Date: Sun, 29 Jan 2017 15:28:08 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Beaux Thibodaux

This story and its characters are fiction. It is a personal fantasy which I
am sharing with you. If any character resembles you or someone you know, I
WANT DETAILS, you lucky fucker, preferably with photos! It is, of course,
copyrighted by the author with all rights reserved and very, very
negotiable. Also, keep the cum coming -- Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at
donate.nifty.org/donate.html! I'm an old guy (>30). I know what it was like
when you had to BUY porn. Five miles uphill both ways in the snow just to
GET to the XXX store. You whippersnapper don't know how good you've got it.

This involves sex or sexual situations between consenting (>16 yo) males,
some of which are related; if that is illegal for who/where you may be
right now, fuck off and get thee to a monastery (where you might just find
scenes similar to some below). Also, please note that all my stories exist
in a world where STDs are neither common nor deadly. Don't be a fucking
idiot; use protection. 'To die for' sex should never lead to your actual
death.

I like hearing from people but I also hate spam. If you get off on flaming
people, please know that you will HATE the results. I will read your
missive and weave you and your comments into my next story to the point
that you cry like a little girl. Bullies get as bullies give.

PLEASE NOTE: There are a of number of fantasies that I've constructed over
the decades. Some are simple, some take setup. This is one of the
latter. What you read below will only become a real story if people like it
(see postscript). Let me know if you think there should be a Chapter 2.

*****

Beaux Thibodaux 1: Death and Rebirth

By Bear Pup

M/T; no sex yet (just plot)

"Mr Faolan?" Obviously not someone who knows me, otherwise they'd know it's
FWAY-luhn, not FAY-oh-land or whatever the fuck he just said. Probably not
a telemarketer, though, they normally are smart enough to give up and
either call me Kevin or just launch the spiel.

"Speaking."

"This is Sherriff Guidry? of Lafourche Parish? In Louisiana?" I really,
really hate people who make every part of a sentence into a question.

"Yes, sir, Sherriff. Is this about my sister Leanna Thibodaux? I know she
lives down your way."

"Yes, sir, yes 'tis? I'm affray't to tell yew? Yore sistah's done passed?"

Fuck, fuck, FUCK! I'd last spoken with Leanna 12 years ago. At Mama's
insistence, I'd gone down there with a big ole wad of cash in some insane
attempt to bribe her to her senses. When she was 20 and I was 12, Leanna
had dropped out of her self-chosen college, Louisiana State University. We
heard from her again four years later. She was in New Orleans
livin-the-dream as a waitress in a seedy tavern on the edge of the CBD. She
begged money from Papa (our grandfather), who had sent her a money order
via Western Union that neither his wife, Mama, nor my dad knew about. When
Dad called back to find out what was up, Leanna laughed at him and said it
was for an abortion. That news basically killed Papa.

Six years later, Mama got a hand-made and tawdry "invitation" to her
wedding. The date was a year prior and the groom was named as "Greatest
Lover on Earth Scottie Thibodaux." The invitation went on to describe their
'blessed union' in vulgar and explicit terms. Mama called a Family Meeting
at the Ranch, a nice house built by Papa when The Company found modest oil
deposits under our far-southeast Nebraska farm.  It sounds like a grand
affair, but it was Mama, Dad and me.

My own mom had dropped dead without warning of a brain aneurism when I was
17; Leanna had been gone for five years then. We were celebrating mom's
birthday at a grand and delightful party with plenty of friends. She was so
delighted and so happy. She laughed at a gift and gave a gasp of surprise,
a relieved sigh and simply closed her eyes. She was still smiling. It's
hard to grieve when your last memories are of an utterly-fulfilled and
blissfully-contented person. It may be why Dad and I moved on so
easily. Could anyone with an ounce of soul want any other death for a woman
that they loved? Leanna did not come to the funeral or even acknowledge her
own mother's passing.

Anyway, so the family meeting was held. Dad was having some breathing
trouble (he'd smoked up until Mom's death and still had a few lingering
problems), so Mama put a wad of miscellaneous bills in my hand and told me
to go and 'rescue' my sister. I didn't count it. It wouldn't matter. Leanna
had been a whack job as a child and had gradually lost even that tenuous
grasp on reality when she left for school. I was 22 and about to start my
last year as Mizzou studying residential architecture. It struck me then
that both Leanna and I had chosen schools with tiger mascots. I shuddered a
little at the thought.

So I drove the sultry two hours to the Kansas City airport and bought a
round-trip no-fixed-return (yeah, they had them; yes, I *am* that old)
ticket to New Orleans, rented a car and headed into one of the most
frightening landscape I'd ever seen. For a man who'd grow up in the windy,
open and flowing spaces of the great plains, the cloistered summer heat and
encroaching Spanish moss of the deep bayous was daunting. I used the
envelope of the 'invitation' to navigate as far as the Cajun Country
Casino, a creepy storefront with a Mexican restaurant and six decrepit slot
machines.

After bribing pretty much everyone ($5 each; cheap bribes), they finally
got me to Labedeaux (LA-bee-doo), a massive black woman who gave me
direction to a locked fence that I could walk but not drive around, and
foot directions another mile into swamp-bounded service roads. I got to
the, um, house? that she's hinted at an hour later.

From the end of the dirt track (I can't call it a driveway since no wheeled
vehicle had ever traversed it), it looked like the demolition phase of a
construction project. A close look showed a hint of smoke from the eaves. I
approached cautiously and, as Labedeaux suggested, hollered out, "HI THERE!
I'M A RELATIVE! ANYONE HOME?"

A gunshot stopped me in my tracks. The explosive sound was quickly eaten by
the sodden earth, hanging moss and rotting leaf-mould of the 'yard'. A
massive splash to my right heralded the departure of some enormous
bayou-dweller I had neither seen nor wanted to meet.

"Rel-a-Teef, mon cul! Who you be, cher?"

"Um, I'm Kevin Faolan. I'm Leanna's brother. Can I come close enough I
don't have to shout? I'm not armed!"

"Come slow, cher. Don't you reach for nuttin, you a-hearin me, cher?"

FUCK! I was in some twisted movie of Beverly Hillbillies Meet
Deliverance. I sidled forward, sorta crab-walking as Mama's voice drew me
closer and self-preservation screamed for me to run back to the car. I
finally made out a huge, grossly-fat woman holding a shotgun that had
likely seen service in a half-dozen wars, none later than the War of
Northern Aggression. She had a muumuu and a cartoon-character's
moustache. I saw wide, staring baby-eyes behind her briefly but they
vanished in a swirl of skirts as my sister came forward.

Leanna was a wreck of her former self. I will freely admit that I never
liked her. She was a complete and irrational tyrant who tormented my
youth. Like so many of the most-lethal plants and animals on Earth, she
had, however, been beautiful. But here was a kohl-eyed fiend with claws
instead of nails and the look of a vulture in her eyes.

"Shoot him, Ma."

The fat woman raised her arm and I blanched. "Leanna, NO! I came to give
you a wedding present!" I was inventing frantically. The word, 'present',
struck home, though. Both women narrowed their eyes.

"Can I give you and, um, Scottie your present?"

The mother answered first. "Scottie's done gone and good riddance to my
worthless son, abandoning wife and mother in their time of need. You got
something for that useless turd, LEAVE IT!" The gun rose slightly.

"NO! No! It's for, for you and Leanna." I reached into my pocket and palmed
off two or three of the bills.

I brandished the bills like a Monopoly get-out-of-here-alive card and
watched the women eye the money. I set the money on the dirt and put a rock
on it.

"Mama will pay to get you home, Leanna..."

Oh dear, I knew instantly that it was the very wrong thing to say.

"She BE home, poo-tayn BATtard. Vayen enfer purl'amour du ciel before I
gives you more holes than you gots in your tete, mon bon hom-mie!"

I dropped two more bills and ran for it. It was the last I'd seen of Leanna
Thibodaux nee Faolan, and from that day to this I prayed it would stay that
way. Mama and Dad had died together in a robbery gone (seriously) wrong in
the great and dangerous metropolis of Falls City, population 4,671. Some
crack-head was robbing the store they were in and freaked when he heard the
sirens. Two shots, two dead and I was the last of the family other than my
vanished sister.  Now some backwoods, Cajun sheriff had my number? What
NEXT?

"Okay, Sherriff. I see. What do you need from me, sir?"

"You know about Beaux, then?"

"Beaux who?"

"Um, Beaux Thibodaux? Your nephew? Son of Leanna and, well, he called
himself Scottie?"

FUUUUUUCK!

"So I have a nephew named Beaux?"

"Yes, sir?"

"What about this Scottie's family? Are there any of them going to object?"

"Well, sir? Scottie he OD'ed bout a dozen years back? His mama lived with
your sister? Leanna? And best we can tell? She died a day or two fore
Leanna? Beaux was in a right state when we found them?"

FUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!

"We'd be right pleased? If you could come and comfort this poor boy? You
there, Mr Fay-OH-luhn?"

Mama's face and then Dad's and then Papa's popped up and frowned so hard at
me that I cringed, just for hesitating. This was blood, no matter what my
bitch of a sister did. "I'll be there tomorrow, Sherriff." I hung up on his
relieved thanks.

I was back in that fucking swamp, dripping sweat all over the leather
interior as I roared South toward whatever awaited me. No, I didn't even
know I had a nephew. I'd recalled that flash of baby eyes at that
moustachioed bitch's skirts as Leanna taunted from the side, but I never
thought there was a child of our family involved. I had cried more than
once since the Sherriff's call, sometimes tears of rage or regret or loss
or confusion or the hole left in my heart by the absence of Mama and
Dad. I'd pulled myself together as I pulled up at the furthest point a car
could travel. The industrial gate that had blocked me on my last visit had
been swung out and I was able to get all the way to the path leading to the
shack.

I had to smile. The Sherriff was the Central Casting version of JW Pepper
from Live and Let Die. Big, florid, swaggering and completely out of his
depth. He even was chawing a bight of chew bigger than the cud of your
average cow. It took all I had not to laugh.

"We are right glad you could come, Mr FAY-oh-lin. Yore nephew is in there
getting hisself ready."

I nodded and walked up to the 'porch'. The door (actually a thick curtain)
swung aside at a breath and I went in. The main room, of one could call it
that, was of cushions and stained rugs, reeking of something I wished never
to know. The kitchen was next up. It was spotless other than the pile of
dishes in the sink. Someone took great pride in the preparation of food and
someone else took no pride at all in its disposition. A soft sound drew me
deeper.

I swept aside another fabric curtain and saw a boy holding a hand against
his cheek and crying silently. This had to be Beaux. As soon as I focused,
I saw my father and grandfather echoed in his bones. He was unquestionably
a Faolan. His grief, if grief it was, could not disguise that.

I stepped forward and he noticed me and recoiled. I kept my voice simple
and calm and helpful.

"We almost met once. You're Beaux? I was here, oh, a lot of years ago. You
won't recall..."

"Ya brought Mama and G-ma money," the bourbon-smooth Cajun-French accent
was overlaid with the husky sound of a voice rarely used above a
whisper. It radiated a sort of conquered sadness and was as flat and simple
as possible in that rich dialect. "You said ya wanted to help. Then ya
left. Ya went away."

I don't think that anything ever said to me shredded my heart like those
few sentences. He remembered. He saw. He knew that I left and did NOTHING
to help him. The fact that I didn't know until a few days ago that he even
existed as kin meant nothing to me, or to him. I was... undone.

"Why ya here now? Yall gonna help me bury Mama? Bury G-ma?"

"I" My throat froze. "I, I will do whatever you want me to, Beaux."

He turned. He picked up a reed. A pressed leaf. A fishhook. Each in turn
endured that critical and unflinching gaze.

"No. They don't need us no more. They're gone. You come to take me away?"

The wisdom and worldliness behind those words left me stuttering.

"If, if you, y, you will let me, B, Beaux?"

"What's your name?"

"I, I, I am, uh, Kevin? Your uncle? Kevin? I was your, um, your mama's
brother?" I loathed myself for the question-marks at the end of each
clause. But I could do nothing else in the face of this man-child's
passionless stare.

The boy flung the reed, leaf and hook down onto the floor. He looked about
the room carefully, searchingly, as if to ask, 'What do I want to remind
myself of this life'? He shook himself, a tear in his eye, and looked
through me.

"Can you take me someplace? Someplace not here?"

I nodded like a marionette.

He never looked right or left as he walked out the front of the shack. He
stopped and I saw him shiver like a fawn for a moment, then continue
walking. He guessed which was my car, or he'd seen me arrive. He walked to
it and turned to me. His voice dropped to barely a whisper and the blush
shone through each word. "I ain't never been in a car. What m'I supposed to
do?"

I was a confirm bachelor. I never had kids and was never really around any,
and always felt a pang of pity on the poor sops I'd see out and about
catering to the whims of their eventually-to-become-human offspring. All of
that fell away. Every word Beaux uttered saw another piece of my soul
sundered and left in the dirt of that driveway.

I opened the door and he sat. I reached across his body to buckle the
seatbelt around him. It was then that I recognised that this boy was not a
boy at all, but a young man. He was small, true, and preternaturally
smooth, but a young man nonetheless. I could pick up the tell-tale musk of
unwashed male, not the smell of childhood or even adolescence. His hair was
shaggy and obviously cut with kitchen shears. His jeans were old and too
short, and his boots worn near through. The shirt looked like it had been
very carefully if inexpertly sewn. The t-shirt underneath was white, but
threadbare.

I went round to the driver's side and slipped in, started the car and
watched him startle when the AC started to blow. He was so out of his
element, but also had such a level of control he could have been fifty. I
did some quick math. Thinking on the eyes that scampered away and the fact
that he could remember my visit, he must have been around four when I was
here. That would make him around 16.

"How old are you, Beaux?"

He looked at me with a flat expression, not hostile but not welcoming
either. "Why?"

"It's as good a place to start as any. I really want to get to know you,
Beaux, and I hope you'll want to know me, too. How about if I start?" I was
pulling out onto the blacktop and driving away from Raceland and toward
US-90 and eventually New Orleans.

"I'm 34, and I design houses for people to live in. I grew up like your
Mama in Nebraska and I live in Kansas City now. I have a nice house, and a
room for you. Now your turn, Beaux."

He just looked at me for a minute. "I think I'm sixteen. Mama and G-Ma
never told me exact. My father, G-Ma's son, was gone before I could
recall." His voice trailed off as he stared into the middle distance of the
swampy scrub that ruled this part of the bayou country.

I let him sit for a minute, at a loss on how to talk to this man-child. I
knew nothing, *nothing* of his life. He'd never been in a *car*? One
thought popped up though as I approached the intersection with
Louisiana-1. This was a young man in his late teens who, as far as I could
recall, not eaten anything in at least ten minutes.

"Okay, Beaux, what do you feel like. Looks like they have Taco Bell, Sonic,
McDonalds and Burger King. Which do you want."

Beaux glanced at me, then down at his hands, clutched at his knees. "I,"
followed by a deep sigh, "I don't know what those things are." His voice
shook and I could tell that such an admission humiliated him. Another shred
of my soul was dropped on the roadside.

I force some cheer into my voice. "You, son, are a lucky man. Fast food
sucks. However, it is both fast and food. Let's do McDonalds."

I pulled in and decided not to even ask. I got a burger, cheeseburger,
nuggets, super-size fries and a coke for Beaux and my usual QPC Meal with
root beer for me. I pulled round the side and parked. It was sultry but not
oppressive out, so I shut down the car and rolled down the windows. I
handed food items out to Beaux and he looked utterly confused.

"Eat what you like and don't worry about the rest, Beaux. I know you don't
know what you'll like, so if you don't like it don't eat it."

He looked at me like I'd just dropped down from Planet Idiot. "But you paid
real money for this."

"Don't you worry about that, Beaux. I can afford to waste a burger or two,
okay? Just let's take some time to figure out what you like, alright?"

It turned out that I needn't have worried. The Teen Hoover Effect was in
full force. But the time I finished my QPC, Beaux was searching the bottom
of the bag for escaped fries and had visibly brightened.

I pulled back onto the road and headed toward the Big Easy. Now, the fact
that I had little use for my sister did nothing to turn me off of the Vieux
Carre, the most magical part of one of the most intriguing cities in
America. The French Quarter of New Orleans was nothing short of another
world. Whilst the novelty of the car ride quickly faded, Beaux's jaw
dropped steadily as we entered the complex metropolis (and traffic
nightmare) that was New Orleans of that long-ago time. Sky scrapers housing
oil empires had started to colonise the Central Business District (CBD),
but the Quarter had fended off all comers, just as it had since real
pirates sailed up the Mississippi to trade (and drink and whore and revel).

I'd taken rooms at one of my favourite hotels on Earth, the Place d'Armes
just off Jackson Square. The summer heat had chased off the casual tourists
and I could see Beaux's nose crinkle in disgust when I cracked the
doors. At the best of times, the French Quarter reeked of second-hand beer
and the bodily products of overindulgence. In late August? Oh, dear.

I pulled the gaping Beaux into the lobby. The desk clerk knew me from
previous stays and started to flirt before seeing Beaux dragged in my
wake. A cocked eyebrow was all I got (the staff at the Place was nothing if
not discreet). "Henri, this is my nephew, Beaux. He'll stay with me tonight
as I hope to be leaving tomorrow of we can arranging things. He just lost
his family and I've come to help." Henri's eyes misted over and he came
round the counter and grasped the stunned Beaux by the shoulders.

"I am so sorry, mon cher!"

Beaux brightened and there ensued a rapid exchange in the impenetrable
Cajun French dialect. I caught words like welcome and assistance and
condolences and something about a good uncle before Henri grabbed my bags
and trundling off. I knew it wasn't his job, but also knew that Henri was a
softie (and a supremely talented fuck). He kept up a bilingual patter to
both of us. We ended up in the rear courtyard. The room I normally reserve
was occupied, but Henri ushered us to a room on the far edge.

Henri opened the lead-paned door and showed us into a charming and spacious
sitting room. A bust of Napoleon (who else) was on the mantle above the gas
fireplace. The ancient wood floor creaked and shifted under us. The room
had a massive rug centred between two ornate couches and a pair of Regency
chairs. Simple, almost austere art hung in lavish and baroque frames on
every whitewashed plaster wall. A huge bath with claw-footed tub and
antique commode was to the right. The bedroom held two huge queen beds each
with voluminous mosquito netting depended from an oval rosette in the
ceiling. Instead of closets, a matched pair of armoires flanked a dressing
desk complete with silvered mirror. It was like stepping back in time.

As Henri chattered on, I noticed that Beaux was in full sensory overload. I
pressed a large-denomination bill into Henri's hand and gave a curt look to
get him to leave. I walked up to Beaux and put my hand on his
shoulder. Suddenly, he broke and grabbed me, sobbing into my shirt. I
dragged him over to one of the couches and cradled him. He wept and wept. I
simply held him, petting his hair and back, letting him simply let go of
the grief and hurt. Little did I know just how much this man-child had
endured, and how much help and support he would need to survive his
transition to the world most of us take for granted.

<eof>

*If* this becomes a series, we'll find out in the next chapter just how
insulated from the world Beaux has been, and how twisted a view of that
world his mother and paternal grandmother instilled in the boy. Key is the
fact that both Mama and G-ma fiercely repressed any sexual development in
their man-child and forcefully prevented his interaction with others. Kevin
is literally the first male person with whom Beaux has even interacted for
more than a few minutes, and his work to bring the boy out of his shell
will hit some startling twists and turns. Let me know if you think you'd
like to follow that journey.