Date: Thu, 02 Oct 2003 11:51:45 -0500
From: Fredric L. Brothers <flbrothers@hotmail.com>
Subject: ANOTHER LAWN BOY STORY - Part 11 (Man/Teen)
ANOTHER LAWN BOY STORY
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By Fred Brothers
Copyright (c) 2003 Fredric Law Brothers - All Rights Reserved
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NOTE CAREFULLY: The following is a copyrighted work and is intended
solely for private, individual use. It may not be reproduced by any
known method, distributed or posted on additional web sites, without
the written permission of the author.
Disclaimer: This story is fiction. It bears no connection or
resemblance whatsoever to actual or specific persons and/or life
experiences or situations. If you do not appreciate gay,
intergenerational (that means man/boy love to the uninitiated or brain
dead) love stories, or you're under 18 years old, then please leave
this site now! Okay? You have been warned. Enough said!
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Part 11
I shuffle into the kitchen around 7:30. There's an empty cereal
bowl, a few banana skins, and a freshly opened box of Cheerios in front
of Clay. He's sitting at the table, drinking a cup of coffee and
reading his social science text. The Sunday newspapers are spread out,
with the sports sections and the comics having been rendered almost
unreadable.
I pour myself a cup from the coffeemaker. "Mmmm. Very good,
Clayton." He looks up and frowns. I committed the unpardonable sin -
I used his full name. I laugh to myself. "You eaten?"
"Yeah. Bowl of Cheerios...some jjjuice. You gggonna eat?"
"Just coffee for now."
"I cccan mmmake you sssomething...if you wwwant...eggs...French
tttoast...pppancakes...."
I shake my head. "No. Thanks anyway. The coffee's fine." I
refill my cup. "You're up early."
"Yeah. I always ggget up before sssix every mmmornin'. Just the
wwway I am."
"Maybe this kid's just a natural a farmer," I think. I smile at
him and he returns it so beautifully. "Who knows?"
I look into the box of Cheerios. The previously full box is now
more than half empty, and the quart of milk in the fridge is almost
gone. I notice the fruit bowl seems much emptier. I guess that's what
happens when there is a teenage boy in the house.
"Can we gggo ttto the nursery tttoday?"
"Didn't we do that yesterday?
"Yes?"
"Do we need to go again?"
"Absolutttely! There're ssso mmmany...and ssso mmmuch ssstuff to
sssee!"
"But it's pouring today...heavier than yesterday."
"Yeah? Ssso? There's one that's ssso gggreat for houseplants?
You know, the indoor or ppporch stuff? They gggot everything on the
inside...outta the rrrain."
"Okay...okay. Let's get some of the lesson work done and we'll
go. Is it far?"
"Nah...`bout twenty mmminutes. Okay?"
"Sure...fine with me...okay."
He gives me a big smile, stands, hops over to me and gives me a
great bear hug. "Thanks, Cole. You're so ggggood to mmme...and also
for mmme? Really! You mmmake mmme feel so great!"
"And you make me feel...feel like a kid again, kid!"
We stand together for a few minutes, he with his arms around me,
me with my arms around him. I rub his back softly and gently. He rubs
my back using his arm stump. My physical reaction is predictable...
completely predictable. He pulls his head back slightly, looks at me
and smiles. We hug once more.
He hops back to his seat, writes up what he read in the chapter,
hands it to me then goes off to his room. He's back in about five
minutes, dressed in incredibly loose, floppy jeans and a long sleeved
tee shirt. He has put on his prostheses and looks so fabulous. He
moves so beautifully - all graceful and a delight to watch. Unlike his
grandfather, I do not mind if Clay hops around. In fact, I think it's
an incredible turn-on when he does. But now is the time for the
prosthetics...in preparation for out outing.
I know my feelings...my affection...my concerns...and, yes, my
burgeoning love for Clay grows each day...each day I'm with him...and
he's with me. And I would give absolutely anything to know his true
feelings toward me. After last night...after the "Kerry incident"...I
know I need assurance that he will not bolt...run out on me...leave me
...abandon me now. It would be absolute hell trying to recover from
being unable to see him...and to be with him...to be with my Clayton
any more.
Shit! This is just getting too damn wacky! Christ! Here I am,
carrying on like a love starved puppy dog. Listen to me! "I need
reassurance" and "leave me" and "abandon me" - what a wimpy asshole
I've become! Why am I thinking this way? I sound like a love-struck
schoolboy, not a man in his early fifties. What has come over me? Why
has Clay affected me this way...and so completely?
I slump back in my chair and close my eyes. The boy has taken
over my every conscious thought. I need to face the problem squarely
and forthrightly. But when? And how?
I look over his paper and am pleased with his work. His
handwriting is atrocious and the spelling is downright bizarre. Yet I
feel he put much thought and effort into the work. Then it's onto
another chapter of algebra. He doesn't complain when I slip in still a
few more pages of work. He seems to take it in stride.
"Before we leave, Clay, I want you to know that we'll get back to
this work when we return."
"You mmmean `me', dddon't you...nnnot `we'?"
"I still have to grade you...and answer any questions you may
have, right?"
"Yeah, s'pose ssso?"
"Good! Let me finish getting dressed and we'll head off on
whatever adventure you have planned for us today."
^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^
The back of the SUV is crammed full of plants...plants of every
description for every room in the house. We - meaning I - have
everything from tiny plants (to go into the bathrooms), small - and not
so small - trees for the entrance foyer and larger rooms, and
everything in between. The selection is large and, I must admit, quite
dazzlingly beautiful. There are also bags of special fertilizers,
potting soil, pots, and varied other paraphernalia.
The owner greeted Clay like a long lost son. We - meaning I,
again - am given a private tour of the greenhouses and the special
growing areas. Clay was ecstatic. He'd been behind the scenes many
times, but it was like the first time for him. He practically skipped
around...and with his prosthetic leg, that wasn't easy to do.
I watched him scrutinizing and selecting the plants, speak to
other customers, and just having a great old time. I picked out a few
specimens myself, half of which Clay eventually puts back in the beds,
shaking his head as he looked them over, but not saying anything.
"He's the best damned salesman I have."
I looked up to see the owner standing next to me. "Who?" I asked.
"Why, Clayton, of course. He knows more `bout this stuff `n
anyone I ever meet. He's A-1 in my book. My sales jess go through the
roof whenever he shows up here. He's so enthusiastic. People jess buy
and buy. Wadda super kid!"
I think so too, but don't say anything.
"He's tellin' me he's gunna do ya back property?"
"Yes. His drawings are fabulous - I can't wait to see the whole
thing brought to life."
"Yeah! He done a few places. Ya seen his folk's place?"
"Yes I have. It's quite magnificent for such a small piece of
property."
"Yeah. I gotta nice picture in my office...and there's one
hangin' on that wall over there."
"Wow! That's terrific!"
Ninety minutes later, we stop to eat lunch before the drive home.
While lovingly watching Clay hungrily devour his food, I decide that
the trip back home would be a good time to have him relate more details
- give me some fresh perspective - on our "discussion" of last night...
about his friends. I need him to clarify some things that were said -
some things that are bugging the shit out of me. Their treatment of
Clayton seemed, in my opinion, to be cruel and unjustified. My
thinking is that since we'll be in the car, he will feel some sense of
restraint and not become hysterical again. Maybe the problems that
triggered his outbursts will not recur, since we had already spoken
about some of them.
And so, as the Headless Horseman of legend, I charge to the fore.
"Clay? Would you mind if we discuss...discuss now...something we
started to talk about last night...but never got to finish. I know it
might...might be a sensitive topic, but do you think we could try?"
"Sure," he responds quickly.
"Do you mind?"
"Nah! It's okay. What do yah wwwanna know?"
He seems unsure. His eyes tell me he's not happy with the request
but will go along with whatever I want.
"Well, it's something I don't understand...about you and those
guys you're with...those afternoons at Kyle's home? I really think I
need to know...I mean would like to know...why? Help me understand
these friends of yours...the ones you pal around with."
He nods, but his expression is still disagreeable. I sense
problems ahead.
"I mean why do you continue hanging out with them...if you know
they're going to humiliate you? And put you in difficult posit-...uh...
you know, difficult situations. I mean they don't seem to show you
much respect...do they...or hold you in any kind of esteem. Right?"
"Yeah. I s'pose you cccan sssay that?"
"So, could you help me to understand the situation...and them?
Why do you let things continue the way they are?"
"You know, Cole, I've gggiven this lllotsa thought...I rrreally
have! I think about it a lllot?"
Then he's quiet.
"And I know - I understand - wwwhat's ggoin' on. I mean, between
those guys and mmme." More quiet, except for a few deep breaths and
sighs. "Okay. I know they think I'm sssome...sssome kinda jjjoke...
you know, sssome kinda bbbig freak. That's why they tttake me into the
gggroup. They know they cccan have fffun with me...and ppplay all
kkkindsa stupid-ass gggames with me...and that I dddon't complain or
bbbitch about it."
Another long silence.
"So? Are you going to tell me?"
"Yeah. I'm tellin' you. Aren't you listening?"
We stop at a traffic signal. He turns to look at me. I can see
his eyes beginning to well up, but he fights hard to prevent any crying
or panic. The rain is very heavy and the sound on the roof is loud .
and the incessant thud, thud, thud of the windshield wipers is
distracting and grating on my nerves. I have some difficulty hearing
what Clay says. I listen hard.
"I'd really lllike you ttto underssstand everything I fffeel,
Cole. I rrreally would. Because I think you are a gggood person and...
and care some about mmme. But...but it's hard fffor mmme to explain.
You know, complicated and all."
"Yes. I understand." I nod. "I do care about you, Clay. I care
about you a lot. And even though we met only a week or so ago, I am
concerned about you...greatly. So, why don't you just give it a try?
Okay?"
"Yeah ... okay. Here goes." He takes a deep breath. "Because...
this is wwwhat I'm thinking. When I'm with these guys...it's the only
time I fffeel...fffeel close to anyone." I see a stray tear running
down his cheek but he maintains his overall composure. "It's ... it's
lllike lllove...you know? It's sssome kinda lllovin' feelings I ggget
when I'm wwwith them...or fffrom them. It's the only tttime...I feel
any kkkinda ... kkkinda ccconnection...a real feelin' of kkkindness
coming from other pppeople - that I'm gggettin' something bbback from
them. And ... and, like I sssay, it's the only tttime I ggget this
feelin'. It's the only tttime...the only tttime I fffeel accepted...in
any kkkinda group...or by any group of pppeople."
I am left speechless! I cannot respond - like I'm struck dumb!
Clayton's explanation leaves me totally bowled over...numb...wide-eyed
...and practically senseless. He looks at me, his eyes flitting over my
features, studying my face very closely. His expression is one of
mingled fear and apparent shame.
"Yeah ... I thought ssso. I know you dddon't understand Cole. I
cccan sssee that. I jjjust know you dddon't!" He shakes his head
knowingly. "See...they're...No! Let me explain it bbbetter. See...
they're pppaying attention to mmme! When they dddo those things that
you think are dddisgusting...or hurtful...or nnnasty...they're pppaying
attention to mmme! Don't you ggget it? To ME! They're thinkin' of
mmme...and lllookin' at me...and watchin' what I dddo...and lllistenin'
to what I sssay. Do you understand that? Do you? They cccare about
me! They care what's happenin' ttto mmme...they cccare!"
He's becoming very emotional, but, thankfully, is not hysterical;
he is simply making his thoughts strongly felt.
"When we're...uh...dddoin' our thing...uh...their ttthing...those
things you think are fffuckin' sssick...and they're...
I interrupt him quickly. "I don't think they're sick. I just
think that the carryings on are a...uh...well, little bizarre...that's
all."
"Yeah. Bizarre. That's all!" He says this with bitterness and
sarcasm. "Yeah! And you think they're bizarre `cause you nnnever did
them. Right?" He quiet for a second or two. "Anyway, when the ggguys
are doin' these things to mmme - lettin' mmme have it - when we're
dddoin' these things together - lllotsa things change fffor us...fffor
me. I'm nnnot one-armed Clayton any mmmore! No! And I'm nnnot one-
lllegged Clayton ... to them...any mmmore. No! I'm not even bbbig,
tttall, thin, dddoofy, stupid, stuttering Clayton. NO! I'm nnnot
Clayton the crip! I'm different...and I know they're different. I
fffeel ... I know...I'm ppparta them...and they're ppparta me. We're
together...we're one! One, Cole, ONE!"
Now he begins to cry, and to cry very hard. The light changes. I
drive on after some drivers behind me honk. "You dddon't understand
that, dddo you?" He gives out a long, mournful sigh and rubs his fist
into his eyes. "Why should sssomeone lllike you ... sssomeone ssso
handsome, and eddducated...wwwell known and wwwell llliked...who cccan
have all the ... all the sssex he ever wwwants...or nnneeds ... wwwith
anyone...understand what it's lllike to be on the outssside...standin'
on the fffringe of everything...and jjjust watchin' what's gggoin' on.
And...and nnnot bein' able ttto tttake pppart...in anything...and..."
My mouth is hanging opened, my eyes are tearing. I'm staring
straight ahead, trying to assimilate the information...and trying to
keep the SUV steady on the now flooding road. I grip the steering
wheel. The explanation he has just given me - this incredibly lucid
and logical explanation, has left my thoughts in shambles.
I feel numb. I make no sound whatsoever.
"When...when I'm wwwith them...all that changes. I'm pppart...I'm
pppart of what I mmmost wwwanna be pppart of." He takes out a
handkerchief and blows his nose and wipes his face. "Can you
understttand that?" he sobs.
Still, I don't respond.
"Obviously nnnot," he mutters under his breath in sharp disgust.
"I dddidn't think ssso."
The End of Part 11
(To Be Continued ... )
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You have finished Part 11 of my latest story. Thank you so much.
I would like to know your reactions to these characters and the story -
anything you have to say is greatly appreciated.
flbrothers@hotmail.com
Also, please put the name of the story on the subject line of any
email. Thanks again.