Date: Tue, 2 May 2017 15:33:52 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Beaux Thibodaux 15

Please see original story
(www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/) for warnings and
copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex
between adult and young-adult men, some of them related to one another. Go
away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my
characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of
future stories. Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html
to keep the cum coming.

*****

"Oh, you passed, Beaux. You passed with flying colours." I slapped his
shoulder and we went out into the family room and settled in from of the
fireplace, watching the drips as the drizzle collected on the windows and
streamed slowly down. "You did great, Beaux, really. I think Rob and Dr
Silver will agree. We may *both* get gold stars for this week.

*****

Beaux Thibodaux 15: Fear

By Bear Pup

If you prefer to be warned before reading a story, wanting to know what
will happen so you're not shocked or wasting your time, scroll to the
bottom. If you'd rather be surprised, read on.

*****

Barry arrived as we were cleaning up a meal of Italian grinders (Italian
rolls, outsides brushed with olive oil and dusted with salt; inside went
ham, salami (genoa and hard), hot cappy and provolone, all wrapped and
baked in the oven, then topped with a salad of lettuce, diced tomatoes,
slivered onions, red wine vinegar, more olive oil, oregano, fresh basil and
pepper).  We spent most of the meal dissecting the differences and
advantages of Italian grinders and muffulettas. Beaux's funk had, as I
hoped, burned away with the exercise, sexual release and hot lunch.

Barry yoo-hooed his way in, wearing the same nothing as the two of us, and
was quickly chatting with Beaux. I retired to my office and got some
paperwork done, but bored quickly. When I came out, I heard voices from the
utility room and went to investigate. I stifled a gasp. The hunky,
insanely-hairy back of Barry was a perfect, stunning wedge, with a hair
pattern that I had long ago started thinking of an 'angel's wings', then a
spinal treasure trail down to his meaty buttocks. Next to him was the thin,
pale, lithe... stunning beauty of Beaux.

A pair of Barry's tattoos cemented the image. On that ample fundament were
matching tattoos in black outline with an Art Nouveau flair, each twisted
so the ass, chest (in profile) and face all showed clearly. On the left was
a thickly-haired devil, with horns and goatee and pointed tail; on the
right, was a smooth-skinned angel with wings and harp. The likenesses,
though, blasted away the difference. The lines were crisp, captivating and
unique. In each face, devil and angel, held undisguised lust and their
bodies were matching, complementary good and evil wet dreams in black ink.

The artist, TJ from Kansas City's vanINK studios, was a stunning master of
needlework. He was South African, and I noticed Barry's fake accent shifted
toward TJ's each time he got inked. The man's flair was for stark, flowing,
intricate detail that used the underlying musculature to bring actual life
to his creations. Barry was a frequent client, as were several
more-adventurous friends. I made a mental note to ask Beaux what he thought
of body art, and particularly what he thought of the Kokopelli on Barry's
left hip who seemed to 'play' a Life Spiral into being, one that circled
and eventually climbed halfway up Barry's cock-shaft -- another of TJ's
evocative and stunning creations.

The tableau didn't break, surprisingly, when they turned toward me. Barry's
lecherous seraph flexed at me and the smile on Beaux's heavenly face
perfectly matched TJ's artwork. He was the sexual angel made flesh complete
with bobbing, hard erection; Barry the dark, tempting, laughing devil with
a thick, mostly-flaccid schlong. I finally caught my breath and noticed
that they were going over a clipboard.

"Oncle, you'd never believe how organised Barry is. He's showing me how he
builds his lists. How much of what you need and when to buy it. I can't
believe how thorough he is!"

"You've got the hang of it now, Beaux. You keep going as I need to go over
budget stuff with Kevin." Barry gave me a Significant Look and I retreated
to the bar area. "I need to talk to you in the kitchen." Up the stairs and
I sat nervously at the centre island like I'd just been called into the
teacher's office during recess.

"Kevin, honey, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

I startled and stared a minute, "Um, uh, what do you mean?"

"I know damned good and well that you gave that boy a hard time over us
playing."

"Now that's not fair, Barry. I was surprised and worried. That's all. Why?"

"Cuz that boy looks at me today with a sad smile like a man on a diet looks
at pizza. What did you tell him?"

"Honestly, Barry, I told him it was okay, well, alright, after I freaked
out a little. I mean, I never expected, you know, him and you..."

"Doll, then what *did* you expect? Him and WHOM, honey? How many guys his
age -- ANY age -- have you let him meet?"

My jaw dropped like a brick. How can I constantly miss the obvious? I
rubbed my hand across my face, "Fuck, Barry. I don't know how to do this! I
keep screwing up on simple shit."

He gave me a peck on the cheek, "Yeah, hon, but for all the right
reasons. I know you, well, Kevin, and it's not lack of trying. It's lack of
ever having been a teenager." I looked at him in stunned outrage, then
blushed and dropped my eyes. "It's okay, doll, sometimes I envy how late
you were coming to the game."

Barry was one of the few friends who really knew my history. I learned to
jerk off from my best bud when I was 13 but my buddy left when his dad's
farm failed just a few months later. Dad sat me down and gave me the real
skinny about a year after, but I was crushed and was at an age when making
a new 'best bud' was terrifying, especially one you could talk to about
'that'.

I was a shy, scared teen. I dated twice in high school, both girls, and
never tried to get past second base, a quick grope. I got to college a
complete virgin except for a couple quick, companionable jerk-offs side by
side with my bud five long years before. College was revelatory in so many
ways, including sexually. The girls at college were a lot less interested
in propriety and were openly amused at my shyness. I let one reach her goal
in my sophomore year and was mortified that I was barely able to reach
completion, and then only by thinking of the baseball player who lived
across the hall.

I broke down and cried for a day or two until my roomie, Darren, got it out
of me. He let me cry another half hour and literally slapped some sense
into me. He dragged me to a party at the weekend, a mix of people I knew
and more that I didn't. I don't know how or why he set it up, but this
beautiful boy, a year older than me, slim and trim and angelic, immediately
cornered me. By the end of that evening, I was on Michael's bed learning
all over again how kissing worked. I fled, naturally, and it took me a week
to look him in the eye, then it was off to the races.

Michael was a salvation. He was also the quintessential Nancy boy. Even at
the height of the Sexual Revolution, Michael was 'out there'. Long, blonde
hair pulled into a beaded headband above alabaster sin and delicate
features. Long flowing sleeves and bell-bottom jeans and a macramé belt
were his normal uniform. Yes, he even swished. But he taught me to kiss, to
suck and even, once, to fuck, something he enjoyed far more than I (two
bottoms do not make a top).

That was 1970, an epochal year for colleges. Someone burned the student
union at our arch-rival, the University of Kansas, in April. Abby Hoffman
made a swing though the more-liberal schools (like Mizzou) on his Burn Baby
Burn speaking tour. Then Kent State happened. I was in the Francis Quad
when Bill Wickersham made his speech of calm but unified resistance (I
think he was fired within a day or two). Within a week, our school year
ended abruptly as Mizzou, like most universities, voted to close rather
than risk a conflagration. I never saw Michael after the protest on the
Francis. He didn't return the following semester.

But he opened my eyes to a sexual world. I had my first crushing heartbreak
the next fall as my lover quailed away from his guilt and fear. I had my
first truly-fulfilling sex the next spring when, as a bottom, I was fucked
senseless for a blissful long weekend by John? Jack? Can't recall.  Massive
bruiser of a boy from Iowa, and as close to my physical ideal as
possible. Our first time together, I was mortified that I came just from
his kiss and caress. He smiled and laughed low, delighted and not at all
disappointed. He graduated that year and we parted on wonderful (is sad)
terms. Before then, he taught me -- we taught each other -- what fucking
could be.

So Barry was right. I'd never had the kind of sexual youth that I was
trying to give Beaux. "What do I do?"

"Well, doll, two things to start. You have an on-call slut to ask what
you're missing (me, hon), and you need to find something social for that
poor boy to get involved with. He needs to meet people, at least some of
whom are his own age, Kevin."

We both jumped a foot when Beaux's steady voice broke in, "I don't want to
meet people my age Barry. I'm scared of them, me." His lip trembled as he
said that.

Barry turned and took a step, stroking Beaux's cheek, his low, campy voice
tender. "Oh, baby, I know. That's why you have to. How are you ever going
to tell the wonderful folks from the evil fucks from the vast majority who
aren't either if you don't meet plenty of all three?" Barry smiled sadly,
"From the time you left that Bayou, child, all you've met are the good
ones, and your Oncle is one of the best I've ever known. But you have to
get out, baby, and grow."

"I don't want to grow, me! I'm fine."

"As much as I hate to admit such a rare event, Beaux, Barry is
right. Monday, let's talk to Dr Silvers about that, okay?"

"No! No, it's not okay." He started to breathe heavily and Barry pulled him
into those huge arms to quell his distress and tremors.

Over Beaux's shoulder, Barry turned to me and sadly intoned, "I think the
next reading assignment, hon, needs to be Peter Pan." He patted Beaux on
the back and took the clipboard the boy had been carrying and went back
downstairs. I pulled the furious and terrified kid into my own arms and
held him until he started to squirm, then sat us both on the stool at the
counter.

"What's he mean, Peter Pan?" The growl was not a friendly one, but he
wanted to know.

"Peter Pan is a fairy tale, Beaux, about a boy who never gets old, never
grows up, and why that can't work. It's beautiful and sad. We'll get a copy
tomorrow." I put my hand on his shoulder and was hurt if unsurprised when
he shrugged it off like a fly. The funk we've dispelled earlier was
redoubled now.

We spent the afternoon studiously avoiding each other. As sad as it made
me, I'd never felt more like a parent. There is something... gratifying
about being snubbed by and angst-ridden teen. It made me feel like I was
finally doing something right.

Around four, I started dinner. Another simple, hearty dish. I had a close
friend (shockingly, not 'that' kind of friend; there really are guys I know
who haven't fucked me... well, a few) who was a butcher and he saved me
some of what are called Butcher's Cuts. One of those, impossible to buy
back then and uncommon even now, was flap steak. This thin, tough 'steak'
was the ultimate stew meat and one of the beefiest cuts in the entire cow
if you let it simmer as its own slow pace.

I cut a half-dozen flaps into inch-sized chunks, floured them and seared
them in butter until I got a good sizzle. I then added a couple chopped
onions and about a gallon of sliced mushrooms (white button, the only kind
that existed outside oriental markets back then). Like spinach, the
mushrooms would shrink as they gave up their moisture. When everything was
coated and the onions were starting to turn, I added can after can of beef
consume and turned it to a low, slow simmer with a tight-fitting lid.

One thing that I had (more or less) forgotten was Beaux's Nose. This was a
long-cooking meal that, from the instant the onions hit the butter and the
beef began to give up its juice, smelled like heaven in a pot. And it would
do so for the next three hours. Beaux was at the kitchen island before the
consume, with its own rich scent-texture, bloomed in the pan. I heard the
jungle growl of his stomach behind me. Without even turning, I said,
"Fruit," and pointed to the fridge.

I turned and grinned at his scowl. "It will be at least three hours,
Beaux."

Oh. My. God. You'd have thought I'd raped and murdered his coon hound. The
combination of the day's über-grump and the horrified betrayal of 'at
least three hours' was enough that I think he went into shock for a
minute. I got everything settled for the long simmer and turned to policing
the area. By the time that was done, his look had mellowed to merely
murderous. A win! A palpable win!

"So, Beaux, shall we do our talk now?" I actually expected him to refuse,
but he got up and huffed his way to the library and I followed. His
tight-folded arms had never left his chest throughout. He sat, his
prodigious endowment draped across his left thigh, and glared at me.

"Let's start with why I have to meet people I don't know and don't like."

I laughed, which did nothing for his mood. "Beaux, tell me something. Do
you like Barry?"

"Yes."

"Hans?"

"Ooh, yes!"

"Then how do you know you won't like everyone else?" His eyes slitted and
the scowl turned to something else, a determination to prove me wrong.

"Because I know who I like, me."

"So you liked Barry and Hans before you met them?" I asked with a parental
eyebrow-pop.

"NO!"

"So you're magic and only meet people you like?"

"NO!"

"Then pull up your big boy pants and deal with the fact that, yes, you need
to know people other than the five or six you've met, and that you might
just find someone you really, really like. Beaux, you're the smart one
here." His eyes met mine and he seemed shocked. "Beaux, I know more than
you but I know you're smarter. You KNOW I'm right. You knew I was right
when I first said anything. Why are you doing this, Beaux?"

Beaux's lower lip trembled and he looked at me a long time. He finally
muttered, almost inaudibly, "Because I'm scared, Oncle. Because, because,
because this is the first time I've felt safe in my life, me. I am so
s-s-s-sorry, Oncle."

I was at his side in an instant, dragging him into a hug. "You, Beaux, have
nothing to apologise for, son. Beaux, look at me. I am scared every day,
every minute." His eyes sought mine and found confirmation there. "Beaux, I
have never been as scared in my fucking life. The idea that you're scared
is not a shame or a problem or even unexpected. I've lived in this world
for my entire life and am terrified, Beaux. Why, WHY do you think you
shouldn't be after, what, two weeks?"

His head was nestled in my chest, muffling his words and making them nearly
inaudible. "But I'm not supposed to be scared, me! I'm supposed to be
strong!"

With a gesture just short of violent, I wrenched Beaux's face to mine. "No,
Beaux. Men are SUPPOSED to be scared. Really heroes are ALWAYS scared. You
act like scared and strong are opposites, Beaux. They are
companions. Strong and weak have nothing whatever to do with insensible and
scared. Real men, real heroes, are those who are scared to death and *still
do what's right*, Beaux. Weakness is only when you're scared and give up,
never try, never face it. If the things your G-Ma had you read never said
that, they are wrong, Beaux. More than wrong, corrupt.

"But it hurts, Kevin, I'm scared and it hurts. What's wrong with me? How do
I FIX it?"

I sighed, voice dropping, "Oh, God, Beaux. There's nothing to fix. Fear
hurts, and facing it hurts more. It's what really differentiates the brave
form the cowardly. Both, Beaux, both are scared and hurting and want to run
or hide. The cowards do that; the heroes, heroes like you Beaux, they do it
anyways."

<eof>

In this chapter:
Saturday: M/T: none -- M/M: none

*****
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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
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Beaux Thibodaux: 15 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 13 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Off the Magic Carpet: 7 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/
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