Date: Mon, 2 Dec 2002 19:46:03 EST
From: Cojonudo52@aol.com
Subject: Huge: Chapter Two

Note: If anything, this second installment is slower than
the first. Those of you who made it through Chapter One
won't mind, but I figure I ought to alert the second wave:
the more I try to make this a sex story, the less it manages
to be about sex.  The P.Q. (Porn Quotient) is alarmingly
small.  I hope I don't lose my Nifty License - for
submitting a piece with those dreaded "redeeming social
values."

To all of you who responded so thoughtfully to my long-
winded debut: thanks.  Without your encouragement, who
knows?  My debut might well have been my swansong.




                    Huge: A Romance: Continued



     "I've really got to pee."
     These are his first words, believe it or not, and they
rouse me out of reverie.
     "Good morning, Dalton."
     "Good morning, Mr. Hendricks."
     "Adam.  Remember?"
     "Of course.  My first man.  Adam, I've got to pee."
     "Well, the bathroom hasn't moved since last night."
Last night. What a strange concept.  Last night feels like
another country.
     "I'm naked.  And kind of, you know."
     "So?"  I'll play along.  He's the one who has to pee.
     "It just isn't like it's ever been before.  You know."
     "No I don't."  But of course I do.  "It's just you and
me and the sunlight. Hurry back."
     "Please don't look, Adam.  I feel really weird."
     "All right.  I'll try not to.  But some things are out
of my control."
     He throws back the blanket and pads off to the
bathroom.  I can hear his morning stream, then the flush,
then the gargle and the spit.  Prelude, overture - an
unforgettable melody.  He comes back into the bedroom, and
of course I am drinking him in.  He knows I'm looking, and
he hesitates in the doorway.  By God, he's posing, clasping
his hands behind his head, cocking his hip, puffing up his
fragile chest.  For a second, he looks righteous and proud.
Then he sees me staring at him, and he follows my widening
eyes to their destination, to that magnificent animal now
safely in repose.  It dawns on him again that he is naked,
trapped in my gaze, and shame cancels the moment.  He hops
back into bed and pulls the covers over us.
     "All better?" I ask.  Though my voice registers cool, I
feel a rumbling along the fault line.
     "Yeah. Much."  He turns away from me, and once again
pulls into himself.  Hesitantly, I ease myself against him.
I roll one leg over him, pinning him as gently as I can.  I
wedge my sleeping dick in the small of his back. His skin is
still cool from his little hike. I know that his eyes are
wide open, trained perhaps on the dust motes dancing in the
stream of sunlight coming through the crack in the curtains.
I am caught up in the stillness of this decadent tableau.
Even a whisper would break the moment.  It's as if Dalton
were breathing for two.
     He speaks first.  "I'm thinking of my father.  What he
would say."
     "I see."
     "No, you probably don't.  Father can't stand me -
though he's really pretty nice to me.  I mean, he sends me
all kinds of stuff, like articles from his magazines.  Full
of advice.  That kind of article.  "Take Charge of Your
Destiny" - that's one I remember.  He thinks I'm soft, and
you know, he's right.  He's pretty strong.  I think I know
why Mother married him.  He could handle anything that she
couldn't.  What a team!  He's really quite handsome, you
know."
     I can't think of anything meaningful to say, so I just
listen and hold him tight.
     "He never yelled at me that I can remember.  I guess
that was Mother's job.  But he shook his head a lot whenever
I was around.  I don't think he liked what he saw in me.  He
looked at me like I was adopted or something.  When I went
with him to headquarters, he'd leave me with the
receptionists.  Other kids, they got to play in their dads'
office."
     "Anyway, I used to go with him to the club.  He was so
fucking the boss.  The bartender never asked him what he
wanted.  Just gave it to him.  He was always giving these
winks and hand signals like he owned the place, which he
pretty much did.  Once when I was about seven or so, I went
looking for him because I wanted somebody to take me home,
and I found him in the training room and this bald Asian guy
was chopping him on his back.  I didn't know what a massage
was.  I only knew Father was wearing a towel.  He told me to
wait in a chair.  He was sweating, and his muscles were so
strong.  Then he got up and handed the towel to the Asian
guy, and told me he was going to take a shower.  That is the
only time I saw him naked.  He looked so big to me then.
Before I figured out that I had him beat - in one way at
least."
     I hug him even tighter, as if somehow I might squeeze
it all out of him.  I want to say, let it go, let it go.
It's just that there's so much he's hanging on to.
     "Father would kill me, of course.  If he knew what I
was doing.  He'd kill you too, Mr. Hendricks.  Adam.  Still,
I sort of wish he would walk in on us, and I could give him
this "fuck you" look, like, how do you like your boy now,
Mr. Myers?"
     "I understand."  Which is exactly what I say when I
cannot understand.
     "Yeah, then Mother comes in and starts yelling at him,
calling him a son of a bitch for dumping her for Ulrike,
then she sees me, too, and it's like, "whoa!" and she
doesn't know where to look because you're holding me, and
you're my teacher, and she knows what we've been doing, and
she hates it because she can't figure out who to be angry
at. `Fuck you, bitch, I say.  I want my mother.'"
     "Dalton, it's okay.  They aren't going to find us.
They don't know a thing about us."
     "Yeah, I know.  Sorry about going off."
     "That's all right.  My tadpole has a temper.  Don't
ever stop fighting."
     "Please kiss me, Adam.  Just shut me up."
     Who am I to argue?  The kiss is a kind of lingual Ring
Cycle, protracted, sweet and bitter, furious and bloody, the
kind of kiss one might expect as the four horsemen come down
the stretch.  I'm amazed all over again by how much I feel,
by those nerve endings I thought dead of neglect.  Now he's
looking straight at me.  I wonder if through the prism of
myopia and tears he can see my own delirium.
     "What are we doing?" he asks me.
     "I haven't a clue, little man.  I haven't a clue."
It's way too obvious, but my head is full of Whitman:
               We two boys together clinging,
               One the other never leaving.
               Fulfilling our foray.




     We could lie here forever, I'm thinking, invisible to
everyone but ourselves.  The school would launch an
investigation into my disappearance, and Dalton's mother
would cancel her tickets on the Concorde, and there would be
an A.P.B. throughout the Great 48 for the wayward teacher
and his freak disciple.  Funny thing is, they would have
been through this room ten times already, looking for clues,
staring right at us, right through us.  Dalton and I would
be making faces at the cops, giggling at their clumsy
efforts to find something in my desk drawers that would lead
them to us.  Invincible in our invisibility, we'd sneak up
behind the young detective with his off-brand trench coat,
and tickle him with our half-swollen dicks.  "You cannot
touch us!" I would whisper in his ear, and the young
detective would scratch his head as if he had heard
something, look over his shoulder at the big, unmade bed,
and seeing nothing but the same tangle of sheets, walk out
the door into the world of light and time.
     "Up and Adam," Dalton says.  He thinks he's funny.
     "I think the expression is `up and at `em'."
     "Whatever.  You can't correct me any more.  I'm gonna
get all A's from now on."
     "Is that so?  I've still got the red pen."
     "The color's not important, Mr. Teacher Man.  I know
what you did.  I own you, old man."
     "Nice. I give you wine and memories, and you threaten
me?  Why, I'm going to see the Headmaster as soon as he gets
back from Puerto Rico!"
     "Up and Adam, Mr. Hendricks.  You're gonna pay today.
We're going far away from Carswell, and you're taking me!"
And for the first time in the 30 hours since I met him, he
is hugging me, kissing me, telling me he loves me.
     We shower together, and despite all the steam and the
lather and the slippery skin, it's pretty innocent.  Dalton
lets me shampoo him - another first for Mr. Hendricks.  He
lets me wash him wherever I want, and I spend a little
longer than necessary with my soapy finger in his ass-crack.
He lets me massage his half-hard cock, let's me work my
nimble fingers along its veiny contours.  I know better now
than to try to retract his foreskin.  I'm no longer
terrified of what I am holding, but I guess his dickhead
will forever be a mystery.
     He bathes me, too, and it's quite a sensation.  His
long fingers are not at all like those of my late mother,
but with my eyes closed, I am back in my childhood tub,
thirty-seven years wiped away with his touch.  By the time
we emerge, we're all wrinkled and pink like newborns.
          The child is father of the man
          And I could wish my days to be
          Bound each to each by natural piety.



     He's silent, and I appreciate it.  I think he
understands that we've traveled farther in my bed than we
ever could in my Honda, which at the moment is headed
northwest on I-89, cutting diagonally through a New
Hampshire still wearing winter gray.  He catnaps and
daydreams while I replay the night before.
     I had a friend in college who told me once when I was
drowning in overdue papers and unrequited affections that I
ought to take it easy on myself.  "Adam," he said, "anxiety
is a country I never travel to."  Of course I laughed at
what I imagined was wisdom gleaned from a fortune cookie,
but he hit a nerve just the same.  I have always been
especially good at self-flagellation.  I've planted flowers
in Gethsemane.  I've second-guessed the sunrise.  So it's no
surprise at all that on a day when I feel more alive than I
have in years, all I can see down the road are shadows.
     "I like this, Adam."
     "What?"
     "The music.  And getting away."
     "Jeff Buckley.  "Grace."  He drowned in the
Mississippi."
     "Oh.  Sorry."
     "No, Dalton.  It was an accident."
     There it is again.  The elephant in the living room.
Maybe I should pull out Aerosmith.  Or Ted Nugent.  Except
that I don't own them.
     "I like that word, "grace."  There was a priest at my
high school, I mean this guy was the Dean of Discipline, and
he told me and a couple of my buddies after we got busted
smoking pot that we were all experts in sin, but we didn't
known a damn thing about grace.  Then he suspended us. My
friends thought he was talking about Grace Hansen."
     I'm way over his head.  Selfish.  I've forgotten what
it's like to say what I mean.
     "Where are we going?" he asks - the real question of
the day.
     "Far away from Carswell.  That was your wish, my little
urchin."
     "Yeah.  This is awesome!"
     "I suppose it is.  I suppose it is."


     I pull the Honda off I-89 to get gas and make a couple
of phone calls.  I leave Dalton in charge of filling the
tank and buying snacks at the convenience store.  He seems
happy with the assigned tasks, and more importantly, he
seems to know that I need a few minutes to sort things out.
     First I call Alice Dodswell back at school.  I tell her
only that Dalton Myers did not leave for Spring Break, and
that he is traveling with me to "visit family."  I remind
her of my cell phone number, and ask her to relay the news
to Mrs. Myers should she return from London looking for her
son.  Mrs. D. has the singular virtue of never asking
questions.  She accepts my explanation, and wishes me a
pleasant trip.
     Then I call Henry Theriot, proprietor of the Walden
Lodge, West Bethel Vermont.  It's time to collect.
     "This is Henry.  The Lodge will open ."
     "Hey.  It's Adam.  Adam Hendricks."
     "No shit.  Where are you?"
     "South Royalton.  20 minutes from you."
     "Adam, it's great to hear from you, but it's not season
yet."
     "I'm not here to fish."
     "Adam?  What's going on?  Ten years you don't call, and
now you show up out of the blue."
     "I need a cabin.  Firewood. And three days."
     "I mean, sure.  We'll take care of that.  Something's
wrong, I can tell."
     "No.  I'm fine, Henry.  Just oblige me, okay?"
     "Sure, Adam.  No problem.  It's just that Ralph and I
are pretty settled out here, and we don't need trouble."
     "No trouble.  You won't see me.  I wasn't even there."
Then I hang up, and head back to the Honda.  Dalton is
waiting for me in the Honda.
     "We're almost there, kid."
     "Where?"
     "The rabbit hole."
     "What?"
     "You'll see."
     "You're a strange one Mr. Hendricks, that's for sure,"
he says, with that hesitant smile.  Then he places his hand
firmly on my right thigh.
     "Ah, Dalton, you have no idea how strange."



     Henry and Ralph.  Mr. Theriot and Mr. Emory in another
lifetime.  The history teacher and the athletic director.
My teacher and my coach 23 years ago - when each was just
about my age now.  Good Catholic men, husbands, fathers.
Pillars of the community until the press got wind and turned
them into salt.
     It shocked everybody but a handful of kids who knew all
along and simply didn't care enough to whisper.  Mr. Theriot
and Mr. Emory were lovers.  And it wasn't enough, when
Mystic Township came to discover their relationship, to let
the news die quietly.  There were insinuations.  Allegations
of impropriety to rival those three centuries earlier in a
Massachusetts village to the north.  Orgies.  Satanism.
Lacrosse sticks used in ways never sanctioned by God or the
Coastal League.  Of course, their wives left them, took the
kids, humiliated by their betrayal and by the outpouring of
sympathy they were forced to endure.  The two men somehow
limped through the rest of the semester, denying almost
everything except the truth: that they loved each other.
     The detectives showed up periodically to check up and
in.  They called us in hushed tones into "safe rooms" where
we were supposed to unburden ourselves of terrible secrets.
Only there weren't any, and the more they prodded and poked
into matters, the more pissed off I got.
     Until one day, in a fit of pique I'd love to dignify
with the name of courage, I walked into the Monsignor's
office without knocking, asked to use the intercom, and
delivered a message to the investigators, the priests, the
teachers explaining Pythagoras, and all the kids "whose
innocence had been shattered" by the tawdry exploits of two
middle-aged men in love.
     I said simply - and I can still remember the wave of
nausea that swept over me as I spoke: "This is Adam
Hendricks.  Listen up.  I'm leaving St. Vincent's in five
minutes.  I invite my fellow students to join me. Right now,
this place is all wrong.  Christ died for our sins already.
Do we need another crucifixion just to meet some pathetic
quota?  I'm out of here and I'm not coming back until the
cops are gone.  I'm not coming back until we give Coach
Emory and Mr. Theriot a little Christian charity."  Then I
left the office, marched down the hall like some latter-day
martyr, too angry to be amused by the perplexed stares of my
classmates, and headed out the door, never to come back.
     Until the next day, of course.  It was nothing but a
smoke bomb.  The Monsignor called my parents, who apologized
for my outburst, and promised that I would be in my homeroom
seat at 8:00 A.M.  By the time the Understanding Counselor
who was assigned my case told me with a hearty pat on the
shoulder that he "knew how I felt," my career as Thomas a
Becket was over.
     As were the teaching careers of Henry Theriot and Ralph
Emory.  They resigned in December, citing professional
incompatibility, packed their books, and headed out for the
sunset in West Bethel, Vermont, and the Walden Lodge.
     Before the last exam, Mr. Theriot, a blade of a man
with a big bushy mustache, pulled me aside.
     "Adam Hendricks.  You write terrific essays.  And Coach
Emory says if you had ever learned how to move left, you
might have become a fine lacrosse player."
     I started to say thanks, but he put his fingers to his
lips.  "Things are going to work out for us, believe me.
And it's because the world will soon be in your hands. If
there's anything either one of us can ever do for you, just
let us know.  Thank you, son."



     "Hello Henry.  It's good to see you."  He's still a
whippet of a man, hard and sinewy at sixty.  His life agrees
with him.  His faded jeans are covered with sawdust.
     "Mr. Hendricks.  You look none the worse for wear.
They must be treating you well at the club.  Carswell,
right?"
     "Carswell.  14 years, now.  It's a life."
     "Ralph's in the shop.  He spends most of the day making
birdhouses.  He's only sold three that I can account for.
He was delighted to hear that you'd be stopping by."
     "Henry, I'm not alone."
     "I figured as much.  I seem to recall that school's a
tough place to build a relationship."  I hear no bitterness.
     "His name is Dalton."
     "Pretty waspy.  You know, Monsignor Rossi cautioned us
against interfaith dating."
     "Yeah, so he did."
     "Adam.  Cabin Ten is yours.  It's the closest thing
we've got to deluxe.  It's got a fireplace and hot water.
Oh, and what we call a "matrimonial" bed.  You can have it
as long as you want.  We don't open `til mid-May."
     "Thank you, Henry.  I'll tell you more once I figure
out what the hell I'm doing."
     "No hurry, Adam.  It took Ralphie and me 38 years."



     Cabin Ten is about 200 yards from the Lodge itself.
The back deck extends over the rushing waters of the Third
Branch.  Henry hasn't done it justice.  Burnished copper
pots hang on hooks in the alcove that is our kitchen.  The
walls are decorated with prints: Bierstadt, Durand, Thomas
Cole.  There are books, Henry's I'm sure, scattered
throughout on every available surface.  But the centerpiece
is the bed: king-size, covered with an enormous down
comforter.  It faces, as it must, the fireplace, a quarter
cord of wood stacked neatly to the side.  I kick off my
shoes and take a seat on the bed.
     "Wow.  This is amazing!  Awesome.  Are we staying
here?"
     "Yes, little man, you're about to discover the joys of
idleness.  There is absolutely nothing we have to do.
Nothing at all."
     "Nothing?"
     "Nothing. Except build a fire."
     "Nothing?"  It's amazing how quickly his face goes from
sunlight to shadow.  He is looking straight at me, and
suddenly he seems ten years older.  His dark eyes hold me in
the moment.  They are urgent, speaking a language neither
one of us has ever heard before.  He takes off his glasses,
still staring.  He pulls off his sweater, then his t-shirt.
His eyes never leave me.  Off come the sneakers, the socks,
the saggy jeans, and the boxers.  He stands before me, naked
as the truth.
     "Nothing?"  He comes to me slowly.  I know this is a
prayer, a benediction.
     "Nothing?"  He puts a hand on each of his tiny nipples.
     "Nothing?  Absolutely nothing?"   He presents his
magnificent penis like an offering to the emperor.
     "Nothing?  Nothing?  Nothing?"  Then the tears come
again, and he throws his arms around me, and I pull him into
me with a tenderness so long deferred that I have no idea
what it is, except that I know it is the only thing worth
dying for.
     This boy is built close to the water, I think.  Between
sobs, he bathes me with kisses.  He seems terrified of
letting go, and when I make a move to take off my clothes,
he says No, and he starts yanking and unbuttoning and
finally tearing them himself.  "It's okay, Dalton.  I'm not
going anywhere.  We have so much to do, laddie, so much to
do."
     This time there's nothing tentative, nothing coy or
deferential.  We are two animals with fangs.  He bites and
scratches and pushes and pulls.  I try to smother him with
an endless kiss, my tongue spelunking in his larynx.  When
he takes my dick in his mouth, I feel his teeth scraping the
shaft.  I'd tell him to take it easy, but I want him to take
it hard.  He sucks up my foreskin until it puckers, then he
nibbles at it like a lunatic rabbit.  When the pain starts
to strangle the ecstasy, I try to push him away, but he
resists, and I surrender, because I have to, it is my gift.
     Up and down he goes, bobbing on my dick with cyclonic
power.  I feel the surge begin in my bowels, then clutch the
comforter as it tsunamis through my balls.  I try to warn
him, try to pull him off, but he's not having any of it, and
it all comes boiling out, and I know that he must swallow or
drown.
     His head is resting on my belly.  When he touches my
tenderized and detumescing dick, I give a little yelp.  So
he gives it one of those feel-better kisses, then starts to
giggle.
     "That was so cool, Adam.  I was like completely wack.
It was like those exorcist movies where the girl turns into
the devil, and she's saying all this evil stuff, but it's
not really her.  But now I'm me again."
     "And I'm glad, Dalton.  I don't know if my dick can
handle many more satanic attacks."
     "Yeah. I wasn't really mad, you know.  I've just never
felt like this before.  I'll be better next time, promise."
     "You were perfect."  I am stroking his hair, twirling
strands in my fingers. "If only I can be half as good.  It's
your turn, now, Dalton Myers.  It's your turn."

          Oh give me the clue! (it lurks in the night here
somewhere,)
          Oh, if I am to have so much, let me have more!

END: CHAPTER TWO.  Send any thoughts to Cojonudo52@aol.com