Date: Wed, 8 Mar 2017 14:07:45 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Beaux Thibodaux 8

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.

*****

Beaux simply nodded, but his posture was... intriguing. When he shifted, it
became obvious. The Nelson, like the zoo, had been an effective
outing. Beaux was sporting a rod that would scare a fisherman. Considering
the narrowed eyes and dreamy grin I saw reflected in the car window, Beaux
would certainly not have to wonder what to think about tonight... actually,
I thought as he squirmed a little, what to think about ten seconds after
his bedroom door shut when we got home.

*****

Beaux Thibodaux 8: Psyched Off

By Bear Pup

M/T; sexuality; brief J/O

We pulled into the garage and Beaux made a beeline to his room. Yes, I'm a
fucking dirty-old-man pervert. I leant against his door (no soundproofing
can dampen vibrations from contact). Perhaps five minutes elapsed with
various intriguing noises before "Unh! Unh! Unh!" sent me scurrying to the
kitchen to start dinner.

Tonight was a bizarre specialty called Sherried Chicken. Chicken breasts
seasoned then browned hard in butter. Add the juice from jars of tiny
button mushrooms and a cup of cooking sherry (don't judge me; it was the
80s), then popped into the oven. Wait fifteen minutes then put the rice on
to cook. Just as the rice is ready to finish, pull the chicken to a plate
and use Chicken Gravy Mix to insanely thicken the liquid (butter,
mushroom-juice, sherry and chicken drippings with poultry gravy mix?
intense) then thin it back out with sour cream. Chicken and drained
mushrooms back in until thick and bubbly, then serve it over the fluffy
rice. I made a quadruple batch because I liked leftovers (so quick to
reheat and eat). There, um, were no leftovers.

We retired, again, to the candlelit Library, to read for an hour. When
Beaux started to seem restless, I said, "Do you want to talk here or down
by the fireplace?"

His eyes got a little wary and more than a little big. "Here's fine,
Oncle."

"Now, Beaux, you don't have to answer any question any more than I do. I
promised never to lie to you but also said I'd refuse to answer questions
and you can do that too, understand?"

"Yes, Oncle," spoken directly to the floor.

"There is no right answer, and no wrong answer. Which things you saw today
did you like best?"

Beaux looked at me, head cocked, for minutes. "Three were sculpture,
Oncle. Jupiter with Eagle, Hercules Farnese, Rodin's the Fallen Man. Four
were paintings: Danae, Reclining Nude by Amedeo Modigliani, Pan and Syrinx,
and The Drunken Hercules."

I was rocked for a dozen reasons. First, he named the works exactly as
they'd been labelled (as far as I could tell). The Modigliani was one of
the few women I looked at. Danae was by Klimt, sensual and sexy even though
there was a tit involved. The last two were Rubens, both with big, bold
women but also amazingly-sexy, big, burly men! For the sculptures, all were
extremely masculine men, all easily fell into the category I would call,
'rough trade'. All of them focused heavily on things other than the crotch;
the shoulders, musculature, expression. And all of them, *every fucking one
of them* made my own dick twitch.

For every one, I thought about what it would be like to be taken by such a
man. To be dominated by those rippling, bulging muscles. To smell their
virility. This could get very complicated very fast if Beaux was attracted
to the same sort of guys I brought home, and for the same reasons.

"And what drew you to them."

His head again fell. "No, Beaux, there is no wrong answer. Sexuality is
complex and strange and wonderful. What drew you to those?"

He sat, staring at the floor for a minute.

"Do you want me to start, Beaux? To tell you why I love five of the seven
you picked as well, the ones with men in them?"

His head snapped up and his wide eyes locked to mine. He nodded, a tiny and
spasmodic twitching.

"They are so perfectly MALE. So big, strong, and virile I want them to
h-hold me, Beaux. To, I'm not sure, protect me? I want to feel their
power. To be..." AGH! FUCK this no-lying thing! "...to be taken by them." I
fought the blush trying to consume my upper body. Beaux's head was slightly
to one side, quizzical and puzzled. He looked down at the floor long and
hard until I thought he'd not answer at all.

"Is it wrong, Oncle," he asked the floorboards, "that *I* want to hold
*them*? I'm not at all sure what you mean them 'taking' you, but I want to
touch them, Kevin, feel those muscles? Is that bad?"

I sucked in a breath, startling and upsetting Beaux. I quickly said, "No,
Beaux, it's far from wrong. I like to b-be taken, to be loved. Many men
like to make love, to, um, do what the two painted dogs were doing? I
think, and I might be wrong, that where I like to be, um, taken and you
want to be the, um, other one?" I was stumbling and even my voice
blushed. I was so going to murder Rob for making me do this!  "That you
want this with extremely masculine men is... special and... fascinating and
perhaps... wonderful. But it will limit the people who you want to be
with. Not in a bad way! Just, just, just in a way that is different than
mine."

"Why, Kevin?" He was staring at me with wide, innocent and thirsty eyes.

"No all guys like the same things. Some like to, well, be on top and others
like to be on the bottom; some, actually quite a few, like both. In fact,
that's what most gay guys identify as 'Tops', guys who like to penetrate,
and 'Bottoms', who, um, er..."

Beaux now had that sly, beyond-years smile. "You're blushing like an apple,
Oncle. Every part of you is red! Like one of those is better than the
other... and you like the, um, one to be ashamed of?"

No, murder was too nice for Rob. I'd figure out something incredibly
painful for that man. FUCK. Deep breath; deep, deep sigh. "You're
half-right, Beaux. Because of the way I was raised, it seems more manly and
'right' to be on top and, yes, I like to be on the bottom. But I was raised
with an ignorant bias that you escaped. Neither is better or worse; neither
*should* make me feel embarrassed. That doesn't mean I can stop blushing,
though," I ended with a shy smile.

"That's okay, Kevin, I like it when you blush." I looked at the humour in
his eyes and burst out laughing.

"Then you're going to have a lot more fun with these conversations that I
am, you little shit."

"Um, one other question. Are you and I, um, abnormal?"

"What? Why?"

"Well, all those guys, no matter how masculine and fierce and manly, they
all tiny little, you know. Their b-balls were like mine but their, um..."
His voice faded as he heard himself ask that and started to blush
himself. I was my turn to laugh.

"Oh, God, Beaux, you are priceless! No, we're not deformed. The Greeks and,
to a lesser extent, the Romans thought tiny penises were more beautiful,
more ideal. Statues with big, well, endowments down there were always
barbarians; nasty, rough, uncivilised brutes. When you get to later art,
the reason was the opposite. Putting in a tiny dick was a way to minimise
what a lot of people thought was naughty or even obscene."

Beaux smiled shyly. "I'm glad of that, Kevin. I truly am."

We headed off to bed. Horny as hell, I decided to jack off and was
immeasurably relieved when the images that popped up were not those of
Beaux's first real jack-off session or his undeniably-delectable body, but
of being ravished by the hunky, goat-legged Pan or manhandled by the
Drunken Hercules or pounded relentlessly by a young, strong, vigorous,
insatiable Kouros, terracotta cock smooth and powerful and very, very
big. It was, to say that least, a thoroughly-satisfying wank.

I slept remarkably well, and was up early. I decided for something a bit
more-homey for breakfast, a concoction I'd made since college. Fry three
eggs together in a small pan so they basically become one big three-yolked
egg. Seasoned generously with pepper and salt, and cook gently in big ole
pat of butter until the whites set. Spoon the butter over the yolk just to
set the albumen skin. Slide off onto a bed of thicker-than-normal grits,
butter and all. When pierced, the yolk joins the butter to make a luscious
and succulent topping for the grits, perfect for fluffy drop-biscuits to
sop up.

I made triple my normal batch for grits; Beaux was still hungry after six
eggs and about a cubic foot of grits and (literally) all but the one
biscuit I could save from the carnage. I wrote a quick note for Barry: 'Buy
more EVERYTHING food-related. Quadrupling $$ on Moneycard' (what we'd call
a debit card today, which Barry used to shop for me).

The only thing on the agenda today was the one that I dreaded most, the
appointment with Dr Silvers. Beaux said he was fine with it, but I was a
nervous wreck. To take my mind off it more than Beaux's, I took him to the
site of the house on Concord near Loose Park. It was empty, the family
having bought it but not wanting to move in until the remodel was
complete. With permitting and engineering issues and the construction
itself, that would be at least another few months.

I rolled up the various drawings, the same ones Beaux had been looking at
in my office so intently. Whilst the main reason for the side-trip was to
kill time, I also wanted to test Beaux's statement that he understood the
engineering drawings.

I drove into the parking pad between the home and large, detached garage
(originally a literal carriage house). Rough, beige stone formed the lower
walls. The front had steps up to a gracious porch. In back, you could
either go up to the kitchen or down to the area where the engineering was
such a problem. I let us into the musty house. A folding table sat to one
side with some metal folding chairs, things I always brought to a site as
it was nice to have a place to gather and pore over complex drawings.

I walked Beaux through the rooms and pointed out some of the structural
features and what we'd be doing on this level. I then spread out two
drawings, the architectural detail for the beam and the engineering
one. Beaux's eyes again got bright and his eyes a vivid blue.

"What do you see, Beaux?"

He completely ignored the architectural drawing and bent low over the
engineering one, replete with scribbled equations and notes from my long,
painful discussion with the fucktard from Building & Permits. The complex
stress loads were completely beyond the guy and it had taken most of an
afternoon to show they would be supported in various ways.

"Well, Oncle, it took a minute but it's all just stressors and tension!" I
blinked.  Looking at my own scribbles, I could maybe, *maybe* have worked
out what the problems were without having the context. I was cautious.

"Why do you say that, Beaux?"

And it was like pushing the plunger that blew up the dam. Within ten
minutes, I found that I was scribbling notes on my ever-present legal
pad. Beaux caught nuances in *my own fucking work* that I would have (and
in two cases HAD) missed. He pointed around at some of the structural
features I'd shown him as he spoke at speed about the maths involved.

Like most men, I prefer to overengineer; it's safer. Beaux was showing me
that, because of some nuances, I'd added bulk without helping at all. Was
it an earth-shaking discovery? No, I could and did follow exactly what he
said as soon as I saw it from his perspective. Would it have put someone in
danger or cost my clients a fortune? No, the difference in cost was minimal
and both results were utterly sound. Did everything he said make sense?
Also no, he made a number of mistakes in his assumptions. Was it creepy and
unnerving? HELL yeah!

"Stop, Beaux. Stop, please." I sat on the closest chair with my hand over
my mouth. Beaux's smile and bright eyes drained away like the water from
that hypothetical blown dam. "Beaux, that was so amazing it's scary.  Sit
down, please."

He did, reluctantly. Troubled.

"All those scribbles are mine, son, and they're what I do for a living." I
rushed on as Beaux started to protest or apologise. "And in the space of a
few minutes, you found improvements that professional engineers didn't. You
made mistakes as well, but what you did? It is, well, it's fucking amazing,
Beaux."

He gave a me a tentative smile. Sadly, I had to dash it, at least a
little. "Putting you in school with kids your own age, well, it would be
like taking away all your tackle and sending you out in the bateau with a
bamboo rod and a length of string. But you also can't fit in at a college
either; there's too much you don't know. I'm sorry Beaux, but you are
really smart and still really, really in need of education in so many other
ways. I don't even know where to start. I'm sorry, Beaux, but it's the
truth."

He looked at me, tentative. There was a glimmer of pride, another of fear,
a lot of uncertainty. His world had not stopped rocking since he lost the
women who raised him, and I was just not convinced that I was making it
better.

"I've got some friends where I went to college. Maybe they can help and
I'll call them later today. For now, know this: You are welcome to look at
anything in my office. Any of my work. Don't change anything, but make
notes so we can sit down. You made some mistakes a few minutes ago because
you didn't have all the facts and made poor assumptions, and I want to
teach you where to look for them. But I have a lot to learn from you,
Beaux, if you'll teach me."

That slow, sober voice, "We'll teach each other, Oncle."

I pulled him into a startled but non-unwelcome hug... the first, I
realised, that I'd given him. I kicked myself yet again for being a heel. I
kept my arm over his shoulder, "big brother style" as we made our way back
to the car, locking up behind us. Beaux was thoughtful but not brooding,
just thinking over what I'd said.

We lunched at one my worldwide favourite places, a restaurant literally on
the tracks in a slightly-seedy, industrial part of Kanas City between the
Ward Parkway area we'd just left and Dr Silver's downtown office. The place
was called Ponack's, and the Mexican food was nothing short of amazing.

We got there around 11:30 and it was already hard to park. The menu was
laminated and about as fancy as a paper napkin. I ordered for us both, al a
cart, sensitive to stay within his tolerances for potentially-upsetting
foods but also his voracious appetite and enthusiasm for new tastes.

One of the amazing dishes was the tamale. After long association with the
place, I knew that the kitchen was staffed exclusively with old women from
Mexico and Central America, classic Abuela models. The tamales, though,
were not even made at Ponack's; they were made in the home kitchens of a
handful of the most-experienced women and brought in when they came to work
each and every morning (it was the 80s; such things were still legal then)

The real star, though, was the guacamole. This wasn't the blender-whipped
green spackle prevalent even to this day. Instead, it was thick, luscious
and chunky with a minimum of ingredients, each one balanced to
perfection. The only utensils that ever touched it were a tablespoon to
scrape out the avocado, a knife to chop the onion, tomato, limes and herbs,
and a huge wooden spoon used to gently fold and stir, then scoop orders
into huge bowls. It was still creamy, but every bite was unbelievably rich
and delicious.

So: Queso and guac to start, then tamles (carnitas, of course) a massive
burrito, tacos (soft, crispy and Sonora), a couple of flautas. Second round
on Sonoras, then some more flautas and a new bowl of queso to dip them in,
then two more tamales. About seven baskets of fresh chips. Hand to god,
Beaux looked pregnant when we left.

We had two more hours to kill before the appointment, so I drove up to the
Dick in the Sky (officially called the War Memorial, now the National World
War 1 Museum and Memorial). The breeze and the views were captivating... as
was the chance for Beaux to go into a food coma and crash for an hour in
the warm sun. It was early afternoon, so only the hard-core cruisers were
there, and I knew that even something as delectable as Beaux was safe there
on the open lawns; I wouldn't give him much of a chance if it were dark,
though. For some inexplicable reason, if you put a 217-foot tall
penis-shaped, penis-coloured object on a high, exposed bluff overlooking a
major city and add clumps of trees and brush around, it attracts
homosexuals! Ohmigod! Who knew?

I roused a supremely grouchy teen from his post-prandial slumber 30 minutes
before our appointment as I wanted him to have time to wake up and lose the
grump. We got to Dr Silver's office just at the right time and were ushers
in after only a few moments.

I have to admit, I'd never actually been in a psychiatrist's office
before. [Stop sniggering! Yes, I know that probably explains a lot.] It was
clear that his practice catered to youth. I found later he had two offices,
one decorated and equipped for children and this one designed to put teens
at ease. One wall was exposed, blond brick and the other three were a soft
sandy colour. The carpet was a dark, subtle pattern. A leather recliner, a
table with a partially-finished jigsaw (a covered bridge in fall) with four
wooden chairs, an immensely long sofa and two armchairs were in evidence,
but no desk.

The brick wall had the obligatory diplomas and credentials, but the others
had paintings in deep, rich, saturated tones. A sailing scene with a boat
in dark and troubled seas; an almost-impressionist piece with balloons; a
still pond with lotuses surrounded by green trees; a magnificently-rendered
hawk in flight.

Dr Silvers was not remotely what I expected. No mane of silver-grey hair or
tweeds with elbow-patches. No pipe or slippers. No half-moon spectacles or
monocle. Not a hint of professorial grandpa in evidence at all. De Silvers
seem shockingly young despite the dates on the diplomas. Short, perhaps 5'
8" and trim but not thin, bright eyes and dimples in an open, friendly face
below what we'd then have called dishwater blond hair. He was in a
three-button deep-gold shirt with a breast logo, nice jeans, tennis
shoes. He asked us to sit wherever looked comfortable. Beaux took one
armchair so I took side of the sofa closest to him. Dr Silvers took the
other armchair.

"So, where did you go for lunch?" He looked straight at Beaux, interested
but not pushy.

Beaux seemed utterly taken aback. Like me, he had obviously expected some
gruff professional like Rob who would have gotten down to business
instantly, not make chitchat. "Um, a Mexican place..." He turned to me.

"Ponack's"

"...yes, it was great."

"What did you like best?"

Beaux visibly relaxed and smiled into the topic. Food? How much safer can
you get? Dr Silvers and Beaux were suddenly chatting like pals. Food,
fishing, outdoorsmanship. Dr Silvers hit any number of brick walls --
sports, movies, school -- which puzzled me as I knew Rob had given him a
detailed briefing. I then saw a pattern. Dr Silver was learning Beaux's
tells, when he was comfortable, when he felt ignorant, when he was nervous,
when he was in his element. The 'oops, I forgot' subjects were sprinkled in
with inordinate care. He pulled me into the conversation several times, but
his actual attention never left Beaux, and his topics with me were always,
invariably, ones that got a either positive or stress-laced reaction from
Beaux.

"Kevin, do you mind waiting outside for a while? I'd like to talk to Beaux
without him worrying about someone he knows and cares about hearing." Beaux
stiffened, but Dr Silvers went on as if he hadn't noticed, "No young man
wants people around him to know everything he's thinking, and Beaux needs
to learn that no one but me will ever hear what he says in this room."

I smiled and nodded, patting Beaux's shoulder as I passed and took up
nervous residence in the waiting area. This was decades before the
insurance-and-profit mandates of a
'you-have-fifteen-minutes-here-are-your-new-meds' system endemic
today. Thus I found myself communing with stale copies of National
Geographic, Redbook and Highlights for over an hour. It suddenly struck me,
Dr Silvers had booked the rest of his afternoon for Beaux.

He called me back in after perhaps an hour and a half. He demeanour was
identical: friendly, calm, fun to be around. Beaux, um, not so much. He was
working hard to make sure that he looked calm and unruffled, but his eyes
burned a coppery green. Uh oh.

"So, I won't have Beaux wait outside because I'll never tell you anything,
Kevin, that he doesn't know about. That doesn't mean either of you will
like what I have to say."

Beaux and I shared The Look.

"Okay, so first, I approve of everything that Dr Martin suggested. In fact,
I want to reiterate one important part: Man up, the both of you. Sex is
good and healthy and, if done right, damned enjoyable.

"I'm not telling secrets to say that Beaux's life, especially his sex life,
has been utterly unique. It's also no secret that your sister, Kevin, and
her mother-in-law did some pretty terrible things. It is my professional
opinion, though, that Beaux is healthier than you or he (or I) have any
right to expect. Kevin, you have some teaching to do. Beaux, you have some
learning to do. Kevin, get over yourself and your hangups. Beaux, stop
pussyfooting around and ask Kevin what you want to know."

Beaux and I were both seething at this point. My jaw was working back and
forth in a way that was my own tell of 'don't fuck with me any
more'. Beaux's eyes were so narrow you could barely see the metallic green
gleam.

"EXCELLENT!" Beaux and I both nearly jumped out of our chairs. "You're both
pissed off, that means you're more likely to actually *do* something. I am
not Mr Answers with the solutions to every problem. The biggest part of my
job is figuring out what guys need and finding a way to motivate them to
get it for themselves. I'll see you both next week at this time unless you
have a conflict, Kevin?" I shook my head.

"Great. Now you've had two trained medical professionals tell you the same
thing. If you like, you can try for three, or you can buckle down and
figure it out. Gentlemen, have a nice day."

One thing I did find out about Dr Silvers' office that, later, would really
impress me. It was utterly impossible to slam any fucking door in the
goddamned place.

<eof>

At a reader's suggestion, I started a mail list to let folks know when new
stories or chapters drop. Let me know (orson.cadell@gmail.com) you want in
on that.

*****

Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...  Karl & Greg: 18
chapters .../incest/karl-and-greg/ Canvas Hell: 16 chapters
.../camping/canvas-hell/ Beaux Thibodaux: 9 chapters
.../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ The Heathens: 8 chapters
.../historical/the-heathens/ Mud Lark Holler: 7 chapters
.../rural/mud-lark-holler/ Babe in the Woods: 2 chapters
.../rural/babe-in-the-woods/ Off the Magic Carpet: 2 chapters
.../military/off-the-magic-carpet/