Date: Thu, 26 Dec 2002 11:35:04 +0000
From: guess who? <spunkmachine@hotmail.com>
Subject: Anthony's Orgasms 1

"ANTHONY'S ORGASMS"

by Bambino

Author's disclaimer: The following a work of fiction.  All characters are
fictitious; any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental.  Any
descriptions of adults and minors engaged in sexual activities are
imaginary and bear no relation to real events. The subject matter of this
story is pure fantasy and is not intended as a representation of the
author's lifestyle or ideology.  As a work of literature this story is
protected under the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United
States of America.

The author retains the copyright on this work.  Distribution or posting of
this work without the author's permission is a violation of that copyright.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
_ _ _ _ _ _ _


CHAPTER ONE

Howard sat at a table in the food court of the Westgate Mall, dwelling on a
crossword puzzle in The Wall Street Journal.  At his elbow the uneaten
crust of a pizza slice shared a grease-soaked paper plate with an empty
soda can.  Occasionally he sat back, resting the end of his pen between his
teeth, staring pensively off across the food court.  Several times he
considered picking up and going off to cruise in the gay part of town, but
what he was after couldn't be found in bars or bathhouses.
  His eyes kept settling on the video arcade catty-corner to the food
court, from whence came faint bleeps and noises of electronic glee.  If he
ever found what he wanted, he'd more likely find it here, in the mall...

Howard returned his attention to his crossword puzzle.  One entry had
stymied him for the past twenty minutes, and he kept returning to it in
frustration.  A mere four-letter word, but the clue supplied was oblique:
"S-shaped curve."  Howard already had one letter of the word, an E at the
end of it, but that wasn't much help.  Again he bit on his pen and squinted
into space, wracking his wits...

His concentration was distracted by the appearance of a young Hispanic boy
of twelve or thirteen coming from the arcade.  Howard watched him first
with detachment, then interest, then fascination.  He was small and
compact, standing just shy of five feet, but his pubescence was
unmistakable.  His hair was buzzed close to the scalp on the back and
sides, leaving a patch of insouciant black spikes on top.  At the moment
his face was intent and preoccupied, but Howard imagined that he foresaw a
whole range of vivacious expressions latent in the impish features.

The boy wore a white tank-top and loose soccer shorts of a shimmery
navy-blue stuff, an outfit which exhibited the budding muscularity of his
limbs to advantage.  He also wore a heavy chain of low-grade gold around
his neck from which depended an enormous gaudy cross.  He moved with a
jaunty carelessness which, with his lustrous golden-brown skin, short snub
nose, and dimpled disobedient chin, suggested a background of precocious
independence.  A cute little satyr-kid, Howard mused to himself, full of
billy-goat energy, about to grow up into a big horny animal.  To Howard the
boy exactly represented that fleeting interval of nascent sexuality between
boyhood and manhood, a fragile and fugitive time of pure magic now behind
him forever and which daily stirred longings in his consciousness from
bittersweet to ferocious....  Passing his table, the boy turned Howard an
incurious glance, then ran up the escalator and into a big sporting goods
store.

Howard watched the boy out of sight.  His physique, slim and well
proportioned, with his pert round butt and shoulders just beginning to
square out, was painfully appealing.  Howard was especially appreciate of
how the perfect curvature of the boy's spine just happened, by nature, to
emphasize the pertness and roundness of the former object...

He heaved a heartfelt sigh and returned his attention to his crossword
puzzle.  "Oh shit, of course!" he chuckled to himself.  S-shape... hastily
he filled in the entry: OGEE.  A molding with an S-shaped profile.  He knew
the word from long years of reading trade magazines on carpentry, but the
connection would have eluded him had it not been for a boy's shapely ass...

Ten minutes passed.  The Hispanic boy emerged from the sporting goods store
and slid down the escalator.  Meeting Howard's gaze, he turned him a
curious stare, smiled, and set off back in the direction of the arcade.

Howard smiled his crooked smile, folded the journal, and rose for a stroll.
His first thought upon entering the arcade was how much these places had
changed since he was a kid.  Clatter, din and flashing lights assaulted his
senses; his immediate visceral instinct was to flee, recover his
equilibrium.  But the place was swarming with boys, of every age and
configuration, and another kind of instinct took him deeper into this
strange jungle of youth-ensnaring technology.  Slowly he moved down the
aisles, and here in their preferred element, the youngsters of today truly
seemed a species apart to Howard, who had grown up playing "Kick the Can."
Their curious symbiosis with these hulking quasi-intelligent machines,
their amazing mastery over them, their capacity to remain enthralled before
the dizzying flurry of images without getting a headache: these things
fascinated Howard as he considered the objects of his lust, and came for
the thousandth time to the realization that he held nothing in common with
them.  He wasn't the type that can charm or beguile boys with that
Pied-Piperish skill that distinguishes some pedophiles, nor did he find
them particularly charming, other than physically.  In fact, nothing upset
Howard more than finding himself in the midst of a group of boys.  The more
effort he made to relate to them, the less he succeeded.  Their cat-like
viciousness stung him, and his stodgy disinterest in all things they liked
-- sports, violent movies and TV programs, girls -- bored them.  They were
easier to handle individually, and sometimes even pleasant.  In the rare
presence of a gifted or imaginative boy, Howard's heart soared, and he
found a modicum of affinity.  But the few brief mentoring relationships he
had enjoyed had been haunted by the grim doubt that such affinity might be
one-sided.  And since he had managed to sustain none of those relationships
into the present, Howard tended to feel that his doubts were confirmed.

Stopping short, he once again met the innocently audacious brown eyes of
the young Hispanic boy, by chance looking up as he came to the end of a
particularly noisy and flashy game.  Howard could not fail to notice his
air of self-confidence and youthful machismo.  He seemed also mischievous
and playful, even sly.  Lifting his eyebrows, he darted Howard a sidewise
smirk of appraisal and walked away.

Howard's smile became a lame grimace.  Glumly he looked after the boy.
Delightful and superb, he thought, if somewhat conceited.  The budding
phallic narcissism of Freud and Kretschmer... Through whim or curiosity the
boy looked back over his shoulder; noticing Howard's continued attention,
he twisted around, fearlessly displayed his middle finger with a defiant
sneer, and swaggered off out of the arcade.

"Well then," Howard reflected, not sure whether to be hurt or amused.  "I
guess I've been put in my place."

The boy was gone, and Howard felt more than disinclined to follow him out
of the arcade.  He had followed him in here, and the last thing he needed
was to make himself known to the mall security for stalking a young boy.
Howard turned down another aisle.  At the end of it were two other Hispanic
boys, busily engaged in a double game of something brutal and atrocious.
One was beyond Howard's range of interest, being both chubby and
prepubescent.  The other was a gangsterish stripling of about fifteen, with
a mean face, a strong physique, and hairy legs.  He too wore a white muscle
tank-top -- the so-called "wife-beater" -- and baggy red knee-length
shorts, together with a good deal of cheap gold.

He was getting on up the hill, as far as Howard was concerned, but not
quite over it yet.  There was no facial hair beyond the beginnings of a
mustache, and as far as he could notice, the boy's armpits were still bald.
The incongruously hairy shins added a layer of intrigue, a mystery to be
explored, an alluring emphasis on the man emerging from the boy.  Howard
enjoyed halflings of this type; they were like fauns, smooth from the waist
up and furry below.

No sooner had Howard decided that he could settle for the pleasure of
visually raping the gangster boy that his preferred younger model returned.
But Howard's heart sank as he went to join company with gangster-boy and
his chubby sidekick.  Howard hadn't allowed the notion that the three were
together to intrude upon his wishful predacious designs.  In fact, it
occurred to Howard, very seldom did you see boys out and about by
themselves anymore.  They were almost always found in groups, or at least
in pairs.  When you did see a lone boy it was a safe bet that his parents
were nearby.

The cute boy leaned in between the shoulders of the other two, appeared to
say something.
  Between their distance and the noise Howard couldn't even be sure he had
spoken, let alone discern what he had said.  But then the older boy clearly
responded with a shake of his head.  The cute boy left them and came down
the aisle, Howard's way.

Howard took a deep breath.  Shit or get off the pot, he told himself.

"Hey," he called impulsively.

The boy twitched his nose at Howard in a typically Hispanic gesture of
inquiry.

"I didn't want to give you the wrong idea before, kid," Howard said, trying
to smile and keep his voice steady, "I just wondered if you could help me
out."

"Help you out with what?" The boy's voice was just on the threshold of
change; Howard felt its accent and husky timbre deep in his balls.

"It's been years since I've stepped in one of these places," said Howard,
his smile now awkward and therefore truly disarming.  "I was watching how
good you were at that game, and wondered if you'd teach me how to play."

Howard thought that if he were a kid it would have sounded like the most
pathetic straw-grasping excuse for a come-on he had ever heard, but to his
delighted surprise the boy's face brightened at the request.  Not only did
it appear to strike the boy as eminently sensible that a grown-up would
want to join in on the fun, but it also appeared to exonerate him from
whatever earlier suspicions the boy had harbored about him.

"Yeah, you wanna play me doubles?" the boy suggested eagerly.

"Sure, if you can stand to win that easily... I'll bite the dust the first
few times and maybe even after that."

"That's okay," said the boy.  "Except I ain't got no money.  I barely ran
out."

"Hmm, well I'm pretty sure I spare some change.  What is it, a quarter or
something?"

"Nah, you gotta buy cards," said the boy.

Howard gave a bittersweet smile.  It had been a while since he had last
been in a video arcade.  "Oh," he said.  "How much is a card?"

"Five bucks."

"Oh... and how long does it last?"

"A few games... as long as you're good."

"I'm not."

The card lasted for a few minutes, until Howard died one too many times.
The second card lasted longer, but only because Howard had suggested that
maybe Anthony (for this was the boy's name) should play by himself while he
watched, the better to learn and -- though he didn't say it -- go easy on
his wallet.  Anthony readily agreed, since it was more fun for him that way
anyway.  And so he played, and Howard watched, leaning close over the boy's
shoulder and intoxicating himself on the sweet scent of fabric softener,
hair gel and natural boy essence that was more seductive than any cologne
on the market.  Howard snickered at his puerile jokes, echoed his
four-letter epithets when he lost, roared with approval when he won,
clapped him on the shoulder and tried to meet his high-five, but missed.

Anthony had gotten three more cards out of Howard before Howard began to
wonder whether a visit to the mall bank machine would get him any further.
And the charade of feigning interest in the arcade and tolerating its blare
was becoming more and more tiresome to keep up.  So Howard reluctantly told
Anthony that he would have to be getting on his way shortly.

"What happened to your friends?" asked Howard, noticing that gangster boy
and chubby had departed.

"Who?"

"Those boys you were talking to earlier, before we started playing."

"Oh -- those ain't my friends, they're just some kids I seen around.  I
axed if they would let me play doubles on the last round."

"And they said no?"

"Yup."

"Those greedy hoodlums.  But don't they have games on computers now so you
can play at home?"

"I don't got a computer."

"Oh."

"But I'm getting Playstation 2 for Christmas!"

"Oh, I just bought that," Howard lied.

"For real?" gasped Anthony.  Howard had obviously been promoted for the
second time, to the exalted status of Friend With Playstation.

Howard gulped.  "Yeah, I just felt like it.  I've been wanting to get back
into video games for a long time.  Mid-life crisis, I guess."  And Howard
guffawed.

"What games you got with it?" Anthony pressed eagerly.

"Oh, shit," said Howard, and he meant it.  "I don't remember -- a couple
that came with the set-up.  I need to go out and pick out a few."

"Lemme go with you! Are you going now?"

"Ah, no," laughed Howard.  So this was the secret.  "Tomorrow."

"Get, um, Warrior Land and Metal of Dishonor, those is tight.  And, um,
Small Brawl and Syphon Filter, and Pro Skater 3, except that one kinda
sucks, but it's still tight.  And, um -- "

"Why?" said Howard, still laughing and trying to keep the implication out
of his voice, "you want to come over and play them?"

The boy paused, as if his bluff had been called.

"Ahh, yeah -- I know what you're up to!" And he prodded Anthony on the
shoulder playfully.

"No, I just -- "

"It's cool, I'd let you come over and play my Playstation," said Howard
magnanimously, "but the deal is you gotta teach me how to use it in return.
Is that a deal?"

"Hell yeah!"

"All right then.  So when are we gonna do this? You want to come help me
shop for games tomorrow?"

"Aiight!"

"Don't you have school tomorrow?"

"Nah, it's Sunday."

"Oh yeah... so meet me here tomorrow, same time, and we'll go downstairs to
that place that sells the games."

"Hotgames."

"Yeah, Hotgames."

"Why don't we just meet there instead?"

"Okay, sure.  See you at Hotgames, tomorrow at -- " Howard glanced at his
watch, " -- three o'clock."

"Cool."

"Okay.  Thanks, Anthony.  See you then."

"'Kay.  Bye."

Howard reached out his hand, and Anthony engaged it without much success in
an elaborate ghetto handshake of six or seven steps.

Fifteen minutes later the sales clerk at Hotgames handed Howard his credit
card and a receipt to sign.  As he signed, Howard frowned.  Boys are very
expensive, he remarked to himself.  And this is all speculation --
satisfaction is NOT guaranteed...

"Thank you very much," said the sales clerk as Howard picked up his
purchase, "and enjoy your new system!"

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


(To be continued...)

The author welcomes feedback: spunkmachine@hotmail.com