ARCADIA ACADEMY FOR BOYS
                                 Chapter Three
                                 "Walkabout"

        I skipped lunch and napped, then I ventured out to explore.  The
day was mild, and the autumn sun and cooling breeze felt positively
delicious on my thighs.  I'd dressed casually in a white polo shirt, white
short pants, white knee socks and sneakers.  I have always had a fetish for
short pants, and I  admit that it was a thrill to have my legs exposed
around the boys.  Since their legs were on display, it seemed only fair.

        The campus was a wonderland of boys.  I moved among them as if I
was in a museum, and I drew hardly a second glance.  In the center of the
main quad, a group of teenagers played touch-football.  Most of them went
without shirts and wore quite tight gym shorts of many different colors.
The budding pecs and flat stomachs rippled wiry muscle, bodies pink and
glowing with exercise.  They galloped into each other, arms and legs
tangling, rolling in the grass.  Their vigourous play brought a smile to my
lips, reminding me of gym classes and how all us students used to strain
and struggle against one another unthinkingly, unaware of the smooth
softness of our bodies and how many of us would never feel such soft skin
again in our lives.   Younger boys rode up and down the sidewalks on heavy,
old-fashioned bicycles with wide fenders and baskets on the handlebars,
ringing their bells.  Racing nowhere and everywhere in carefree
exhuberance, radiant legs pumping lean and tan, bony bottoms weaving above
hard triangle seats.  On the steps of the library a lovely blonde boy of
perhaps 12 sat holding a very small, dark boy on his lap, face to face.
The blonde wore an elfish green-felt hat, black leather leiderhosen, a
white shirt intricately embroidered with multi-colored flowers, black knee
socks and black leather boots.  He was playing "patty-cake" with the child,
who was dressed in red short-alls.
        "Patty cake patty cake baker's man!  Bake me a cake as fast as you
can!" sang the blonde.  "R-o-l-l it!  Sssss-tir it!  Mark it with T!
Hurry!" he encouraged, guiding the fascinated child's arm movements.  "And
put it in the over for Daddy and me!"
        I approached as the blonde began to tickle the tiny child, who
giggled and wriggled uncontrollably.  "Spencer!  Spencer, stop!"
        "Hello, children."
        "Hello, sir," the blonde answered, bouncing the child on his knees.
I gazed in rapture upon Spencer's slim, peachy thighs, sweet skin so
smooth as to reflect the sunlight like a mirror.  He had a beautiful smile,
pert nose and rosy cheeks.  I studied  the felt hat on his head.  It
occured to me that the boy did not dress himself.
        "My name's Mr. Wilson.  I'm your new history teacher."
        Spencer's attention was focused on his ittle friend.  "Say hi, Timmy."
        "Hi!" sang Timmy, who was 5, black, bowl-cut hair flopping.
        "Timmy's new, too!  Tell him he's going to be happy here," said Spencer.
        "Timmy's lucky to be with us," I said, folllowing the blonde's lead.
        "See, silly?  Didn't I say you were lucky?" Spencer chided playfully.
        "Bounce me more, Spencer!" Timmy begged, leaning back at an angle,
laughing and weaving left to right.  Fat cumulous clouds rolled overhead,
casting waves of differing light over the school grounds.
        "Ride the horsey, Timmy!  Giddyup!" the blonde sang.  How gentle he
was!  I waited but he never glanced up, deliberately avoiding eye contact.
I felt rebuffed.  I wasn't being invited to play.
        "Daniel!"
        I turned and saw Frank walking toward me, his eyes filled with
mirth.  "Play nice, children," he said, wrapping his arm around my waist to
lead me away.  As I said, I am not gay -- boy-lovers are not gay by
definition -- but I let Frank touch me.  It was nice to be with another
boy-lover, allowing a comraderie I'd never known.
        "That's Spencer.  Our welcome wagon," Frank explained.  "He takes
it upon himself to befried our new orphans.  Timmy only arrived a few days
before you did and was so lonely and tearful.  But Spencer does a wonderful
job."
        "Is he with a teacher?"
        "No," Frank sighed.  "How we wish.  But Spencer is so shy, and
puberty hasn't come for him yet.  He's fourteen."
        "Go on!" I gasped, stunned.  "He barely looks twelve."
        "I know, but there it is.  He keeps to himself and plays mostly
with the little ones.  He seems to be a boy-lover himself but doesn't
understand that yet."
        "You mean he hasn't presented?" I asked, glancing at a little black
boy dressed in all white like myself, sitting quietly beneath a tree,
reading a book.  Leaves of shadow and light dappled his thighs, and his
full, kissable lips moved as he read.
        "Exactly.  By the way, us men don't usually short pants," Frank
smiled.  "We emphasize those as boy-specific and keep to long trousers."
        "Should I not wear shorts?"
        "We just don't want the boys to question what they've been told."
        "Then I won't wear them anymore," I offered.
        "Now don't be hasty!" Frank laughed.  I watched him stare at my
legs and shorts.  "I don't believe it will be a problem.  Us teachers are
all a bit older than you."
        "So?"
        "So you're not much older than the kids.  You're just an over grown
boy yourself.  And don't take this wrong -- I'm not coming on to you -- but
you have very handsome legs."
        "Thanks," I blushed, flattered.
        "You're young and that's your strength.  The students need a young
man, what with all us old coots hanging around."  Then Frank filled me in
on Arcadia's history.
        Returning from occupied France after World War II, Headmaster
Arcadia built the school and dedicated it to the care of war-orphaned boys.
In France, he seen many grieving boys and been profoundly affected.  He'd
loved many boys during the war, healing them with his touch, and his first
students were orphans flown to the academy.  Since the fashion for French
schoolboys at that time (and currently) was to wear short pants suits,
Dwight -- Dwight Arcadia Robinson was the Headmaster's full name, and he
called his school "Arcadia Academy" for the musical ring -- made short
pants suits the regulation uniform.  Independently wealthy from his
father's glass factory which supplied ball-turrets during the war, and the
sole heir of the family fortune, Dwight poured his resources into the
Academy.  "Reel Time News" movie crews regularly documented scenes of
Academy life and his humanitarian enterprise.  Moviegoers and politicians
supported the Academy without question.  Who wouldn't be charmed by pretty
orphan boys in short pants suits, smiling into the camera and thanking
America in lilting, accented voices for the war effort and the kindly
veteran for giving them a new home?  State and Federal assistance poured
in.  The glass factory thrived, contracting out to the U.S. military and
companies where alumni in executive positions maintained a fiercely loyal
business.  The academy was thoroughly networked.
        "What about Spencer's outfit?  Surely, he doesn't dress himself."
        "None of the boys do, really.  Heinrich, the limo driver, bought
that leiderhosen for Spencer last year.  But Spencer didn't respond, if you
know what  mean."
        "We can dress the students in anything we want?"  How wonderful!
        "Oh, yes!  A boy feels special when one of us takes an interest in
their appearance.  We show the boys catalogues and let them choose what
they want -- only short pants outfits, of course -- but mostly we place the
orders ourselves."
        "And they're all orphans?  They all arrive so young?" I gasped,
watching the teens holler and huddle and play football.  Intriguing.  They
had never once worn long pants in over a decade.  Had never left the
Academy for the outside world.  Had grown up in carefully orchestrated
isolation.
        "Every one," Frank answered.  "Every single one."