Date: Wed, 18 Jun 2003 09:40:07 -0500
From: Fredric L. Brothers <flbrothers@hotmail.com>
Subject: ANOTHER LAWN BOY STORY - Part 2 (Man/Teen)
A Disclaimer: If you don't appreciate gay, intergenerational (that
means man/boy love to the uninitiated or brain dead) love stories, or
you're under 18 years old, please leave this site now. Okay? You have
been warned. Enough said!
The following story is fiction. It bears no connection or resemblance
to actual or specific persons and/or life experiences.
ANOTHER LAWN BOY STORY
-----------------------------------
By Fred Brothers
Copyright (c) 2003 Fredric Law Brothers - All Rights Reserved
NOTE CAREFULLY: The following is a copyrighted work and is intended for
private, individual use. It may not be reproduced by any known method,
distributed or posted on additional web sites without the expressed
written consent of the author.
--------------------------------------------------------
Part 2
I walk with him to the front door. I put my hand on his shoulder
- his right shoulder. He does not shrink from my touch. I don't know
if it's my imagination or not, but he seems to move closer into my body
when I touch him. I can feel the harness of his arm prosthesis under
the sweatshirt. He says he'll send his design sketches by email. He
looks at me and gives me a big, beautiful, smile. He is just so
adorable. I want to snuggle him in my arms and hold him and soothingly
rub his thin, alluring, incredibly sexy body.
But Clayton leaves.
^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^
That night, while a violent late winter storm is raging outside
(snow, ice pellets, accompanied by high winds coming off the lake), I
calmly and gently masturbate myself to a fantastic orgasm, accompanied
by images of Clayton Ritchards flitting through my head.
I see his perfectly smooth, hairless, blemish free face, the full
yet delicate lips. I see those large, vivid blue eyes, that luxurious
red hair - everything that is Clayton is floating before me. Well,
everything I saw...and some things...some things that my overwrought
imagination manages to create.
I imagine us together - he and I...alone...completely for each
other. Clayton nestles close to me. His beautiful, shiny hook
prosthesis does marvelous thing to my very willing body. I return the
favor, gently stroking him...reaching for him slowly...slowly...slowly,
soothingly...lightly grazing .every .part of his body. I get an
unexpected and decided emotional high by imagining that I am fondling
and caressing his two severed limbs. It creates a frenzied reaction...
surfacing from my very core.
At the conclusion of this fabulous interval of self-gratification,
I bask in the warm, wonderful, fuzzy feeling of the post-ecstatic
twilight. My ears seem to block out all sounds...and I feel like...
like I'm truly floating...floating like in a sensory deprivation
environment...and I can focus on one thing...and one thing only -
Clayton. Clayton...with his exquisite face, his splendid body, and his
extraordinarily winning personality. Clayton...the man/boy of my most
farfetched fantasy - and one that I didn't even know I...had until...I
met this most marvelous of human being. Clayton...Clayton...my Clayton.
All imagery...all speculation...all imaginary...all hopeful...all
hopefully coming true...one day.
As the intense sensations begin to fade, I earnestly start to
question my sanity. I don't completely comprehend what is happening to
me. And why! Did my mind snap? When I turned fifty, did I lose it all?
Why am I apparently lusting after this particular teenage boy? I cannot
explain my over obsessive response to him - this lovely child. Yes, he's
attractive - in more ways than just physical appearance. Although
that should not to be dismissed too quickly. He's gorgeous...even with
his obvious physical limitations. But...
But...But...
Why is a sixteen-year-old boy so captivating me? And why is he
completely overrunning my imagination . and seemingly taking over my
very thoughts? A kid I met only today, and was with for less than an
hour . why is he encroaching on my masturbatory fantasies?
Did I say encroaching?
My God! He's taken over bag and baggage.
True, I like them young, and I do like them cute - or handsome -
or both. But my past history and tastes with men, young has always
meant someone in his early to mid twenties - you know, college boys,
strong healthy jock types, professional athletes. Or blue collar types
- construction workers, policemen, firemen, guys from the gym. I have
never lusted after boys or teens; I've never even been with one! Yes,
I've looked - how could I not? Who hasn't? Beauty is to be
acknowledged, whatever form it takes.
Over many, many years, from the time I was a teenager myself, I'd
been very fortunate in selecting worthy male companions. My natural
built-in sense of "rightness" had not failed me often. Even those who
claimed not to be gay (but were just "out for a good time" or a "new
experience" or heard "that guys give better blowjobs than chicks" -
Yeah! Right!) were wonderful - each fulfilling in his own special way.
But my carryings on never meant teenagers...or those smooth
"twinkies"...or boys, for God's sake! Never! So, what draws me now to
a teenager? I'd look but never touched...or even dream of touching.
Never! This all has me terribly mixed up.
Why now of all times? With senility just around the nearest
corner, why do I begin hankering after a pretty, teenage boy? And, now
that I think of it, isn't sixteen considered under age in the state of
Illinois?
What has changed to send me hungering for this boy - for Clayton?
Sixteen years old - and looking like thirteen! What could be different
with this kid? Why now and why this particular boy? Has my sense of
"rightness" begun to fail me? Am I now at the mercy of whatever my
brain has decided to find desirable at that particular moment?
Regardless of age...or type...or physical appearance?
I try to reason through the situation, using logic and sound
judgment. Could it be his prosthetic arm? And leg? Could it be
because he is handicapped...a beautiful, desirable cripple? Maybe...it
could be...although I have never been drawn to the physically disabled
before. In fact, I tend to view a handicap as a sign of weakness...or
failure...as an incomplete person...as damaged goods.
No! Clayton is not damaged good! Never!
So why is this boy effecting me so? And so strongly? And why
now? Why the fuck now? Is it a conspiracy? Is my addled, burned-out
brain trying to screw with me as I begin this new phase in my life? Or
...or is my brain telling me...telling me something that I don't already
consciously realize...that I am entering a new phase of my life...of
new and largely unknown situations...and young men...really young men...
are a part of it...or soon will be?
For some unexplained reason I cannot get the pictures of Clayton
from my thoughts. His tall, very lean body, his smiling, cheerful
countenance, that gorgeous red hair, those piercing, steely blue eyes,
and those cute freckles - they all combine to absolutely captivate me.
The kid has definitely gotten to me.
So! Logic and reason have nothing to do with this situation. It
is purely and simply emotional...all emotional...everything!
But there is something more - something intangible and compelling,
something that grips me with an unexplainable passion. It is not just
his extremely desireable physical appearance. It is more...it is
something deeper. There is something uniquely compelling about Clayton
Ritchards. He has managed to insinuate himself into the very core of my
being...and it will be difficult...very difficult...to root him out.
And the truth is...although I hate to admit it...is that I don't
want him to go...to be rooted out. I want him...want him near me...
want him with me. And I so desperately want to be with him.
Is it that "love at first sight" thing? At the age of fifty-two
am I...am I experiencing love? Am I falling in love...really falling
in love...for the first time?
I sit up suddenly! "STOP!" I shout. I am breathing heavily and
rapidly.
"ENOUGH!"
"Don't let a minor infatuation become a major obsession!"
I take a pill to help me sleep. I know that tonight Clayton
Ritchards will be relentlessly marching through my thoughts...and
dreams.
^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^
One of the decisions I made when I decided to stop working full
time (or full time and a half as I called it) was to put myself on a
schedule so that the days would not drift aimlessly by, filled with
emptiness and nothing achieved. I establish a program for myself -
a schedule of work, sleep, exercise, home improvements, etc. With the
new house and the new season, I envision a creative, productive
and fulfilling phase of work, relaxation and leisure.
The mornings would be devoted to an exercise program - either bike
riding or using the excellent exercise room (complete with sauna) in
the house. I would eat breakfast and then work in the garden. I want
to add some of my favorite shrubs and flowers, put in a vegetable
garden plus a small herb garden.
After a shower and lunch, a nap would be followed by work - money
earning, paying-the-bills work. Five, maybe six hours of concentrated
work, followed by a light dinner and television time. Bedtime, with
the accompanying reading time, would gratefully follow. Of course,
there would also be household chores to do. I figured rainy days would
be good for these.
The plan was an excellent one - in design. In application,
however, it fell apart almost immediately. I convince myself it's
because Clayton could not be here every day to help organize the garden
work. That's my excuse. The truth is, though, that I never was great
at following rigid schedules. My guiding philosophy toward work and
life has always been that when things get done, they get done. That's
it - simple, straightforward, succinct.
What does light a fire under my ass is that Clayton sends me his
preliminary sketches within two days. The next day, even more drawings
arrive. Then more and more still - each more refined and detailed than
the previous. Clayton must be putting in some overtime.
From first glance, I find them excellent. And quite exciting!
For about five days, I receive updates (sometimes twice daily) of his
"master plan." They get better and better with each new submission.
This kid has real talent. I wonder if it is appreciated and
acknowledged by others - adult others.
^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^
On Friday afternoon, he appears at my front door. It's two
o'clock and I'm certainly not expecting any visitors - especially him!
It's an unusually warm, sunny day, and I've been trouping through the
house barefoot, wearing just a pair of gym shorts and a ratty old, torn
tee shirt. When I open the front door, and see him, I immediately get
weak in the knees.
That beautiful smile, that radiant beauty, that totally exquisite,
alluring appearance...well, it just overwhelms me. I'm not prepared,
either mentally or physically, to be facing him again so quickly. Yet,
I missed him desperately and so longed to see him again. This, after
only one meeting.
I immediately realize that all the images of Clayton, conjured up
whenever I was alone, do not do him justice. Seeing him again, in the
flesh (pardon the cliche‚), makes me cognizant that I have been
masturbating under false pretenses. He's far more beautiful and
appealing in reality. His is an incandescent beauty. So much for
memory...and fantasy.
"Hi Mr. Avery. Get all my sssketches?"
"You bet I did! I may have to add another room to hold them."
He laughs and enters the foyer. "You're funny." He's toting a
bunch of papers and a few folders. And one very large, rolled up sheet
of paper. "But I got sssome more sssstuff here. Thought we could go
over everything and mmmake some decisions this afternoon. Okay?"
"Yeah. Definitely. I have about twenty minutes of work left on
some changes to my new software program, then I'm free. Why don't you
go into the family room, watch some TV and I'll be right with you."
"Sure. Can I get something to drink?"
"The fridge is loaded. Take whatever you want."
He smiles again. "Thanks." He walks into my workroom/office to
deposit the papers. I watch him - every single move he makes. He's
dressed in baggy stuff again - shorts that come well below his knees
and an oversized tee shirt with sleeves down below his elbows. Still,
he looks so tempting and young and innocent and...and just so mouth-
wateringly delicious. I am becoming totally and completely obsessed
with this boy.
Becoming obsessed? I think we passed that signpost quite a while
ago!
Shit! I have to stop thinking about him this way...thinking about
him in sexual terms. Christ! We're going to be working together...why
make it all the more difficult? Why complicate matters? Why?
Why? I know why! Because he has taken over my every waking
thought and...and even those I have when not fully conscious.
And how the hell do these kids keep those baggy pants from winding
up at their ankles? Do they Velcro them to their bodies? How do these
garments seem to exist outside the accepted laws of physics? And can
they possibly be any uglier?
I notice him looking at something hanging on the wall over my
desk. I just adore watching everything he does - every move he make,
including the smallest ones. His actions are like a magnificent
Beethoven symphony - in turns powerful, tranquil, heroic and eminently
beautiful.
He returns. "I didn't realize it, sir. And you didn't tell
mmme."
"Didn't tell you what?"
"You know, that I ssshould be calling you `doctor'."
"Oh that. No big deal."
"But it is. That's what my gramparents say. And they're both
doctors."
"Both?" He nods. "But mine's a PhD." I know that came out all
wrong. I know! There's no reason to denigrate the degree. I worked very
hard for it and it was certainly worth the effort.
"But it's from MIT! That's incredible! MIT! Wow!"
"Thanks."
"What's your subject?"
"Mathematics."
"Oh wow! Terrific! My gramma and grampa both have theirs in
English. That's where they first meet. In the English Department at
Illinois State."
"Nice." But I hardly think about what he's saying or how I'm
responding. All I think, all I see, all I feel is Clayton's powerful
presence. Everything - his delicate features, combined with that
incredibly sexy body - makes me forget or ignore everything else
happening or being said.
He has ridden his bike again today, and the light perspiration on
his forearm and face makes him seem to glow in the diffused light of
the entry foyer. I get gentle whiffs of his most captivating scent -
that fresh, mild, masculine odor of sex. To my mind, it is the aroma
of desire...and longing...and possibly fulfillment.
I know I must look like a moron staring at him so intently as we
continue to speak about nothing. It's like I'm an addict and I need my
fix of Clayton to make me fell whole once again. I see him turn
slightly red with, what I take to be, embarrassment.
"Is something wrong, Doctor Avery?"
"No. Uh...nothing!" I give him a little smile that he
immediately returns. "And let's get the name thing straightened out
right now. Okay? Please call me Cole. Just Cole."
"You sure?"
"I'm positive."
"But my gramma..."
I hold up my hand. "Please stop! Please don't tell me what she
says and all about how you should address older people. Please! Okay?
It's Cole."
"Sure! Great! And I want you to call me Clay...not Clayton.
That sssounds so dddorky. Okay?"
"Absolutely. Let's shake on it?" I want to touch his hand - his
prosthetic hand - once again.
He extends the right hand. Unlike the last time, there is
absolutely no hesitation or embarrassment. "Hey, this is a different
one," I say as I grasp his hook. But it's not a hook; it looks more
like pincers or the head of a pair of pliers.
"Yeah. Uh, yes...it is. It's a gggripper-type end. It's more
heavy duty...and there's also a sort of hand that fits over this and...
tries to make it all look real. But it's still pretty phony, I guess."
He shrugs.
"I think it looks great...and so does your leg."
"Yeah? Sorry, yes." He pulls up the leg of his shorts and I can
see the upper part where the bucket holds his stump.
"Wow! What a crazy design!" The bucket has a sort of psychedelic
design all over. It's different...like the boy. I also take this
opportunity to look at his other leg - the real one. It has a few
prominent scars (probably as a result of the accident) but is very
shapely, with a strong but smoothly contoured calf muscle - nothing
bulging or unsightly. The lower leg is lightly sprinkled with
redish/blonde hairs - nothing heavy, just a light, beautiful dusting.
What I can see of his thigh seems nicely muscled and very shapely -
and also lightly sprinkled with thase gleeming light blonde hairs.
He laughs. "Different, isn't it? It's called a C-Type leg - very
high tech. Believe it or not, uh...Dr. Av...uh, Cole, I've got
computers in both my pros. And both run on batteries."
"You're kidding!"
"Nope. Uh...no. I'm not. There's a chip in the leg...to control
the mmmoves of the knee and also one...uh...in my myoelectric arm to
move the hand and to open and close it."
"Myoelectric? What's that?"
"Oh. Yeah. Uh...yes. The hand works on very tiny electric
currents produced in the mmmuscles of what's left of my arm . in the
ssstump." He swallows hard and looks at the hand. "Anyway, they seem
to work great. They're the lllatest and greatest." He gives out a
short laugh.
"Expensive?"
"Oh yeah! Uh...I mean...yes. About fifty thousand."
"Each?"
"Yes."
"Wow! That's sure a lot of money!"
"I know. Big bills for my gramparents whenever they have to be
changed - every couple of years."
"Clay, please listen to me. Here's another ground rule. There's
no need to correct yourself every time you say `yeah' or `nope.' We
all do it. It's part of the current `style' of speaking. It's
informal speech. Speak the way that seems the most natural and
comfortable for you. And don't seem so concerned about the little
things."
"But my gramma...she say that it's not right to ssspeak that way.
It's not pppolite and...shows bad breeding."
"Does she now?" He nods. "Okay then, we'll make a deal. Just
between us. In this house, you may speak any way, and say any thing
you want. In fact, you can do anything you want when you're here. Is
that fair?"
"Very! I think I'll love it."
"Are they comfortable?"
"What?"
"Your prosthetics, silly."
He gives me one of his near fatal grins - near fatal to me.
"Yeah, I suppose. Sometimes in the summer they get uncomfortable, what
with the heat and humidity. And I don't wear my leg for more than ten
hours in a day. My leg ssstump is short so it gets uncomfortable if I
wear it too lllong."
"What do you do then? Go to sleep?"
"No! Of course not! I just take it off and use crutches to get
around...or hop."
"You hop?"
"Yeah, hop. You know, like a little bbbbunny rabbit. Hop, hop,
hop?"
"Around the house?"
He's giggling again. "Yeah. It drives my gramma crazy!"
"I'd imagine so."
I picture him hopping around...and I cannot stop the sudden rush
of excitement I feel...nor can I halt the sudden hardening taking place
in my shorts. I get a feeling of physical discomfit and extreme
embarrassment, as I partially turn away.
"Okay. Get yourself that drink while I finish up."
"Sure." He moves to the kitchen.
But still I continue to stand there. Stand in that same spot...
not moving...immobile. Standing like a zombie...and staring at him. I
must look like a blithering idiot. Clay has me mesmerized. His
appearance is overwhelming my senses...my ability to process all
incoming information. I am totally transfixed.
My eyes begin to water. He looks so gorgeous walking on those
legs - one real, one not. He reaches for the refrigerator door with
two hands - one real, one not. He opens it with his hook, looks around
and takes out a Mountain Dew. He ambles into the family room and turns
on the television.
His body movements captivate me. The smooth grace, the flowing
rhythms, the fluid strength he displays, the agile lope - all combine
to make me weak.
I continue to stand and watch. I cannot take my gaze from this
boy. I notice that he can make the gripper hand swivel to his needs.
He holds the can in his right hand, pops the top, and takes a long
drink. He looks so completely natural and comfortable. Not to mention
that he is stunning. He is so enormously sexy. Yet, I wonder if he
realizes the effect...the stunning results...he has on other people...
and me in particular.
He turns and sees me. "Why are you still standing there?"
Now it's my turn to stammer. "Uh...just watching you. That's
all."
"What's there to watch? I'm just sitting here drinking a soda."
He laughs adorably.
I nod but continue to gawk.
Clay stands. I record the mechanics of his motions as he puts his
right leg out in front and uses the strength of his left leg to make
himself upright. He walks directly up to me. My entire field of vision
is filled with that captivating face.
He leans forward slightly and...slowly...and gently...places a
light, delicate kiss on my lips.
He moves back, lets out a small chuckle, and then taps me on the
behind a couple of times...taps me with his prosthetic hand. "Now get
back to work! You hear? C'mon. Move it!"
The End of Part 2
(To Be Continued...)
------------------------------
Please Note: If you have any comments to make about this or any other
story of mine, please send them to flbrothers@hotmail.com I
appreciate all emails - ALL!
Thanks