The following is a work of fiction.  Any similarity to persons or places is
entirely coincidental.  The author in no way advocates the reality of the
events depicted.  If you enjoy stories involving Man/boy consensual love
and the idea and look of young boys in short pants, please refer to "Ian,
One Man's Prince," also archived at this site.

Arcadia Academy for Boys
by Short Boys-Pants

                                ARCADIA ACADEMY FOR BOYS
                                       Chapter One
                                        "Arrivals"

        The black limousine cruised along a winding forest road, the early
autumn day sunny and mild.  The trees made for a magnificent display of
burgundy and amber leaves, and the northern Michigan landscape was a quilt
of hills and color, but I could see none of it.  I touched the black silk
blindfold wrapped around my head.
        "I understand these measures but I'm quite uncomfortable," I said.
The ride was approaching three hours in length and my brown suit was
growing wrinkled.
        "My apologies, sir," the driver answered.  "We're almost there.  Do
not remove the blindfold as that would corrupt school security."
        The limousine turned onto what I would later learn was an unpaved,
abandoned logging road pitted with holes.  My head hit the top of the
limousine as I bounced like a child in the plush seat.  "Surely students
aren't forced to endure this carnival ride!"
        "No, sir!" the driver called.  "Each boy is flown in or out by
helicopter.  Most boys, most people, have never been in a helicopter.  It
keeps them disoriented.  Should your interview prove successful the
helicopter will be at your disposal."
        "I look forward to that," I huffed.

        "Watch your step, sir," said the driver, guiding me by the elbow
and leading me from the limousine.  I walked clumsily, my movements made
more awkward by my nervousness.  I had no idea what to expect and I hadn't
slept well the night before.
        "Good, sir.  Now the stairs.  There's three of them."
        I stumbled, my shoes scraping the stone, then I was led across the
threshold and through the door of the registration building.  My heart
raced; I struggled not to hyperventilate.
        "It's been a pleasure, sir.  Good luck."
        I stood very still until I heard the door close, then I tore away
the blindfold.  Blinking hard, I found myself in a spacious office
tastefully decorated with turn-of-the century furniture.  Directly across
from me sat a blonde boy of 15 behind a desk doing keyboard entry at a
computer.  The boy was well-groomed and wore a navy-blue suit jacket, a
blue and red striped necktie, and a light blue shirt.  I cleared my throat.

        "Oh, hello," said the blonde teen, glancing up and swiveling around
in his chair, blue eyes magnified behind round glasses.  "May I help you?"
        I was taken aback by the normal, business-like operations of the
school.  A brief panic filled me.  Could I be at the wrong school?  Lord!
        "Yes.  Mr. Daniel Wilson to see Headmaster Arcadia.  I've a 2:30
appointment."
        The boy-secretary flipped open an appointment book, long fingers
nimbly turning the pages.  He looked cute, as if he was playing a game of
make-believe, but there was no doubting his professional manner.  Someone
had trained him well.
        "Yes, sir.  I've you right here," he said pleasantly, smiling and
standing.
        My briefcase fell to the floor.
        The boy secretary was dressed in a lovely, elegant pair of charcoal
gray short pants, the tops of his gold thighs visible above the edge of the
desk.
        "Sir?"  The teen blinked, watching me swoon, then hurried over to a
water cooler in the corner.  The lanky boy bent at his task, taking a paper
cup from the dispenser and pouring the water.  His jacket pulled up to
reveal his lean buttocks.  The  flat backs of his thighs tapered down from
his shorts into a pair of cuffed, navy-blue knee stockings.  He hurried
toward the me and offered the cup, blonde bangs flopping.
        I took the cup and drank deeply, the boy watching me with concern.
        "Are you all right, sir?"
        "Yes, thank you.  The blindfold made me dizzy," I stammered.
        "Of course.  We all have that reaction," the boy said, nodding.  I
handed him the empty cup.  He picked up my briefcase and gave it to me.
"I'll announce you."
        The boy sat on the edge of the desk and leaned over it to work an
intercom.  I  stared at his thighs, the smooth gold flesh gleaming.  "Mr.
Arcadia, sir?  A Mr. Daniel Wilson to see you."
        "Send him in," came the reply from the speaker.
        "Follow me?" the boy gestured, hopping off the desk.
        Still uncertain, I looked about the office as if I were being
"set-up" and perhaps arrested for criminal intentions I could not ever
commit.  Such worries are a part of life in an unenlightened world.  But
the boy and I were alone, and my gaze rested upon him once more.
        "What's your name?"
        "Oh, forgive me!  My name's Gerald, sir."
        "Do you shave?"
        "Shave?" Gerald gasped, thin hands flying to his soft, unblemished
face.
        "I meant your legs," I said, pointing.  The boy's distress was
curious.
        "Oh!  No, sir!"  Gerald exhaled with relief, stooping to run his
hands over his thighs in an appreciative manner.  Puberty tends to make
boys self-conscious but not this one, apparently, who seemed quite
comfortable in his short pants suit.
        "I didn't have to shave when I was your age, either," I said,
patting the teen's head.  His hair was fine and silky.  He smiled, letting
me pet him like a puppy.  I was 26 years old at that time, 6'5" and 230
pounds, the boy 5'7" and a slender 130 pounds. "And you're as blonde as
myself.  Shall we?"
        "Yes, sir," said Gerald, leading me to the headmaster's door.

        I sat in a high-backed leather chair and tried not to fidget.
Headmaster Arcadia sat behind a large desk, studying me silently.  The
headmaster was an imposing older man in his late 60s with a full head of
authoritative white hair.  He projected enormous confidence and the power
of inestimable wealth.
        "You read of the position in the newspaper?" he asked finally.
        I laughed politely at the joke.  "A friend made me aware of the
position.  You'll notice his and other letters of recommendation?"  I
gestured to a manila folder on the desk.
        "Yes.  You seem qualified.  Arcadia Academy seeks only the best men."
        "Of course.  Negative elements can be so disruptive to a school's
mission statement," I answered, secure in my History PhD and my good looks,
having preserved the swimmer's build I'd developed in college.  I'd taken
my degree that summer, and this was my first and only job interview.
        The headmaster nodded, bathed in a rainbow of sunlight filtering
through the stained-glass windows behind him.  "I've put my life into this
Academy."
        "And it shows." I said quickly.  "You have a wonderful institution."
        A gentle knock at the door halted the interview.
        "Come," called the headmaster.
        A beautiful, wispy little boy of 9 entered, carrying a silver tea
set.  The auburn-haired lad moved quietly as a mouse.  Dainty and
subservient, he set the tray on the desk then stood at attention facing Mr.
Arcadia, feet together and back straightened with perfect posture.  He,
too, wore a short pants suit, the required school uniform.  His twiggy
thighs were caramel brown, knees curving inwards slightly and touching
above the wide cuffs of his stockings.
        "How are you this day, Benjamin?"
        "Fine, sir.  And you?" the child chirped.
        "Introduce yourself to Mr. Wilson, a prospective history instructor."
        The little boy turned smartly.  He wore large, red framed
eyeglasses that leant him an owlish appearance.  "Good afternoon, sir.  My
name's Benjamin Cleary.  It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, performing
a deep, formal bow.
        "Aren't you a proper boy!" I called, squirming in my chair.  Awed,
I ran my eyes over the tiny, whispy lad, who merely returned my gaze with
an owlish, quizzical look.
        "Benji's been with us since he was 5," said Mr. Arcadia proudly.
        "He has beautiful manners."
        "You may go, Benjamin."
        The boy bowed to me, to Mr. Arcadia, then exited as quietly as he'd
entered.  I sighed, watching him go, my face glowing with wonder.
        "Yes.  A boy can have that effect," said Mr. Arcadia approvingly,
guaging my reaction.  "I believe we can welcome you to our community."  The
elderly man offered his hand.  I jumped up and shook hands warmly.  Then I
settled back in the leather chair as the headmaster poured the tea.

        I strolled across the main quad, led on a tour by little Benji.
The campus was on a par with the most posh private schools, elms and
willows and oaks dotting the manicured landscape.  The academy's resources
were vast.  What was a magnificent environment for a boy to grow up in and
an edenic environment for teaching.  A bell rang, signaling the end of
classes.  Moments later waves of schoolboys poured out from the doors of
ivy covered stone buildings, backpacks and book belts slung over their
shoulders.  Big boys and little boys, kindergarten through high school.
        "Hi, Benji!"
        A cute 8 year old with crayon-red hair ambled towards us, hands in
his pockets, naked thighs tinted strawberries-and-cream.  He was short and
stout, with emerald-green eyes and freckled, chipmunk cheeks, the straps of
his backpack fitted over his shoulders.
        "Hi, Patty!  This is Mr. Wilson.  The new history teacher," Benji
said, tugging at the redhead's right arm, caring for him the way older boys
will care for younger boys at boarding schools.
        Patty yanked his hands from his pockets, gray shorts sliding up and
down.
"Pleased to meet you," he said shyly, shaking hands with me but staring at
his friend for approval.  He was a falsetto.
        "Patty's my roommate," Benji explained.  "He's in the choir.  Mr.
Orson says Patty is the most talented boy he's ever taught."
        "Is that right?" I fussed.
        "Benji!" The redhead yelped, blushing modestly.  He pawed at the
grass with his tiny blue shoes, then yanked his hand from mine and
scampered away, coat tails flouncing over his bubble butt.
        "He's shy," said Benji.
        "He's cute," I answered.
        "Yes, sir.  He is," Benji agreed, watching Patty race across the
quad.  Surprised, I studied my tour guide, but the little boy was merely
proud of his roommate.  A natural bond.  I took a deep breath, the late
September air cool and refreshing.  With a giddy burst of energy, I kicked
at a large, burgundy maple leaf on the grass like a punter, following
through with athletic grace.
        "Do you play sports, sir?" Benji asked.
        Impuslively, I grabbed the tiny boy around the waist and draped him
over my shoulder.  It was effortless.  He weighed nothing at all.  "Yes.
Do you?"
        "N-n-no, sir," Benji gasped, startled, writhing.
        "So what do you do?"  I gave the child's thighs a friendly tap and
spun, then set him gently on his feet.
        "I like to draw," Benji said, craning his neck back to stare at me,
pushing his owl-glasses up his pert nose.  His thin face registered quick
calculations.  "You're nice," he declared.
        "You're nice, too."
        The child took my right hand and smiled, making friends.  "Here.
Let me show you something," he chirped, tugging.  I did not budge.  The
child giggled as he leaned back at an angle, blue shoes sliding across the
grass.
        "It is so nice to finally meet you, young Benji!" l said warmly.
"All those 'Yes, sirs' and 'No, sirs.'  I thought you were a 40 year old
midget and not a little boy."
        Benji giggled harder, dainty legs pumping as he backpedaled, all
tendons and kneecaps.  I let him lead me.  At the top of a hill overlooking
expansive playing fields, we watched soccer teams play against a
picturesque backdrop of autumn woods.  The galloping boys wore vibrant
uniforms, white shorts and red or green jerseys and knee socks, their long,
pumping, sweat-moist legs gleaming with the elasticity of adolesence.
        "See?  You can be a coach!" Benji chirped.
        "Who's that fellow?"  I pointed to a balding man in his fifties.
The man was dressed in an umpire's black shorts uniform and sat on a
folding chair behind a goal, head down and hands crossed over his
pot-bellied stomach.  The man was asleep and made a sharp contrast to the
active youths on the field.
        Benji tugged at my sleeve.  I squatted and the child whispered
cutely in my ear.  "That's Mr. Johnson.  He's kind of old."
        "The boys need a younger coach?"  I asked, quivering as Benji's
baby breath tickled my ear.
        "Mr. Johnson teaches math.  He's been here forever.  He's an
aluminum."
        l laughed.  "You mean he's an alumnus?"
        "Alumnus," Benji repeated, committing the new word to memory.
        I gazed at the boy's little gray pants so neat and trim beneath his
jacket, then I took hold of the hems and pulled them straight.  "Are you
happy, son?"
        "With you?  I always give tours."
        I patted the sides of Benji's thighs while he watched, clearly used
to adult, male affection.  "I meant your parents, dear.  Do you miss them?"

        "I'm an orphan.  We're all orphans."
        "Poor baby!" I gushed, squeezing Benji's thighs tight.
        "I'm not poor!" the child cried earnestly.  "Mr. Arcadia takes care
of us."
        "Can I give you a hug?" I asked, overwhelmed with sympathy for the
orphan.
        "Well, O.K.," Benji shrugged.  I scooped him up, the child wrapping
his legs around my waist.  He stared at me closely, brown eyes wide behind
his glasses.
        "What?"
        "You're nice," he said simply.
        "You're nice, too," I sighed, bowing my head to watch my hands
demurely stroke the little boy's narrow thighs from pants to socks.  Benji
bowed his head to watch, too, our faces almost touching.
        We stood on the crest of the hill in silence, watching my large
hands caress the child's thighs endlessly.  I had never touched a boy so
openly before, with so much respect and adoration, and without fear of
reproach.  Beni sensed that the moment was important to me and kept still,
letting me hold him.  A breeze blew, and a flurry of leaves fell around us
like maroon and amber seconds in a timeless hourglass.

        At dinner, I sat at the staff table with my new colleagues.  The
table was placed at one end of a large cafeteria overlooking several
hundred boys aged 5 to 17.  The boys were animated, happy and healthy,
their voices echoing in the high-vaulted cafeteria.  It was intoxicating.
I could barely eat watching their bright faces and naked knees bumping and
touching under the tables.
        "This is your first teaching position, then?" asked Frank, a beefy
red-faced man seated across from me, picking up a serving plate piled high
with lemon chicken.
        "Yes.  I'm a little nervous."
        "It's not like the public schools.  Thank God you won't have to
deal with parents."
         "Quite a spunky bunch, eh?" asked a thin, gray haired man with an
English accent on my left.
        "There's so many of them," I said dreamily, sipping my coffee.
Arcadia Academy was fully accredited and registered as a non-profit
organization for wayward boys.  Each holiday season state officials and
politicians were sent greeting cards of the boys celebrating Hanukkah or
Christmas, decorating, opening presents, or kneeling penitently in prayer.
The photographs of the well-attended boys lifted the school above question.
Most of the state officials were alumni, and those who were not found
nothing amiss when they visited the school.  A strategy of
"hiding-in-plain-sight" worked flawlessly.
        "Yes, they're cute now, but try teaching them Latin," said the
Englishman.
        "Harrison is such an academic," said Frank, a science teacher.
"But then Harrison comes from that culture of boarding schools common to
his little country.  He wants to make the world England."
        "I'd find that remark insulting," said Harrison, eyes twinkling,
"If I thought for a moment that you yanks didn't enjoy the way we limeys
dress our sons."
        I ignored the reparte and cast my gaze about the cafeteria.  Then I
gasped audibly.  Harrison followed my line of sight and smiled.  "Oh, yes.
His name's Ethan."
        "Ethan," I repeated, rolling the boy's name on my tongue as it were
a dollop of sweetest honey.
        Standing next to a stainless steel serving cart was the most
stunningly beautiful 12 year old boy.  Pre-pubescent and coltish, 5'3" and
95 pounds.  He was dressed like a waiter: a black waist-high jacket, a
white shirt and black bow tie, crisp black short pants, cuffed black knee
socks and black patent leather shoes.  The boy's hair was light-brown,
feathered and parted down the middle.  He stood with his feet
shoulder-width, hands clasped behind his back.  Each table had a similarly
assigned boy-waiter, but while the others joked with their classmates this
one took his job seriously.
        "Coffee?" I mouthed, catching Ethan's eye.  The boy-waiter picked
up a coffee pot from the serving cart and hurried over, thin, olive thighs
shimmering.
        "Freshen your drink, sir?"
        "Thank you," I said breathlessly, heart pounding.  The boy-waiter
stretched across me, his crotch almost bumping my elbow.  "You could do
this for a living," I gasped, mesmerized by the lad's beauty.
        "I do do this for a living," the boy said playfully, concentrating
on filling the white cup so as not to spill.
        I watched the steaming arc of black coffee.  Ethan's proximity was
intimidating; that is, my every fibre ached for the lad.  What happened
then was instantenous: I was annointed and purified by the boy-waiter's
beauty.  I was in love.
        "Do you need more cream?" Ethan asked, his voice a musical lilt,
his beauty heightened by his desire to serve me.
        "No, son.  Thank you," I said breathlessly.  I wanted to brush
Ethan's feathered bangs back from his eyes.  Instead, I reached down and
around him to give the side of his springy right thigh a friendly pat.  Oh,
heaven!  Such immaculate, naturally moistured flesh!  And, like Benji, the
boy-waiter let it happen without question.
        "Warm me, Ethan?" asked a teacher at the far end of the table.  The
boy's silky thigh slipped through my fingers.  I watched him go with
adoration.
        "Ethan is a looker," said Harrison.  "But watch out.  He likes a
good prank."
        "I'll handle him," I said as the boy walked back to the serving
cart.
        The students began to shuffle out, carrying their plates and
utensils to a service window by the kitchen.  Looking efficient and
hansome, Ethan pushed his cart to the service window and leaned over the
stainless steel counter to unload coffee pots and tins of sugar and
creamer.  He rose up on tippy toes, right leg extended and hovering behind
him, glazed with the ceiling lights.
        "Staff doesn't have to carry their plates to the kitchen," said
Harrison as I stood.
        "I'd like to get a feel for the school."
        "I'm sure.  Join us for a nightcap?  We've planned a welcoming
session in my quarters.  It's tradition."
        "Fine," I answered impatiently.
        "I'll send for you."
        I strode across the cafeteria in a daze, students nodding
respectfully as I passed.  Then suddenly, impossibly, I stood behind Ethan,
gazing upon his upturned bottom.  Balancing my plate and utensils in my
left hand, I extended my right and let it float above the back of Ethan's
hovering thigh.  My hand trembled.  The young boy's leg was a spiritual
object which I knew, once touched, would consume me.
        My hand dropped.  Filaments of boy-holiness pierced my every cell
and left them glowing with bio-luminescence.
        "Wait your turn!" Ethan snapped, glancing over his left shoulder,
brown eyes widening when he saw me.  "Oh, excuse me!"
        "No harm done," I grinned, patting the boy's thigh, thrilled that
he did not move but remained stretched over the counter.
        "Teachers don't have to bring up their things," said Ethan.
        "I just want to help."
        Vibrating with a burst of endorphins, I leaned over the boy-waiter,
my broad chest pressing against his frail back, his tiny rump fitting into
the curve of my lower abdomen like the missing piece of a puzzle that gave
us both completion.  Ethan stiffened, head twitching against my breast.
Through the service window I saw several boys dressed in cook's whites and
aprons hurrying about.
        "Is something wrong?" asked a fat man, the kitchen supervisor,
hurrying over and wiping his hands on his apron.. He was dressed in similar
cook's whites except that his pants, of course, were long.
        "Not at all.  I just wanted to say that dinner was wonderful."
        "Thank you!" the fat man beamed.  "Have we met?"
        We exchanged pleasantries, Ethan motionless beneath me, doing his
best to be unobtrusive and not disturb us grown-ups.  My hand went up and
down his thigh.
        "All you boys help out?" I asked Ethan afterwards, climbing off him
and taking his shoulders to turn him around.
        Ethan snapped to attention, bringing his long legs together, fine
hands smacking against the sides of his thighs.  "I was about to come back
and take your dishes," he said, brown bangs fluttering with a nervous
twitch of his head.
        "You're a fine waiter.  Your name's Ethan."
        The boy nodded, thin face drawn with anxiety.  He curled his
fingers under the hems of his black shorts and yanked so that they formed a
triangle in his crotch, pink crescents of flesh showing above his tan
lines.
        "Yes, sir.  Um, what do you want?" he chirped, confused by my
approach and ready to do my bidding.
        "I only want to say hello.  My name is Mr. Wilson.  I'm the new
history teacher.  I'll see you in class on Monday.  Don't be late," I
teased, winking, then walked away backwards, the beautiful boy-waiter
standing like a statue, tugging his shorts hard, watching me.  "Ethan?" I
called.
        "No, sir!  I won't be late!" he answered, thin body jerking.
        I turned and walked away quickly.  I believe I walked erratically,
as if drunk, which, as it turned out, I soon would be.


A chill wind blew, rustling the leaves of the trees like papery chimes.
The darkened buildings rose like mountains against the night sky.  The
clock tower struck 10:00, its orange dial glowing.  Crickets chirped, and
the air hinted at the change of seasons.
        Hands in my pockets, I strolled along the quad, dressed in a beige
turtle neck tucked into matching short pants and knee socks: I'd been
inspired by the boy's uniforms.  I gazed at the 11 year old walking beside
me, a cute black kid named Ronald.  The boy's dark skin was almost
invisible in the night air, naked thighs sparkling in the moonlight as if
sprinkled with glitter.
        "Are you cold, son?"
        "No, sir," the schoolboy whispered, tugging at his dark blue
cardigan sweater.
        "What's it like wearing those short pants in winter?"
        "It's colder."
        "You boys never wear long pants, do you?"
        "Of course not," Ronald answered, small face puzzled.  "Why'd you
ask that?"
        "Just kidding."  I ran my hand over the boy's trim head and paused
to gaze back at the darkened windows of my two-story dormitory.  I was in
charge of a group of middle school students, Ethan and Ronald among them.
        "Mr. Wilson?"
        "Yes?"
        "What's wrong?"
        "Just worried about my boys."
        "We're O.K.  None of us want any demerits," Ronald whispered.
        "Why are you whispering?"
        "I don't know," Ronald giggled.  "I guess because it's so late.
It's neat being out so late."  The child closed his eyes and tilted his
face up to the sky, inhaling deeply, head turning left to right.  Enchanted
by the night.   I sighed and picked him up.  Surprised but docile, Ronald
wrapped his legs around my torso.
        "Why are you holding me?" he asked curiously.
        "Just because," I smiled.
        "I'm supposed to take you to Mr. Harrison's."
        "We can still get there if I carry you, can't we?"
        Ronald nodded soberly, then yelped and laughed as I playfully
smacked his tender thighs.  He shot his right arm out, pointing.  I began
to run.  Ronald squealed with delight, hugging me tight, wriggling and
squirming.  The dewed grass shined beneath us.
        "Are we here?" I asked, stepping onto a porch in a circle of light.
We'd reached Harrison's chateau, one of several such dwellings set far
apart from main campus down a long, winding road.  The school's resources
were vast.
        "Yep!"  Ronald hopped down and craned his neck to look up at me,
smiling.  "Well, have fun!" Ronald he called, backing away.
        "Where are you going?"  I caught the boy by his bony biceps.
        "To bed, of course."
        Now I was confused.  I'd assumed that Ronald would be a kind of
valet for the evening.  "I don't understand."
        "I'm not in puberty yet, Mr. Wilson," the child explained.
        "What's that got to do with anything?"
        "I don't know," the boy shrugged.  "That's just the rule.  Unless a
boy 'presents'."
        "And when do you reach puberty?  When do boys 'present'?"
        "I don't know," Ronald shrugged.  "They just do."
        My respect for Headmaster Arcadia was profound.  Every aspect of
the boy's lives at the school was completely regulated: they were innocent
even of their own sexuality.  In such a closed environment, their natural,
loving, homoerotic tendencies could only be directed on other boys and men.

        "Mr. Wilson?  Can I go now?"
        Ronald closed his dainty hands around my naturally hairless, gold,
muscular thighs. I clenched my teeth.  Ronald was the first boy to ever
touch my legs.
        "Go straight to bed," I said my voice unsteady.
        "Yes, sir," Ronald promised.  I flexed my thighs, quads bulging.
"Wow!  You're legs are strong!" the child gasped appreciatevly, tiny black
fingers trying to burrow into my steely muscle.
        "Scoot!" I laughed, turning the boy around and giving his bubble
butt a gentle slap.  Ronald giggled and scampered away, quickly
disappearing into the night.  The road back was so long.  "Ronald!"
        "Sir?"
        "Will you be all right?  It's so late," I said.  Young goys need to
be protected, after all, and I felt I should escort him back.
        "Yes."
        "You're not afraid?"
        I heard a stifled laugh.  "No.  There's security guards.  Don't worry."
        "Good night, son."
        "Good night!"
        I heard Ronald begin to whistle.  Then I rang the doorbell.

        "Oh, say!  Nice outfit!" Harrison said as he ushered me inside.
        "Yes, well, it's after hours.  You look comfortable yourself."
        Harrison nodded and adjusted a white silk scarf around his neck.
The Englishman wore a red satin smoking jacket and black trousers, a
cherry-wood pipe in the crook of his mouth.  I was led to a cozy living
room where I shook hands with several teachers seated on money-green
leather couches and chairs.  The men ran their eyes over me, my thighs,
their expressions a mix of admiration and jealousy.  By far, I was the
youngest man in the room and the only one wearing shorts.
        "It's getting harder to tell the boys from the men," said an
elderly, coffee-colored black teacher named Stephen, eyes radiating mirth
behind tiny square glasses, his hair a stately gray.   "Surely, you shave
those big strong legs of yours."
        "No, sir," I laughed, flattered.  "I'm a natural."
        "Jeremy, honey?"Harrison called.  "Will you bring Mr. Wilson a drink?"
        A platinum blonde boy of 10 popped up from behind a bar.
        "Amaretto, please," I said, and the boy began to fix my drink, tiny
hands fluttering among crystal decanters.
        "Jeremy Michael Shillington," said Harrison.  "My personal boy."
        The child stepped around the bar and walked toward me.  Jeremy was
very small, dressed in an outfit to match Harrison's, a white silk scarf
around his throat, a red satin coat, black short pants and knee socks and
shoes.  The boy's thin legs were butter-yellow.
        "Your drink, sir?" he said, offering a large crystal snifter.
        "Say hello to your new history instructor, Jeremy."
        "Hello," said the child.  l took the snifter and watched in
amazement as the child lifted the hems of his jacket and curtsied, skinny
right leg swooping behind his left.
        "Harrison likes them prissy," said the science teacher, Frank.  "If
you like that sort of thing."
        "I do," said Stephen, sipping a martini.  "When they're young.
Don't care for it at all on an older boy, however."
        "Jeremy performs much better in a dress," Harrison grinned.  I
lifted the snifter and drained it in one draught, the amaretto warm and
soothing all the way down.  Without my having to ask, Jeremy took the
snifter and walked back to the bar.
        "Ronald said he couldn't be here because he wasn't in puberty," I
said, confused.  "Jeremy isn't pubescent."
        Harrison laughed.  "Oh, no.  I wouldn't have it.  But Jeremy is a
homosexual.  Ronald and other boys who haven't presented yet are given time
to imprint naturally on a man."
        "As it should be," I said, again respectful of Headmaster Arcadia.
"But what if they imprint on another student?"  Jeremy served me a fresh
drink, curtsied daintily once more, then went about seeing to the other
teachers.
        "It happens, but they're taught that men and boys are more natural
couples.  So it's Ronald?" Harrison cooed.  "I'd have thought Ethan.  He'd
be such a treat in a dress.  Fabulous legs."
        "Oh, yes.  Well, for Ethan that might be interesting," said Frank.
        "Apparently there's a little priss in all of us," said the
Englishman smugly, puffing on his pipe.  "Young Ethan would be smashing in
a white baby-doll dress, layered petticoats and a blue satin sash?"
        "I've never considered it," I said, throwing tossing down my drink.
Jeremy stood before me as if by magic, taking the glass and scurrying back
to the bar.
        "Think about it," said Harrison suggestively.  "Ethan's all boy."
        "I don't think he'd be very keen on a dress."
        "All the better.  He's not yet pubescent and he's needful for a
man.  For a role model, I mean.  Plus, he isn't gay."
        "So why would he go for me?"
        "Silly goose!  You're very athletic, aren't you?"
        "I suppose."
        "Hmm, indeed," the English dandy sniffed, sizing me up, squeezing
my biceps.  "Ethan needs the rugged type.  He'll be so in want of your
affections, and will probably be very confused once he begins to respond.
A ripe peach for picking.  How you'll stir his emotions."
        "Do you and Jeremy...?" I asked as the platinum-blonde child
approached.
        "Yes.  One year now.  I can't tell you how sweet, but then you'd
know?"
        Conversation stopped as the men turned to me.  I blushed deep
crimson and dug my toes into the rug.
        The men gasped, jaws dropping, then laughed.
        "Good lord, son, you're a virgin!" cried Stephen.
        "Why have you waited?" Frank asked, aghast.  "Look at you!  So
strong and handsome!"
        "Unbelievable!" said a Japanese man, Mr. Tomita, the P.E.
instructor.  "I think you've grown up wearing short pants...nd to have
never...with those legs?"
        I took the snifter from tiny Jeremy, who also stared at me in
disbelief.
        Growing up, I had noticed men gazing at me, watching me play in my
shorts -- neighbors, friend's fathers, the church pastor who led our Scout
troop and who always heard my confessions in his tent during overnight
campouts, kneeling behind me and slipping his hands around my thighs while
leading me though prayers -- but while it all made me tingle with a strange
excitement I was innocent.  I did not understand.  And once I did, I was
never able to discuss my thoughts with anyone until I met Jeff, my
dissertation professor, who had steered me to Arcadia.  Life is strange,
isn't it?  For there I was, a newly hired teacher at a secretive, carefully
guarded school dedicated to the ineradicable reality of Man-boy love.

        "Young Mr. Wilson should have been one of our students," said
Stephen gently.
        "I...I wish that, too," I smiled at the refined black man.  I
fidgeted with my shirt and shorts, like a boy.  I felt like a boy.  I'd
only recently coming to view myself as an adult, my stature and developed
physique notwithstanding.
        "Now now," said Harrison.  "Daniel will find his way."
        I sat in a chair apart from the other teachers, but they were
supportive and included me in their converstaon.  The evening passed
pleasantly as we conversed about the demands of our jobs.  First and
foremost, Arcadia Academy was an academic institution.  We discussed the
ever-important matter of maintaining accreditation and eligibility for
state funding.  We discussed remediation strategies for our slower students
and special needs students.  In turn, Jeremy saw to our needs, carrying
trays of snacks, freshening our drinks, playing the role of an excellent
little host.  We all reached out to tousle his hair or pinch his cheeks
often.
        Then it was late, and the conversation was winding down.  Jeremy
sat on a bar stool, yawning, blue, round, story-book eyes blinking heavily
with sleep.  Harrison knelt beside the child and stroked his skinny thighs,
the child mewing and snuggling against the man.  It was time to leave.  We
said our goodbyes.  I walked back to my dormitory alone, the others heading
down seperate paths leading to their private chateaus -- reserved for
senior faculty -- and to their special boys.  Drunk, euphoric, and as
enchanted by the night as Ronald had been, I walked to my dormitory.  Hands
in my pockets.  Whistling.  The cool wind washed over my thighs.