for
everything that comes afterward. Even yourself, should that occur.

Yes, that was a long a paragraph, but at least we've covered our bases (and
asses). In legalese, which isn't nearly as fun as some other things I could
think of. Unless you're a law student. Are you a law student? Well, hey,
handsome, how can I examine that bar of yours?

I meant the one you pass to become a lawyer. You sick bastard.

– The Cheeky Chiquito

Seriously, did you read all the way through that? I didn't.

***

One of the most startling examples of the exquisite beauty of youth sits to my
right. He's not quite fifteen and I've known him for somewhat more than a year
now: first as a teacher and now as a coach for the freshman soccer team. Then
his hair was buzzed quite close to his scalp, accentuating the roundness of his
face and the size of his emerald eyes. Now his head is covered with tumbling,
golden brown curls that cascade down from the crown to hang loosely against his
ears. Then he was a shy and introverted youth, keeping to himself, saying
little but seeing much. Now he seems easygoing and more ready to converse. Then
he was skinny and a little short for his age; now he is still lanky and thin,
but he has grown somewhat and his body is beginning to fill out the proportions
that it will take when he is a man, though the youthful roundness that clings
to his hairless cheeks will likely persist even then.

Then he was just a student. Now I conceive of him as more than that.

He grins at me, aware that I'm staring; undoubtedly aware that I cannot help
but stare at his lithe figure, no more than anyone else could.

"See something you like, Coach?" he asks playfully.

He is clad only in his athletic shorts and shoes, which has apparently become
his preferred state even when not on the field, so I see many somethings.  I
see the way he lounges casually in the seat next to mine, the exertions of the
evening finished, the glint of sweat on his upper body as it slowly evaporates.
The teeth behind his beaming lips are a bit large, but behind the wire braces
that frame them they're straight and white, and his lopsided smile lights up
his tan face and plays merrily around his green eyes. His torso, like his face,
has been bronzed by the sun. The faintest indentations of the lower two ribs
are visible near the bottom of his thin chest, which is  crowned by a simple
gold chain that hangs from his neck, and further adorned with a pair of dark
brown, dime-sized nipples on either side. The skin that leads south toward his
belly is caramel-colored, smooth and flat except for the indentation of his
shallow navel. Beneath that, his bony hips are just visible above the waistband
of his athletic shorts, which ride low in the fashion typical of modern youths.
His legs below the knees are visible on the other end, hairless and smooth like
most of the rest of him, until they disappear into the bright white soccer
cleats which cover his feet.

Not until the light changes do I have sufficient reason to tear my eyes away
from his bare torso long enough to return his smile before pushing the SUV
forward. Even so, I'm a distracted driver: I've glimpsed the first tufts of
underarm hair peeking out at me, and the view is enticing for reasons I cannot
describe even to myself.

The last time I was attracted to a boy his age, I was a boy his age.  Since
then, I've always preferred guys close to my own count of years, now twenty-
eight. But I've never met a boy or a guy who had become quite as easy with
himself as Aidan seems to be now, and I can appreciate good looks in any
generation. That, at least, is what I keep saying to myself.

To him I say only, "You're turning into a fine-looking young man. I imagine
many of your peers think so, too."

"Maybe," he replies carelessly, raising one slender, shapely limb to run his
fingers through his curls; thereby providing me with another opportunity to
glance at the small, swirling patch of brown hairs in his armpit. "But I
haven't really noticed."

"Right," I rejoin, snorting. "If your goalkeeping skills are any indication,
then very little gets past you."

He shrugs. "Okay, yeah, I've seen a few of them look."

"Just a few, huh?" I'm really not trying to give him a big head, but I can't
imagine anyone who could turn more of them.

He shrugs again.

"I'll bet you've looked at a few of them, too."

"A couple."

"Boys or girls?"

"Both," he states nonchalantly, displaying an enviable ease with his burgeoning
sexuality – the kind I wish I'd had at his age.

"Well, be careful."

"Yeah, I know. My dad's had that talk with me." The undercurrent in his voice,
normally pitched as a high tenor, grows deeper now, filled with irony. I
suppose I can guess how the experience went.

"I'm sure he means well."

"Sure. Maybe." There is still a hint of sourness in the teen's voice, and he
shifts restlessly in his seat. "Hey, can we take the long way back?"

"Okay," I agree. "But is there any particular reason you're not eager to get
back home?"

Another shrug, and the teenager next to me shifts restlessly again. "I'm just
not."

"Okay." At the next light, I take the left turn instead of the right and
thereby ensure the trip will take at least five minutes longer than normal. I
am Aidan's ride after practice. His mom is grateful, but so am I: Aidan is a
decent player and a better goalie – and the freshman team needs all the help
it can get. If driving him home is the price I pay to keep him on the team,
then I'm glad to pay it. That it gives me an opportunity to spend time with
him is just an added bonus.

After a few moments spent riding in silence, Aidan stirs and asks, "Can I tell
you something?"

"Sure," I reply. "What's on your mind?" I figure he's going to relate that
he's not happy with his parents, or maybe that one boy or girl in particular
has caught his eye. Something to that effect; typical teenage fare.

Instead of answering immediately, he presses the back of one foot against the
toe of the other, popping his cleats from his feet. He is not wearing socks.
I have often seen him go barefoot and have even had to remind him on a few
occasions that soccer is played in shoes, so this is not surprising.

What _is_ surprising and utterly shocking is when he hooks his thumbs beneath
the elastic waistband of his shorts, raising his hips a little so the silky
fabric can slip down and across his thighs toward his feet, where they join
his discarded shoes. He is not wearing underwear, either – which means that
now, but for the gold chain around his neck and a pair of neon plastic
bracelets around his right wrist, he is not wearing anything at all.

Grinning over at me, Aidan declares, "I'd rather be naked."

I gape, astonished, and only at the last moment remember I'm supposed to be
driving, because naked. That is, because of the naked! The teen boy, in the
vehicle with me, not two feet away! Naked!

"Uhhh – really? That's – that's interesting."

An impulse stirs inside of me: a response I know well, but which I've not
before associated with a male this much younger than me. My eyes instinctively
flick south of his taut belly for a second before I regain control of them,
force them to latch onto something else, anything else – like the road.

"Yeah. I always have. I used to get in trouble for it when I was younger, so I
mostly stopped. But I didn't think you would care."

His tone of voice is conversational, carefree, as though he's not currently
displaying everything about himself, showing off everything and all I have to
do is look, all anyone has to do is look.

At the naked boy. In my SUV.

Oh, god! There's an underage boy in my SUV and he's naked and anyone can see
him! Shit! What do I do?

Quickly I veer into the next lane, cutting off the old lady who's been
puttering sedately along in her stately sedan, so I that can take a sharp left
turn. My tires squeal, a horn honks in protest, and now we're headed away from
Aidan's house but that's all just too bad. I've got to do something to keep
people from seeing Aidan like this, to say nothing of looking at him myself!

After a moment of panic I realize I know the road, and I relax a little. My
desperate choice of sudden turns was a fortunate one: this drive is for the
most part screened by trees on either side, and it is usually deserted because
it goes nowhere in this direction; it simply dead ends in a gravel lot at the
edge of a grassy field just outside of town. At this time of year, the grass
there should be tall enough that we can discuss this new revelation of Aidan
without fear of the wrong person catching sight.

As we drive, and after the initial shock has subsided some more, I conclude I
ought not to have been totally surprised: since starting this year Aidan's been
freer about displaying himself than the other boys on the team. Nonetheless, if
you had told me that the taciturn boy I met on the first day of eighth grade
would now be stripping off without a care, I would've called you a lunatic.
What changed? To hear him tell it now, he's always preferred the state. Really?

I can feel him frowning at me.

"You don't care, right?" he prods, a note of concern in his voice.

A small battle erupts in my mind, violent but quickly over. If the kid wants to
be this uninhibited, let him be. What the hell, right? He doesn't have any
anatomy with which I'm not familiar. But still, it could land him in trouble.
And me, too, for that matter. And not just from conservative prudes. But then,
better he does it in front of me instead of strangers, right? Or am I just
saying that because I'm tempted against all reason to look at him myself?

Finally I come to a decision.

"No," I answer, daring to glance in his direction. "I don't care. I mean, if
that's what makes you feel comfortable. But, um..." Almost at once, I feel my
eyes sliding away from his face and I wrench them back toward the road.

"Oh, good." The boy's tone of voice brightens again. "I didn't think you would
mind, but you never know," he continues. "Some people get weird about it."

He groans and stretches all five feet and six inches of his skinny frame more
than a little theatrically, arching his back and flexing his hips against the
safety belt which restrains them. Despite my best efforts, out of the corner of
my eye I catch a momentary glimpse of a protruding shape that lolls from side
to side as the boy moves this way and that. Fortunately, the road is quiet and
the trees and the deepening shadows of evening will prevent anyone else from
seeing – I hope.

"It feels really good. I've missed being able to do this."

My knuckles on the steering wheel are white.

Taking note of my tension, Aidan inquires, "Are you okay, Coach? You're not
going to get weird about it, are you?"

Weird about it? Not exactly. I know how I want to feel about it, but also know
I should want nothing of the sort. What I don't know is what has changed in
Aidan. Once again I puzzle over the conundrum from before. Where did he pick up
such a lax attitude toward nudity? If, as he attests, he's always had it, then
how did he manage to hide it so well? A year ago I would never have guessed he
could be so free with himself, and not just because he seemed shy and quiet
then. Adolescents are typically ill-at-ease with their changing bodies and
loath to display them. The social taboos around nudity only reinforce that
awkwardness. So then, what?

It can't be his home life. What I know of it is only what he's related to me,
but still I wouldn't call it conducive to the making of a happy-go-lucky,
carefree teenager: the oldest of four siblings, spending his time about evenly
between his mom's small house and his dad's larger house, caught in the bitter
rivalry of two jealous adults. Not at all a relaxing place to find himself.

Does it matter, though? However it came to pass, he's here and he's naked and
he expects a response. In the end, all I can do is say, "No."

"Good. I don't want you to feel weird."

"I'm grateful for the consideration," I reply with a trace of irony. Where was
the consideration before he took off his clothes? He could have warned me, at
least!

"So now where are we going?" Aidan wonders aloud, peering curiously at the
road before us.

"To a field at the edge of town."

"Oh, okay. Why?"

"Because we should talk about this, and that way no one will see your – you."

This elicits a groan. "Uh-oh. Are you going to tell me to put my shorts back
on? I thought you said you didn't care."

"No, I'm not!" I reply quickly. "You don't have to wear them right now if you
don't want to. Feel free to be yourself. But – you've got to know you're going
to have to put them on eventually."

"Yeah," the teen says glumly. "I know."

A thought occurs to me. "That's why you don't want to go home, isn't it?"

He doesn't answer, but he doesn't have to. We spend the next few minutes of
the drive in silence. Every so often, I work up the courage to glance over at
him. There's less to worry about now: he's turned away from me, toward the
passenger-side window, there to stare moodily out at the landscape. Even so, I
can see the bronze curls cascading around the base of his neck, the rounded
shape of one shoulder, and the jutting shape of the shoulder blade behind it. I
also have a nice view of the dimple above one rounded buttock, which looks to
be the only place in his body that has any fat – though not much of it.
Interestingly, the skin beneath his waist is nearly the same color as the skin
above it, so clearly he's found ways to strip off outdoors, and recently at
that.

"I'm sorry I brought it up," I relate at length. "Are you okay? Aidan?"

He sighs and shifts so that he's facing me again, which forces me to look
away. I pretend to be concentrating on the road, but out of the corner of my
eye I can see the tension in his shoulders.

"Yeah," he answers, and there's something a touch strained about the word.
"Yeah, I'm okay."

It's my turn to sigh now, because of the obvious falsehood. "Look, please don't
start hiding from me after all of this," I request of him. "You thought enough
of me to share – well pretty much everything! And certainly more than I ever
expected. I appreciate that. I want to be worthy of that."

"I think you are," he says encouragingly.

"Well, then if you feel rotten, I want you to feel free to say so. And if you
feel happy, you can say that, too. Feel whatever you feel. I won't be upset."

"No." Aidan shakes his curly head. "If I'm going to be honest with you about
how I feel, then you have to do the same. If you're upset, then you have to
tell me."

"Fair enough."

"Okay. Well. I'm not looking forward to going home, but I'm glad I'm here now
and I'm really glad you don't mind that I'm naked."

"And I don't mind, but I really would like to talk about it. You caught me a
little off-guard."

The teen snickers. "But only a little?"

Dryly, I reply, "Well, you _have_ developed this habit of wearing as little as
possible during practice. Though I'm glad your teammates haven't seen you like
this."

He shrugs carelessly. "Yet."

I frown. "Uh-huh."

I'm sure he realizes that not everyone is as comfortable with nudity as he
seems to be, so I say nothing further. I can imagine, however, the kind of
frantic mess I'll have to clean up if he should ever decide to be this forward
among his teammates. Not because of how the boys might react so much as how
their parents will.

The popping noise of rubber meeting gravel announces our arrival at my hasty
choice of destinations a moment later. I pull to the edge of the grass before
shifting the vehicle into park.

"We can stay here for a while, and you can be – however's comfortable. But I
don't want your mom to start worrying, either."

"Okay," says the youth, peering at the landscape. "Can I get out and look
around?"

I nod and cut the engine. "In a minute. First I'd like to talk" – but Aidan
already has the passenger door open and is slipping out into the evening air.
His shorts and shoes, of course, are still on the floor of my SUV, along with
the shirt he discarded before even entering the vehicle.

Sighing again, I undo my safety belt and clamber out the driver's side onto
the rough and pebbly surface. As I hoped and prayed, there is not a soul in
sight. The field is large, stretching for at least a thousand yards in all
directions, following the land as it undulates in gentle curves. Behind it is
a screen of trees, which act as a windbreak and also serve to shield us from
view. Aidan has already bounded ahead, jogging lightly over the grass where it
has been cut short. For about fifty feet in each direction, the grass that
grows near the gravel drive is only about ankle height, and I assume it feels
soft and springy to bare feet. Beyond this is the long grass: undulating
stalks and shoots, gently rustling in the mild breeze, that reach up to my
waist and stretch for at least five hundred yards. The blades glint back at me
as they stir in the gloam; each dull, dying brown sliver of late summer
transformed into a glowing spear for a moment by by no more than a trick of
light.

Aidan, too, is transformed by the same effect, though he could hardly ever be
called dull. He has come to a stop in the midst of the short grass with his
bare back to me, flinging out his arms and hands while he stares into the
orange disc of the sun. He might be bathing in the light, which seems to wash
over him as the fiery circle descends toward the horizon; warmth flowing into
every bend and crevice, glimmering here and there at the edges in sudden
flashes of crimson and copper, limning his skinny frame in ruddy light. A
gentle breeze tosses his curls playfully atop his head. The effect is like
staring at dancing shadow and flame, the silhouette of something like a human
but clearly more – like an angel come down to earth. I can only stare,
entranced, forgetting myself until the light recedes and Aidan has diminished
to the proportions of a teenage boy again, watching the last of the sunlight
disappear. Only then do I recollect myself, remember that his mother might
worry, remember my responsibilities to him.

Turning to face me as I approach, Aidan exclaims, "That was great! I haven't
been able to stand in the sun like that in forever. Why do you keep doing
that?"

The last is no doubt because I've averted my face again. "Um –"

"You agreed we'd be honest with each other."

"You're right, but –"

"So why won't you look at me now?"

Total honesty. He demands it, expects it – and I would owe him no less, even if
I hadn't agreed to it. How do I do justice to what I feel? What words can ever
adequately describe how dazzled I am by what I have just witnessed?

"I guess...I guess I'm afraid to look at you now."

"Why?"

"Because you're beautiful!"

My voice catches in my throat, my mind realizing belatedly the words that my
voice and lips have formed of their own accord and trying to recall them. It's
too late. Standing next to him, seeing him glow in the light, was overwhelming.
The things that have stirred unseen within me since the first time I met him
now make themselves known. I understand.

I love him. I love the very idea of him. I suppose I have known this for a
while, somewhere in the recesses of my mind. I could have found it, had I
looked, in the simple pleasure I derived when watching his youthful figure
stretch and tumble as he played the game; but it also resounded in less
physical things, like the private satisfaction of his triumph at a goal saved.
But now this love is tinged with a strong desire for something I cannot have,
and it is painful almost to the point of tears. I want him to love me, but
that is absurd.

Fortunately he seems as preoccupied by my revelation as I am, though with a
different effect.

"I knew you liked to watch me," he relates, "even more than you watched the
other boys. You really think I'm beautiful?"

I swallow and nod, but I still can't look at him.

"No one's ever called me beautiful, you know," he muses still, half to himself.
"Handsome, they say. Or they say I'll grow into a fine-looking young man. But
never beautiful. Huh."

He falls silent for a moment, then asks, "But why does that make you afraid to
look at me? That's a strange reaction to beauty."

I shake my head. "Not when you know it isn't meant for you," I tell him, doing
my best to keep my voice steady.

"What does that mean?"

I force myself to look him in the eye. It is difficult, very difficult. I see
the puzzlement registered there, the desire to understand, but I'm not sure I
can give him the answers he seeks. Still I have to try. "It means someday, you
will make someone very happy. And they will be very lucky. And" – I clear my
throat and turn away before I lose my nerve – "and now we should go. It's dark
and your mom will worry."

It is dark. The sun has finally passed beyond sight, leaving only a silver-
white glow in the sky before us by which we may remember it; a faint ghost of
what it is in its full glory. I do not need this ghost; I have one of my own
now, emblazoned forever in my mind's eye: sunlight and shadow, the glory of
heaven and earth melded into something more sublime than either of them. I fear
I will never be satisfied by anything else, that every moment spent after this
will be empty, unless it's in his company.

Yet some things cannot be. Turning away, I catch sight of the stars glittering
in the eastern sky, gazing silently, inscrutably down upon the beautiful and
the one stricken by that beauty. Their light no longer seems full of promise or
the lure of adventure; it is a cold and joyless illumination, remote, as if to
emphasize how distinct are the heavens from the earth, how far away, how
uncaring. The stars are not moved by what I have seen. No doubt they have
witnessed such things before; after all, though the flower of youth must
eventually fade, still it blooms again in each successive generation and not
all are blind to its dazzling charms. I am not, and though it would have spared
me a great deal of my present sorrow if I was, I would not have it any other
way.

Quietly, Aidan asks, "Will you at least look at me once before we go?"

"I don't think I should."

"Please?" the youth entreats. "I've never had anyone look at me like I was
beautiful before. I want to know what it's like."

How can I deny the request when it's framed like that? But still I hesitate,
until Aidan's hand lands on my shoulder, startling because I did not see it
coming.

"Just one look," he says. "Okay?"

He is near me now.  I can feel his presence behind me, sense it like heat on my
back, as though he still blazed with a hidden light.  I could turn and satisfy
his request, along with my own desire, but the veiled fire will consume me if I
do. I know this, even if he does not know, cannot know.

Still...

"Okay," I agree, mustering all of my resolve. "One."

"Not here, though. There's not enough light here anymore."

"O-okay."

Numbly I follow him as he leads me back toward my SUV, the swish of bare feet
traipsing through grass setting the pace as I stumble dully along. His feet are
all I focus on. I can't look at the rest of him. I have to look. He wants me to
look. But then what? My life will be over.

The doors of the SUV are not locked. He pulls open the one on the passenger
side, and the dome light obligingly switches on. I can see more of him now:
the shadows that play around his collarbones, the glint of gold at his neck,
the almost perfect circles that his nipples form, the shallow recess of his
belly button. He leaps lightly into the seat before my gaze gets much further,
fumbles with the lever at the side until the back reclines, then settles
against it with arms up and both hands behind his head.

"Okay, well: here I am," the youth remarks, turning to me. "Um, this light's
not the greatest, but anyway you should still get a – a pretty good look." He
sounds shy and uncertain, which is strange for one who has otherwise been very
free with himself.

I swallow hard. I certainly can see a great deal more, poor as the
illumination may be: the short strands of hair beneath his arms and the perky
mounds that his nipples have made in the cooling air, for a start. Though his
forearms are long and slender, his upper arms have grown sturdier from
repeated use, and display the gentle arch of developing biceps. Freed at last
from the constraints I've placed upon them all evening, my eyes wander toward
his midsection, past the indented navel, toward his bony hips. What I can see
of his right side below the hip makes me feel weak: a hemisphere of firm,
burnished flesh that connects to a slender but shapely thigh. His right shin
is likewise thin but the calf follows a gentle curve toward his heel and the
bony protrusion of an ankle. His foot is long, larger than average for his age
which implies he still has growth coming; the form of it descends at easy
angle toward his toes. A line of lighter skin is faintly visible below the
heel, betraying one of the few portions of his body that does not typically
receive the sun.

Of course, the area that I find most captivating is the area higher above.
Beneath his belly button, where it shades a little lighter than the surrounding
skin, the toffee-color expanse remains unbroken as it slopes gently down toward
the place I've been trying not to see all evening. A few curly brown hairs
cluster about its base, the only hair I can see anywhere on him below his
underarms. He is endowed reasonably well for a boy his age: the tapering shape
that is the most obvious aspect of his maleness slumbers quietly against his
skin, pointing toward his left hip, not quite three inches long and perhaps
half as wide. The skin on the underside is a touch darker than the skin above
and it runs all the way up and over the broad crown. He is uncut, which is
hardly surprising since circumcision has gone somewhat out of vogue. In the
opposite direction may be found the twin ornaments that adorn and complement
the typical male figure: a pair of oblong shapes, not quite an inch in length,
that nestle in their protective covering in the hollow between his thighs. And
again, there is no hair, no blemish or flaw to be found.

He is very nearly perfect in almost every physical respect and the sight of him
stretched out before me, willingly displaying everything to me, perfectly
trusting of me, is almost more than I can handle. I need to look away, but I
can't. I long to touch him, but I dare not.

Aidan has been watching me silently while I study him, his slow breathing
causing his slender chest and tight belly to rise and fall at intervals.

"Thank you," he relates softly, after a while.

"For what?" I should be thanking him. Few people ever get the opportunity to
take in something so fair this freely. He has stinted nothing and yet I want
for everything.

"For helping me find out what it's like to feel beautiful."

It's too much. This kid is too much. "You're, uh – you're," I say, fumbling for
words. My voice shakes.

"Are you – why are you crying?" queries Aidan, levering himself up on his arms
and sounding concerned.

Sure enough, the corners of my eyes are wet. I wipe at them, shake my head. "I
don't know."

Which is not quite true. I know, but again I don't know how to articulate it,
what to call it. Loss? No, grief. I feel grief. I am grieved to see Aidan,
really see him. All the times I watched him on the soccer field during practice
and during games and the sidelong glances afterward, when driving him home –
and yet before now I'd only ever looked without seeing, keeping the distance
that I knew in my heart I must maintain between us. Now I've seen him, really
seen him, and he's breathtaking in ways I never imagined were possible, ways
that are forever beyond my power to explore.

"It's a strange way to say 'You're welcome', if that's what you're doing."

I glance up at him and he's grinning hopefully at me, displaying the crooked
but dazzling smile that his braces are forming. Using humor to dispel the
tension. I cannot help but chuckle, though it sounds like a little watery.

"You're right." Sniffing, I rub at my eyes in a vain attempt to stop the
threat of further tears.

After a moment, he remarks, "I could see it in your face, you know. It was
nice."

"What's that?"

"You like me."

Three words. How simple they are. How heavy with implications!

Afraid to speak, I merely stare. If I am that transparent to him, what else
does he know? Does he know how I want to put my hands on him? How I want to
watch him lose himself to the moment of bliss like I've watched other guys,
even though the thought in his case is forbidden?

Pushing himself forward into a sitting position, a frown on his face, the
youth next to me observes, "But you're afraid of me."

"I –"

"That's why you're sending mixed signals tonight: why you say you don't mind me
being naked, but then you get all weird and tense about it. Why you say I'm
beautiful, but then you won't look at me. And now why you act like you want to
touch me, but you don't. Why are you afraid of me?"

He's cut close to the heart of the matter with the same openness that is his
trademark. Close, but not quite to the mark. I am afraid, but not of him: I
fear the strength of the feelings that stir within me now, dread what I might
do if once the wall separating my rational side from my emotional one should be
breached.

He's gazing at me expectantly, so I shake my head and say, "No, it isn't you.
It's me."

"Why?"

"Because –"

_Because now I've seen you I never want to stop looking. Because if I touch
you, I won't be able to help myself, won't be able to stop until I do the
things that it is forbidden to do._

"You're making this awfully complicated," Aidan tells me, as though aware of
my thoughts.

"It is!" I burst out, anguish in my voice despite my desire for control. "I
can't touch you and I shouldn't even be looking at you like this! I shouldn't
want to!" I gesture helplessly, forlornly at his naked form. "Don't you
understand? I want to but I can't!"

"You _do_ like me?" the teen demands abruptly, his brows drawing down severely
over his green eyes.

"Of course I like you!" I exclaim at once. "That's the problem!"

"No, I mean _me_," Aidan retorts sharply, shaking his head. "Not some idea of
me that you've put up on a pedestal somewhere. Lots of people do that, you
know – when they admire someone? They put them up on a platform so high they
can never come down, never be human. They gloss over all of their mistakes,
their imperfections; they worship the image and forget the real thing that's
right in from them."

Scowling at me, he asks challengingly, "Is that what you're doing, why you're
afraid now?"

I can only stare back at him, once more at a loss for words because, yes –
that is what I've been doing. Did I not see this youth transformed by the
wheel of fire? Who would not be moved by a vision such as that? And it isn't
just the vision: there's an indefinable quality of maleness that has always
attracted me, since before I could even give it a name, and this boy has it in
some measure, though it has not yet reached its full strength. Nevertheless it
is there, most obvious in his lithe form but also found in the way he carries
himself, in the sound of him and the smell of him and the way he thinks and
acts and moves. Is he perfect? I think he must be close, closer than many,
closer than any other guy I've ever seen – but then perhaps that's where I've
been guilty of blurring the line between the real and the ideal.

"I live on a pedestal already, you know," Aidan continues quietly. "It's not
exactly the same, because the platform I'm on is the one where I'm the man of
the house and I hold my family together." There is now an edge of pain in his
voice.

"I can't fall off of that platform, or come down from it, or my family will
come apart. My mom relies on me, my brothers and sisters rely on me. I can't
let them down. I can't be human." He turns his face away from me, toward the
interior of the SUV. Tension has wound itself about his shoulders and into his
voice. I don't know what to say. My own folly is plain to me now, realized too
late. What I should have beheld in the sight of this teenager staring into the
face of the setting sun with his arms and legs thrown wide was not Adonis, not
an angel, but a boy who felt trapped, who longed to be free. A human being
seeking, for a moment, for release from his burdens.

"The thing I've always liked about you is that you always let me be myself,"
Aidan remarks, still looking away. "When I wanted to be quiet, you let me be
quiet. And when I wanted to be comfortable, you let me be comfortable. Please
don't stop doing that now, or – or I won't have anywhere. There won't be
anywhere...!"

Now it's his voice that's grown tremulous. He sighs a shuddering, heavy sigh,
sniffs and draws one arm across his face before turning back to me. In the
yellow light filtering down from above his eyes glisten. "I'm not even supposed
to be at my mom's this week. My brothers and sisters are at my dad's, but I..."
He falls silent, stares unfocused at the glove compartment before him.

I watch him wordlessly, aware of his pain. So tumbles lifeless Adonis from his
dusty marble pedestal locked away in some museum. Goodbye, too, to angels who
walk ephemeral among the distant heavens. Stone and ephemera do not bleed, but
he is a being of flesh and blood, and he does. He is doing it right now.

"I had to pick a side, right?" he asks eventually, turning to look at me
again. "That's what they've been fighting about. And in the end, he was the
one that walked out, so...I chose." He swallows as fresh tears well up in his
eyes.

"Your mom," I say softly.

He nods, sniffling, but his expression has hardened. "I won't be like him. I
won't walk away."

"No," I murmur. "I don't imagine you will."

I feel as though I have awoken from a fevered dream: a dream I was not even
aware of dreaming until it was over. In that dream Aidan was not a person; he
was an ideal of exquisite perfection, untouched by mortal concerns, that I
could take and possess for myself. It was a selfish dream in many ways, though
understandable because humans ever seek to touch the divine. The trouble with
making a human being divine is you almost invariably make them less, not more.

"So can you like _me_?" Aidan asks me. "Please? It's just that I really
need..." He falls silent again, his face tightening and his eyes squeezed shut
to stop the tears flowing down his cheeks.

"Yes!" I say urgently, hoping to undo my mistakes. Starting forward, I kneel on
the ground next to the door that frames him. "Yes, I can. I do! I always have."

At last I see what I ought to have seen from the first time I met him: Aidan is
not merely a student, or just a boy, or an object of desire. What would have
spared me my pain earlier this evening and might have put me in a better
position to help him now is if I had perceived Aidan _as he is_: human;
fragile, fallible, and afraid. He is young, intelligent, certainly good-
looking, but he is not just a name on a roster or a quiet boy sitting in the
back of the classroom or a sublime vision of perfect youth given form and
substance. He is only himself, belongs only to himself, is no more divine than
I am. And though seeming less, this concept is actually greater than the one
I've held of him until now because it touches on the reality of him.

Yes, the ideal should be loved, but not at the expense of the real.

"Then let me be me," the teen above me implores, wiping at his eyes again. "Not
what you've decided I am. I don't want to be perfect. I don't want to be
beautiful, either, unless I can still be just me."

"Absolutely," I agree at once. "You're right. I forgot who you were, and that
was a mistake, and I'm sorry."

Gazing down at me from those glimmering green eyes is someone still in the
process of being formed, neither boy nor man but something in between – still
human, though, scared and uncertain as we all are; lonely as we all are; forced
into circumstances not entirely of his choosing like the rest of us; required
to grow old before his time and trying to fulfill that expectation despite the
cost to himself; desperately afraid of failing. Strange as it seems, the fact
that he has fears and insecurities, that he is not perfect, cannot be perfect,
makes him more precious than any ideal. And so, of course, I love him.

That love is pure now, untainted, without desire to have anything for myself.
What would I have of him? It's evident that I possess plenty, more than he has
in some ways – more certainty about my identity, more experience, more faith
that I can face whatever tomorrow brings. These are things that I've acquired,
as he no doubt will, through my own trials and setbacks and triumphs; but until
then, I can share what I have gained with him, if he will accept it. I still
feel drawn to him physically, to his maleness, and always will. Nevertheless,
the ardent nature of that fascination has fled; for though it fed on love, it
was not love but instead a reflection of my own desires. In the face of love,
which is selfless, it cannot last.

Nodding, looking heartened by my response, Aidan says, "So, then – then
looking at me now isn't some big deal after all, is it? It's just you looking
at me. Right? You do it all the time."

My eyes widen as I realize he's correct. If I can allow that he's human, and
if I remove all of the preconceived notions I have attached to the act, then to
gaze at him, clothed or not, is no more than one human being admiring another.
His loveliness is intrinsic to himself and can be appreciated in either state
just for what it is, without any strings attached. It's a realization that is
strangely freeing, and which is so simple that I wonder why it has taken me
this long to find it, why a boy not quite fifteen years of age has to teach it
to me.

"You're right. Again. I should be taking notes."

He smiles a small smile. "You'd probably have figured it out."

"Well, you've certainly given me a lot to think about now."

"Yeah?" He leans back so that he's reclining in the seat again, arms behind
his head, placing everything once more on display. "Here's another thing, then.
If looking at me is no big deal, then why is touching me? If I ask you to?"

My breath catches in my throat. There is a lot more subtext connected to the
act of touching someone, especially when they're nude – at least, for most
people. It's already apparent that he doesn't think the same way as most other
people, so maybe the connection doesn't exist in his mind. But it does in
mine; and even though I've mastered my attraction to him, no longer want to
possess him, still I doubt I can stop my own physical response to the sensation
of him beneath my fingers any more than I could if he was just another good-
looking guy. How will he feel about that? I don't want to do anything to make
him uncomfortable.

"Uh...are you? Asking me?"

"Uh-huh. As long as it's just me and it's just you and not Adam reaching out to
God or something." His uneven smile grows, dimples one cheek.

One human touching another is what he wants. No subtext. No strings attached. I
can do that now. I think.

Swallowing hard and trying to smile back, I respond, "Okay, but first – you'll
tell me if you want me to stop, right?"

He nods, gazes back at me expectantly.

Slowly, carefully, I stand up and reach out toward him. His eyes follow my
hand and I see the tension around them, sense his nervousness.

"Have you ever asked anyone to do this before?" I ask him as my fingers land on
the curve of his bare shoulder, where the skin is silky and warm to the touch.
I feel an electric thrill pass through my hand at the contact, and the boy
beneath me tense momentarily.

"No," he relates with a murmur and a sigh, relaxing into the feel of my hand.
"But I've wanted to."

"What do you want me to do?" I inquire, gently stroking his skin.

"Anything," he whispers.

Obligingly, I draw my fingers down across the edge of his slender chest,
drawing little circles over the bare skin with the tips until I get to his
right nipple. There I trace the border between the dark skin of the areola and
the lighter skin that surrounds it for a moment before sliding my forefinger
in and over the nub at the apex. I am rewarded by the sound of his startled
exhalation.

"Holy – !" Aidan breathes, staring up at me in wonder. "That's – I didn't know
you could do that! Make it feel like that!"

"Did you like it?" I ask smilingly.

He nods fervently. "Yes! Can you do it again?"

I nod. It is an honor and a pleasure to be able to give him his first taste of
this experience, to give with no expectation of receiving. I do not need to
receive, for I have an abundance in this regard, and can share it freely.

"Lay back and close your eyes."

He complies, and once again I trace the shape of the dark circle, sometimes
spiraling out before coming back to the edge. Eyes close, brows drawn in, he
waits expectantly for the promised sensation. I keep him in suspense for a
moment longer, then reach out to tweak his left nipple instead of his right.
This catches him completely off-guard and he starts forward, his eyes flying
open, gasping again.

"That was a sneaky trick!" he laughs breathlessly.

"Yeah, sorry. So's this." He is just settling back into his seat as I say this
and does not now expect the assualt on his right nipple.

"Oh, shit!" he cries out, doubling up with laughter while my fingers do their
work on both sides.

In the midst of his squirming, I cannot help but perceive that the measure of
his gender has grown a little more pronounced: he now sports a partial
erection, somewhat longer than three inches and an obvious indicator of the
stimulation he's received. When he falls back into the seat, it lands at an
angle against his pelvis, pointing invitingly in my direction.

"I don't think I've ever heard you curse before," I remark, turning resolutely
away from the sight.

"I don't usually," the teen agrees, "but that – that was almost too much. I
had to say something!"

"Do you want me to stop?"

He shakes his head, considering me with a rueful expression while he rubs his
chest with slender fingers, the bright colors of the bracelets around his wrist
striking against the sun-bronzed skin. "No. Keep going. But maybe you could
leave my nipples alone for a bit. I don't think I can take any more."

"Where would you like my hands to go next, then?"

"Maybe a little lower?"

I slip my palm along the edge of his ribcage and down into the shallow valley
of his flat belly. "Here?"

He nods.

I begin to knead the expanse above his navel, pressing gently but firmly along
the muscle I feel there, massaging, caressing, tracing the outlines across
flesh both firm and yielding.

"That feels nice," he remarks after a minute.

His breathing gradually grows steadier, and he slowly relaxes under the
ministrations applied to his upper belly. I bring my other hand to bear,
working both along his sides, down to his bony hips. Then I follow the broad
"V" along the edge of his abdomen before starting back up to run my fingers
around the edge of his navel. Glancing toward his face, I see his eyes are
closed, head thrown back slightly, exposing the tiniest of protrusions where
his Adam's apple will form.

I am careful not to look in the other direction, but it isn't as hard to
resist as I once imagined. Now I am myself again, I understand this night has
been since the first about him and what he needs: first, to be free to be
himself, then to be loved for himself, and now to receive the touch of
another's hands on his bare skin without any added demands. I wonder if maybe
his home life has left him neglected in this respect; certainly the pressures
of mediating between two contending parents while keeping his family from
breaking apart might leave little, if any, time for tenderness. It's a shame.
But it is a gap that I am pleased to fill.

At length, the boy beneath my hands stirs and opens his eyes. Curiously, he
asks, "How'd you get so good with your hands?"

"Practice, I suppose," I respond with a shrug.

"But you – you know how to drive someone crazy and relax them at the same
time! Is that all from practicing? How many people have you practiced on?"

"A few. Enough so that I know what to do for you."

"Were they boys or girls?" he inquires, mirroring my own question from
earlier.

"Boys. Guys, I mean."

The admission seems strange to me until I realize its strangeness lies in the
casual ease with which I've made it. Were it anyone else, I would have been
more guarded about divulging my sexuality, but with Aidan I don't have to be.

"So then – you're gay?" he asks without a trace of accusation, seeking only to
confirm his understanding.

I nod.

Aidan falls silent for a moment, then says, "I don't know what I am. Sometimes
I think I like guys and sometimes I like girls."

"You could be bi. Bisexual, that is."

"Is that a thing?"

"It is," I tell him. "Not everyone wants it to be, so you might not have
known."

"Why don't they want it to be?"

"Human nature, I guess. A lot of people would prefer a world that's black and
white, with no fuzzy edges, no maybes or in-betweens. But I don't think the
world works that way. Do you?"

"I guess not. So you wouldn't care if a guy was bi?"

"No. Or gay. Or straight. It doesn't matter to me, so long as he's cute. Or
beautiful," I add with a smile, pinching his side affectionately before
letting my arms drop away. Freed from the entanglements of my own desires, I am
content with what my hands have wrought for him.

He continues to look pensive for a while, chewing thoughtfully at his lower
lip.

"If you're worried about it, just remember that you don't have to figure it
out right now," I state at length. "And even if you're bi now, that might
change later. Human sexuality doesn't always stand still any more than humans
themselves are likely to do."

"That's not what I was thinking about," he replies, shaking his head. "I was
just wondering." He pauses uncertainly.

It's not like him to be reticent these days, so I prompt: "Wondering what?"

"Did you ever – with a bi guy? Did you...?"

His green eyes flick in a certain direction and I understand his hesitation
and his train of thought. The hesitation demonstrates at last that he does
indeed grasp the conservative values that still influence this culture. He's
simply managed to shrug off most of them. But not this one.

"Yes, when he wanted me to," I answer cautiously.

"So if I want you to touch my – me – there?"

"Do you want me to? I need to be absolutely sure, and so do you."

He tilts his head a fraction of an inch, nervousness and anticipation and need
flitting across his face.

"And you'll tell me if you change your mind or you want me to stop?"

"Yes. But I don't think I will."

"It's important that you know you can, though. At any time. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay."

Even as I reach out to take hold of the embodiment of his desire, it seems to
reach out to me, the end pushing forward a little further as the shaft
lengthens, rolls a little across the bare skin of his pelvis. It's now about
four inches in length, and looks as though it might gain another inch when
it's reached its furthest extent. I can see a little of the head peering out
from beneath the concealment of its hood. A clear droplet glistens there, in
the vertical, trembling ever so slightly as the teen trembles with the effort
of holding himself still. His eyes follow my hand with a mixture of anxiety
and need until my fingers find purchase on his firm flesh. Then he groans,
squeezing his eyes shut and flexing his hips a little, while his erection
tautens further.

The skin beneath my hands is silken-smooth except where the blue veins
generate small contours. I trace the underside of his shaft, relishing the
feel of it as I always do; knowing as I have since I was Aidan's age that I
will never tire of its warmth and heft. I wrap my fingers carefully around it,
lift it gently away from his body and the teenager flexes his hips again, urges
me onward. Sliding my grip down to the hilt, I am able to draw some of the skin
down, too, so that the boy's foreskin rolls across the sensitive head, freeing
it. The sharp hiss from above means I've achieved my aim.

"So far so good?" I ask.

"Yes," the youth pants. "Keep going."

I don't, though – not right away. I am content to tease my thumb back and
forth across the skin at the base for a moment, giving his swelling libido
time to finish filling out the form that contains it. It looks as though I was
right in my estimation of its full length: five inches long, easily, and about
half as broad. Time and the continued march of puberty will probably bestow an
inch or two more, leaving him with a respectable package. Not the largest there
is, of course, but enough to satisfy all but the most ravenous of lovers.

There is, too, the matter of the droplet I noticed before at the tip: he's
already producing pre-cum, which is more than I did before I was sixteen; and
when I finally oblige his request to keep going and draw my hand away from the
base toward tip, the flaring purple head allows a small rivulet of the clear
fluid to bubble over and trickle onto my fist.

"Hunh. Yeah, keep doing that," Aidan says breathlessly.

I start off slowly at first, drawing the skin over the head before bringing it
back down. The end of each stroke is met with a shaky inhalation, or a
murmured word, or a grunt. Gradually I build speed, working my way into a
pattern: up and down quickly for a bit, then slowing when his thighs tense and
his hips press forward; when his nostrils flare and his eyebrows squeeze
closer together. Once his breathing steadies again, I change pace. In this way
I'm hoping to prolong the moment of release and give him time to enjoy the
sensations.

Nonetheless, it only takes three minutes or so before I can tell he's getting
close. His breathing remains ragged even through the slower periods; his eyes
are squeezed tightly shut; his parted lips twitch ever so slightly in time
with my strokes. A ruddy flush stains his cheeks and the skin of his chest.
His shaft is slick now with the fluid spilling continuously over its
glistening crown, and so is my right hand.

My left has been trailing across the taut skin of his quivering belly, dipping
occasionally into his navel before running down and out again, sometimes
finding my way down to the sparse hairs at the base of his teenage manhood
before wandering back toward his chest – though I've studiously avoided his
nipples, since he asked me to. Now I swap hands, my left wrapping around his
pole so my right can squeeze and fondle his tightening balls. I figure he might
last another sixty seconds at most, so I dispense with the slower pace in favor
of tugging quickly and firmly at the base of his erection.

"Hnnh!"

He grunts again, hips twitching spasmodically and forehead creasing. His chest
rises and falls erratically, but in a quickening series of breaths. After a
few more seconds he grits his teeth and his expression grows urgent.

"I'm gonna – I'm – gaa!"

I've slid my hand along his length until it reaches the tip, where I can use
my thumb to lightly stroke the slippery and sensitive skin on the broad upper
side of the flaring purple head, just before the slit. I know from experience
what it can do to a guy who is close to climax, aside from driving any thought
of speech from his head.

"Unh!"

Every part of the boy has gone rigid. The high-pitched groan that escapes him
registers in my ears at the same time as my eyes catch the look of intense
concentration on his face and my fingers register the first pulse surging
through his shaft and its purple crown to spurt in a spray of creamy white
that splashes in a ragged line against his upper belly. He moans incoherently,
twitches again, and I sense the second surge a split second before it, too,
jets into the air, splattering glistening droplets of white teenage spunk over
his belly button and across his abdomen.

Gasping heavily, the teenager sags into the seat, eyes fluttering, but he
groans and shudders again when I give his softening erection a final squeeze
before laying it gently against his abdomen. A trail of ivory continues to seep
from the tip as his flesh returns to its former length and Aidan spirals slowly
down from the high. I cannot help but bask in his comeliness again. His flushed
skin and the sheen of perspiration on his chest have imparted the echo of a
glow I once had the fortune to know, even if I got carried away by the sight.
He might just be another guy lost in the contentment of desire spent well, one
of several that I've seen, but he is more than that to me. Though I am more
sober now, more grounded than I was, still I cannot entirely escape the hope of
seeing him this way again: the young man at peace, a human content to simply be
as he is, his struggles for the moment over, his fears and anxieties forgotten
for a while. I am gratified that I was able to bring him to this place, and I
will revel in the memory for a long time.

Time eventually makes itself known to me, recalls me back into the present.
After wiping my sticky hands on my jeans, I carefully close the door on his
side before starting around to the other side of the SUV. Aidan continues to
lie quiescent, eyes closed, one arm thrown over his face. His chest and belly
glisten for a moment in the light, which flashes into existence when I open my
door, then fades as it clicks shut behind me. I start the engine.

"I'm taking you home now," I let him know, not certain if he can hear me or if
he's fallen asleep in the afterglow.

"Okay," he murmurs drowsily.

"Do you want to clean up?" I ask him, turning so I can back the vehicle along
the gravel way. "I think I've got some tissues in the back seat."

"Mmm. No. I want to stay just like this for a while. It's nice."

"Okay." I know better than to press the matter. He's not going to cover up
anything until and unless he feels like it.

After a while, he relates, "You're the first person who's done that for me, you
know. Besides myself."

"I thought that might be the case. But I doubt I'll be the last."

"Mmm-haay-ayyyy-be not," the youth agrees, yawning as he does so. "But right
now I'm happy if it's just you and me." I hear him stir and stretch next to me,
and I glance away from the road in time to perceive the question in his face
before he gives voice to it.

"That's fine with me. We can do it again, if you want. But only if you want." I
don't want to sound too eager, but the thought brings me an inordinate amount
of joy.

"Definitely! I may not always want to get off, though."

"That's fine," I assure him. And it is.

"Sometimes it's nice just to be naked and not do anything about it, you know?"

"I know. No strings attached. I figured that out about you."

Which is why I am not overly surprised after we pull into the driveway in
front of the small house where he lives and he leaps out of the passenger side
seat still in the nude. In the darkness, I'm not as concerned that someone
will see him – and he does have an admirable rear end – but still.

"Forget something?" I prompt eventually.

"No, I didn't forget," he sighs. "This is just going to be my last chance for
a while." After another moment, he sighs again and turns to collect his
athletic shorts, slips quickly into them. His shirt he stuffs roughly into one
shoe before turning to go.

"Do you want me to come with you?" I ask. "To explain? I'm sure I can think of
some reason why you're late getting back."

Aidan shakes his head and smiles, setting his curls bouncing. "Nah. It'll be
all right." Then his expression turns serious. "But when do you think we can
hang out again? Soon?"

"Whenever you want. If it's okay with your mom. And I think you should probably
let her know you'll be out late ahead of time."

He nods, looking a little more cheerful. "Cool. Well, then I guess I'll see
you."

"And I'll see you."

Thumbing the waistband of his shorts, he laughs, "Yeah, you will!"

I roll my eyes. "Good night, Aidan."

He grins and closes the door, then turns and heads across the lawn toward the
house. I watch him go, torn between amusement and exasperation, reminded again
that he will be himself, and only ever that. It is all I need, all anyone can
ask. It is enough.

***

The story you just read is a fantasy. In real life, there are consequences to
actions such as the ones portrayed above. Fantasies wouldn't be fantasies
without bending the rules, of course – but though my goal is to write the most
vivid and realistic erotica that I can write, it is still fantasy. In the real
world we must often admire from afar, aware that consent must be freely and
legally given.

If you liked what you just read, please considering being generous to Nifty,
since they are generous enough to host this and many other erotic stories at no
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to let me know. If you think you can do a better job of writing it – by all
means, hammer out your stunning, prize-winning masterpiece of erotic literature
and let me know when it's done, if only so you can watch the tears cascade down
my face when your soaring, masterful prose forces me to question my manhood, my
God, and my reasons for living. Just be sure to give credit where it's due.

If you simply want to rant incoherently, you are free to do so. I have a
special place in my life for those who rant incoherently. It's right over
there: just beyond the "Bridge Out" sign. Keep going; you've almost found it.

I can be reached at <neverspam.cheekychiquito@gmail.com>. You can figure out
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e-mails I receive, but I _do_ promise to consider all worthwhile ideas and
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