Date: Wed, 11 Dec 2002 16:53:10 EST
From: Cojonudo52@aol.com
Subject: "Huge": Chapter 3

Felicitations:

I'm attaching Chapter 3 of my ongoing story. Each time, the submission
process gets a little easier. Thanks, invisible publisher: this has
really been a great ride so far.


Note:  I think I've raised the temperature a notch.  At
least my fingers were hot on the keyboard.  This chapter may
actually be hot enough that I should once again caution
schoolboys and prelates against it (which is not to say it
doesn't teach a valuable lesson).  New readers:  I would
love to hear from you; I am pretty good at responding to
responses.  Old fans: your valentines are the reason there
is a Chapter 3 and there will be, after the New Year, a
Chapter 4.  Thank you all very much.


                 Huge: A Romance (Chapter 3)


     The wood is tinder-dry, and a big, bright fire quickly
blazes.  I pause for a second to let it warm my naked body,
watching my distorted shadow dance on the walls and ceiling.
All the while, he is staring at me, silently.  Once again,
we're in that place beyond words, that hollow between what
just happened and what might be.
     He is lying on top of the bed, propped up by the big
pillows, hands clasped behind his head.  My odalisque, my
shame and my delight.  It's time to make good on a promise.
     "Let me study you," I say - mostly to myself.  "Let me
catalogue your virtues."
     "What?"
     "I said: you're beautiful."
     "No you didn't.  You said something about a catalogue."
     "I'm an English teacher, Dalton.  I like to dress up my
sentences before I take them out to play."
     "Oh."
     "Dalton, I want you to lie still for a minute.  Let me
devour you with my eyes."
     "I guess."  He looks puzzled, but he's game.  For the
first time in his life, I realize, he feels like he belongs
to himself, in his own pale skin.  For the first time, he
wants a mirror; he wants to join Narcissus at the edge of
the pool.
     His narrow face is scarcely big enough to hold its
features.  His eyes are widely spaced, huge, deep, and
darker than night; his nose has nowhere to hide; and his
lips, bee-stung and nearly purple, are half-joke, half-
Jagger, and completely lewd.  This is not a face for the
faint of spirit.  It makes demands.  It is not a friendly
face at first or even second glance; it almost dares you to
look away.  With all its planes and hollows, it is a
moonscape full of secrets.  I love it for all it does not
tell me.  I love it for being uniquely his.
     "Are you still hungry?"  I also love the way he laughs
when he knows he's being clever.
     "Patience, little man, I'm still snackin'."  And once
again I am startled by the contrast between his pretty-girl
eyelashes and the unruly mess of black boy-hair on his head.
     We live in a steroidal culture.  The boys at Carswell
spend long hours in a million dollar weight room working
their way systematically through a gauntlet of devices that
would make an Inquisitor blush.  They tell me it's for the
girls, but I know better.  It's for the mirror, really.
Ripped, they say.  Jacked.  Cut. Tooled. Chiseled.  The boys
want to be machines.  Machines can't be hurt.  You don't
mess with a machine.
     Then there's Dalton.  He seems to be made of porcelain,
his skin so white that it looks forever cold, even though,
stroking it now, I can feel the heat radiating from within.
He'd hate it, but the only word that comes to mind as I
trace circles on his nipples, is delicate.  The other boys
are freight.  My Dalton is precious cargo.  I plant a kiss
on his navel, that funny little bud through which his mother
once nourished him - with cold and bitter fetal gruel.
     "I know. I've always been a twig," he tells me, as if
reading my thoughts.  "I mean, I eat and all, but I guess it
doesn't stick."
     "I'll say it again: you're beautiful.  Case closed."
     "Philip Lanham is beautiful.  Johnny Blake is
beautiful.  Javier and Francisco, they're beautiful."
     "Maybe.  But I've never wanted to study them.  I've
never given a moment's thought to cataloguing their virtues.
Get used to it.  It's you, Dalton.  It's you and only you I
want, I need - only you I'd die happily for today. I would
not be here in Bethel, Vermont, at the Walden Lodge, Cabin
Ten, with anyone else.  So there.  Now, if you'll excuse me,
I'm not finished with my inventory just yet."
     His dick is limp, clearly uninspired by my oath of
fealty.  It lies across his left thigh like a tuber, playing
possum.  I lift it, weigh it in my open palm, jiggle it
until it begins to swell into something for which even the
heartiest pornographer does not have an epithet.  It
transcends metaphor.  All I can do is whistle.  Dalton
starts to squirm again.
     "May the Good Lord preserve you," I pronounce.
     "You like it, don't you?"
     "I like all of you - I thought we were good with that."
     "It's okay, Adam.  I know it's huge. And it's not
getting any smaller."
     No it certainly isn't, I think.  Then I'm down on it
again, performing every oral trick I know, stretching my
mouth around all but the last totem on the magnificent pole,
letting him bang the back of my throat, urging him way
beyond my gag reflex, trying not, in my zeal, to forget to
breathe.  I bring him as close as I can to another eruption,
but this time I pull back, squeezing the base of his cock to
stifle the impending orgasm.  Then, as if it could talk
back, I kiss the hooded tip, swirl my stiffened tongue
inside the skin to cleanse it of pre-cum, and say, aloud, I
think: "not just yet, my friend."
     "Don't stop, Adam, please!  You're killing me!"
     "Au contraire, sweet prince.  I'm going to let you live
- as you've never lived before."
     "Adam.  I was so ready.  Why did you stop on me?"
     "Because I have other plans. I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep."
     "Damn, Adam.  You're confusing me.  You're messing with
my head."
     "Sorry, laddie.  I guess I am."
     At this point, I roll myself off the bed and hop over
to my overnight bag.  My just-in-case bag, into which I've
secreted the accessories of love.  Dalton looks at me as if
I'm crazy, gesticulating wildly, his enormous boner still
flopping around like a sunfish on a hook.
     "What are you doing?  Goddamn it."  He's shouting now.
I'm glad we're all the way back in Cabin Ten.  Then, love-
kit in hand, I get back in bed.  I pin his arms to the
headboard, not violently, but forcefully, and look him
squarely in the eye.
     "I'm going to give myself to you."
     "What do you mean?"  He's whispering now, and I think
he's starting to figure out where this is going.
     "I mean, I want you to fuck me, Dalton.  I want to have
you inside me.  It's my gift.  My gift to the boy I love."
     "Are you sure?  Adam.  Are you sure?"
     "I've never been surer."
     "How?"  It's the important question, of course.
     "With great difficulty, amigo mio.  With great
difficulty."  He is too shocked to say anything, but he
hears me laughing, and he knows somehow that we'll find a
way.



     I can romanticize just about anything: the homeless vet
who cadges quarters on Highland Avenue (who is in fact mad
and dangerous and filthy); an Ipswich sunset (whose deepest
colors reflect the nuclear dust from nearby Portsmouth); the
strange, effusive excuses of my Carswell juniors (playing me
for the sucker that I am).
     I cannot, however, romanticize anal sex.  It hurt 21
years ago when my American Literature professor at Brown
deconstructed me after a night of wine and poetry.  It hurt
three years later, when, drunker still, I let the Spanish
boy who followed me to my pension fill me full of quixotic
seed.  It has hurt every time since - so much so that I have
come close to swearing it off forever.  Then, after years of
anal abstinence, I'll drink a little too much, get a little
crazy, feel an emptiness in my nether places, and let myself
be taken by the silver fox with the hungry eye and the
Lifestyles Vibra-Ribbed in his wallet.
     But now, with Dalton, I am sober and clear-headed.  I
have thrown a couple more logs on the fire.  The room is
suffused with heat, both erotic and molecular, but my
determination to take him to the temple is hard and cold.
     He doesn't really know what to do.  And why should he?
Of all the myths that fuel our pornographic tales, none is
more ridiculous than the notion that fucking is raw animal
instinct.  What we are trying to do now is Science, Art,
Math - even gymnastics.  It needs a teacher; it needs
patience; and it needs love.  And, truth be told, it needs
anaesthesia.
     I've got my boy slathered in lube, some slick stuff
cleverly named Astroglide.  I've had him working in one, two
three fingers coated with Anal-Eze.  He is tentative in his
groping, but I assure him it's all part of the plan.  All
the while, I am talking to him, purring like a cartoon cat,
kissing him into urgency, myself into submission.  I tell
him that it stretches - though this is not true; I joke
about the prostate, that hazelnut of ecstasy Bad Ol' Mother
Nature tucked away where the postman never visits.  Just
another classroom, I tell myself.
     I slide myself down to the end of the bed.  I slip one
of the throw pillows under my ass, and pull my legs back
over my shoulders.  My asshole, minty and medicated, is
aimed directly at the fire.  Dalton watches and waits.
     "Now, baby, come around here.  It's time."  Then he is
standing before me, his back to the blazing fire.  I have
never before beheld anything quite so lovely.  I am moved.
"Now, baby.  Easy.  Slowly, like I told you."  He is still
disbelieving; I can see it in his eyes.  He doesn't want to
hurt me, but he wants to be inside me. He hesitates with his
magnificent and beautiful penis a few inches from purgatory.
     "It's okay.  I'm ready.  Fuck me, Dalton."  The giant
is at the door.  I feel him knocking.  "Push, baby.  I'm
ready."  The always-hooded glans crosses the threshold.  I
grab it with my rectal vacuum.  "A little more."  In that
curious paradox that is fucking, the more I push out, the
deeper he is pulled in.  I'm seeing stars.  I feel like I'm
being ripped open.  My hands are full of mattress.  In my
delirium, I suddenly know what it's like to give birth, to
bring life into the world.
     It hurts.  Terribly.  But the only thing he hears from
me is, "yes, Dalton, yes."  Then, I cannot take any more.
He is about two-thirds in, maybe seven or eight inches.
"Enough, baby," I groan.  "Now easy does it, back and forth,
back and forth."  I'm watching the sparks fly from the
kindling - or is it the super-nova that precedes death?  And
sure enough, just as I am about to scream for mercy, I start
to relax.  I start to breathe again.  And Dalton is feeling
more secure, I can tell, because he is thrusting, and his
well-oiled dick travels half its length up and down the
welcoming canal.  He is making funny little noises, and
these are comforting, too, and miraculously, I find myself
laughing up at him, urging him on and on, calling him sweet
prince, and little man, and every blandishment and
diminutive I can conceive, punctuating his rhythm and my
caresses with a litany of "oh fucks," until, until, I
understand better than any poet why men will always die for
love.
     "Ah," he says.  "Aaaaah."
     "Oh," I answer.  "Yes."
     "Aaaaah, Adam, Adam, Adam."
     "Oh, yes, darling boy.  Yes."
     Then - and somehow he understands that this is how it's
done - he pulls out, and I lie flat, and he cums all over my
belly, six or seven molten blasts.  I grab hold of his cock,
squeeze out a few more droplets, then take the tip into my
mouth, and tongue him clean of semen and lubricant and sweet
bodily fluids.  The paroxysms continue long after he is
spent; then, again, he starts to cry.  And here I was
thinking that I had drained him.
     "Hey, Dalton.  Don't worry.  It's not over.  It's just
beginning."


     Cabin Ten has a big, freestanding tub.  I've drawn a
hot bath to salve my wounded ass.  I won't tell the boy, but
I know there is blood.  He's withdrawn again, pulled into
himself in the by-now-familiar fetal ball.  It's his way of
hiding from himself.  Another wave of guilt surges through
me.
     I slide into the tub up to my chest.  I close my eyes,
and let the scalding heat work its magic.  When I open them
again, he is standing beside the tub, looking for all the
world like a thumb-sucking four-year old waiting for his
daddy to wake up.
     "Can I get in?" he asks.
     I need to be by myself for a few minutes, but I say,
"the more the merrier.  Henry would be pleased that we are
conserving water."
     He eases himself into the hot water.  He's so skinny
that he fits comfortably.  He faces me, wraps his spindly
legs around my back.  For an instant, I feel his cock slap
against me.
     "Who's Henry?"
     "The owner of this place."
     "I figured as much.  But who is he to you?  I mean,
we're not here by accident."
     "He's an old friend."
     "Yeah.  How old?"
     "Dalton, he was my history teacher at St. Vincent's in
Mystic, where I grew up."
     "What's he doing here?"
     "It's a long story."
     "Tell me."
     "It's not really my place to tell."
     "Is he gay, too?"  Suddenly, the tub has gotten really
small.  My little man has a touch of the cross-examining
attorney in him.
     "Yes."  It's the best I can do.
     "Did you fuck him?  Like I fucked you?"  I ask myself
where this is coming from, but it is a most disingenuous
question.
     "Dalton.  He wasn't Henry then.  He was Mr. Theriot.
He taught me about the Civil War.  He liked my essays."
     "Yeah.  So how much did he like your essays, Mr.
Hendricks?"
     My asshole is on fire.  The pain is returning.  I think
I'm sweating.  "Enough to give me A's.  Enough to tell me
before he left St. Vincent's."
     "You didn't fuck him?"
     "I did not.  I could not."
     "Not like me, huh?"
     "No. No."  The bath is suddenly 20 degrees colder.
"No, please, Dalton.  Take it easy on me."
     "Hey.  I understand.  You weren't a freak faggot like
me.  Yet."  I don't think I deserve this, but then maybe
it's what I've needed all along.
     "No, little man, that's not why.  Now look at me!  And
listen.  I'm going to say this once, as clearly and honestly
as I can."
     "Hey. Not on my account Mr. Hendricks."
     "Please shut up, Dalton.  For twenty seconds."  I have
grabbed his skinny arms and am pulling him toward me.  He is
shocked, but unafraid.
     "Okay.  Whatever."
     "Dalton, Mr. Theriot - Henry - did not love me.  Get
it?  He did not love me. He was just a teacher.  I love you,
little man.  I love you desperately.  That is the
difference."
     He melts into me, lets me wrap my arms around him and
pull him against my chest.  All I can think of is the Pieta,
only this one is in the bathtub, and my boy is alive, and
God the Father must be looking away.
     "Never mind.  Never you mind."  I rock him in my arms,
unsure of who I am or what I'm doing, but more certain than
ever that the boy will be part of it, part of me.

          When such as I cast out remorse
          So great a sweetness flows into the breast
          We must laugh and we must sing,
          We are blest by everything,
          Everything we look upon is blest.


END: "Huge" (Chapter 3)

Once again, I welcome any observations from my readers.