Date: Fri, 10 Mar 2017 08:38:32 +0000 (UTC)
From: helloj1mmy@yahoo.com
Subject: Hunter Gets His Game On 2

Hunter Gets His Game On is a work of fiction, and as with any Nifty story,
the same rules apply here as elsewhere on the site. It details a developing
adult-teen relationship. Nifty's owner would be overjoyed to receive
donations for hosting all these stories - perhaps instead of sending your
loose change or notes to support some puppy or kitten you're never going to
meet, you'd be gracious enough to support this. Cute animals have their
place; so does Hunter. Read on...

* * * * *

Some people would think that a seat down near the front of the stage and to
the left, would be a crazy way to see a play performed, with at least a
large portion of the sightline facing into the wings; but for my money, I
was in the best seat in the house: the odd angle afforded me the chance to
see audience reactions first-hand, as well as the cast itself. As the
auditorium lights dimmed and people stopped shuffling and whispering to one
another, I felt the familiar prickle of hairs on the back of my neck,
rising in anticipation of what was to come.

The red velvet curtains parted, the stage lights came up - and there was a
collective intake of breath amongst the audience, as lighting designer
Fiona's Fall colors spiraled and pirouetted in slow-motion across the
stage, with its array of burnished oranges, reds, and yellow gels, and
cookie cutter shadows cast by the gobos. Light applause scattered across
the proscenium; we were underway.

Linda's robust voice crying out 'Weeee-leeee' offstage as she heard him
come home, made my already grinning face, freeze in a spasm of joy and
delight (if there is such a thing) for tonight at least, I could die happy,
knowing the the play was off to a great start. She more than matched
Willy's crushed and much put-upon, but ever hopeful, soul of a door-to-door
salesman.

The simple, elegant set on a raised platform, was both stark, as well as
beautiful in its depiction of 1940s America. Hardback chairs (why are they
so popular in cafes, these days?), a Formica dining table, and a kitchen
that looked like it leapt out from the pages of a WW2-era catalogue, added
poignancy to the play. It also had the added weight of instant recognition
of this slice of Americana - not to mention that of the owners of various
props, sitting in the audience tonight.

Even when Biff threw the ball a little too hard and it bounced into the
orchestra pit, I still kept smiling.  Charley fluffing a line didn't throw
me off-balance, nor did a light bulb blowing during interval high in the
lighting rig. Fiona herself scrambled up the gantry to replace the hot
tube, but in her haste to reset the scene, the barn doors of the spot were
off-kilter - which she didn't find out until the next act was underway, and
the cue came up to use it. Somehow though, the wonky angle just added to
the whole of Salesman's "collapse of the good life" gambit.

After the final curtain, and my back, and red hand, stopped aching from
hearty slaps and hand-shakes of gratitude, the cast and crew - with a few
invited friends - reconvened in the upstairs rehearsal space that doubled
as a function room. The bar itself had closed well before the play
finished, but I had a key, and so did our stage manager. Before long, we
had a drink in our hands, in addition to the non- alcoholic beverages the
crew had brought with them for the opening night party. The trestle table
was also loaded with bought and homemade goodies, including pinwheels,
scones, pizzas, garlic bread, a few salads, plus three flavours of
ice-cream, one huge dessert pizza, and a couple of cheesecakes that I'm
sure were scoffed before anyone had finished their 'mains'. I guess that
"life is short. Eat dessert, first." Speaking of which, Linda had made a
giant cake for all the cast, which her besties brought to the
theatre. There, made out of fondant, was a miniaturised set of Death of A
Salesmen. I was speechless.  I thanked her over and over, and everyone
cheered, took loads of selfies with the cake in the background. I nearly
creamed myself when I found it was a dark chocolate cake recipe she'd
used. It's my second weakness, behind real coffee. (I'd add: sometimes teen
boys, but I don't see that as a weakness. Nor masturbation, either.)

We chatted about the show, of course, and made lots of silly, fun speeches
about the rehearsals, opening night, and where-to-from here. I had a few
thoughts about Amadeus later on in the year, but it was far too soon to go
casting it - I wasn't fantasising scenes in my mind already, either. I'd
learnt the hard way, about not burning out when I used to do three plays in
one year. Even two was pushing my luck, truth to tell.

There were the usual discussions about college, the state of the world,
philosophy and movies, plus who had a crush on whom in the wings or
backstage with the crew. There weren't any surprises I wasn't aware of; and
indeed, no engagements were suddenly announced. This play took a lot of
dedication to get right, and didn't leave wiggle room for love affairs, or
even horny discreet ones, that I knew of. Subject matter was doubtless part
of the reason.

Biff challenged me to an arm wrestle, and who knows why on earth I ever
agreed to take up his offer, because I'm pretty slim with fine-boned
wrists, so there's no way I could ever win at anything physical.  Riding my
bicycle, maybe. But by that point, I was half-drunk and didn't care
anyway. Provided no one set the place on fire or damaged anything, I didn't
really mind what we did. I set aside my glass of Pinot Noir, sunk down onto
the plush carpet, with one arm raised, elbow on the floor; the other tucked
by the elbow to keep it steady.

I claim that I lost - not because of my small frame lack of super strength
- but because I was laughing too hard to take the job seriously. Happy
bound his hands to mine to steady me, and it became Biff Vs James/Happy (I
call them by their cast names; it's a habit) with much drama and bending of
the rules.  We also somehow ended up in an odd version of Truth or Dare;
one of the dares actually coming from Linda, who asked Willy to strip off
to his underpants out the front lobby of the theatre, and run around the
side where he would be able to get back in through the rear stage roller
door. At first, he refused point blank. It was chilly out there - what if
we locked him outside? Keeping a dead straight face (which is nearly
impossible for me) I assured him that it would be really quick - no one
would see, anyway, since it was - I checked my watch - 1:17 am (holy fuck,
what?) so why the hell not? You only live once, etc.

Maybe because we were all egging him on to do it, he agreed. Maybe the
beers were speaking. Or perhaps deep down, he was enjoying letting his hair
down for a legitimate reason, and not bothered about parading around
outdoors in his underpants. A touch of the brave if foolhardy.

Tittering and giggling like a flock of junior school children, we scurried
downstairs; unlocked the front entrance door, and waited as Willy peeled
off all his clothing, bar his American Eagles. Linda didn't even blush when
he gave them to her, making her promise not to trick him. She promised
there and then, and making a grand exit, Willy left the theatre. The
instant he was out of sight, locked the door, took off back up the stairs
into the rehearsal room, and the stage manager zoomed backstage to lock the
roller door. Then he too, ran back to join the rest of us giggling, naughty
children, acting as though we'd pulled off the greatest prank in the
history of man.

The rehearsal room has a window which overlooks the theatre entrance, but
cannot be seen from below, due to the design of the building. It wasn't
long before we saw Willy out in the middle of the deserted street, waving
up at us, trying to get our attention. We instantly ducked out of sight,
pretending that we knew nothing of the matter.

A few of the crew suggested auctioning off Willy's clothes to the man
himself; and more than a number of jokes were made about Free
Willy. (What's the definition of male nudity?)  Someone - possibly Happy -
took pity on him, and unlocked the front door, and rounded him back up,
with Willy cursing all of us for the mean trick, but underneath, laughing
at his own audacity. Well, at least he had his underpants on - and if
that's bad, wait till you see what we have planned for closing
night. Kidding, Willy; relax dude.

Two a.m. rolled around, and it was my turn to kick everyone out - not in
their undies, of course. The night was over, doneski, and so was
I. Furthermore, I had school meetings in the morning, whereas the team had
an entire day off to rest and recover. They'd be back on for the evening
show, of course, then Sunday matinee plus night, but after that, they were
free again till Wednesday.

Everyone pitched in to clean up the waste, shutdown the entire theatre room
by room; double- checking the green room, stage, locks, doors, lights,
etc. until it was all done in a matter of minutes. I hugged everyone in the
lobby one last time, armed the surveillance system, and let myself out the
side exit fire door. Jiggled the door handle to ensure it was properly
shut, and practically stumbled into my waiting taxi.

Once home, I lost no time having a quick shower, and getting ready for
bed. Whilst my alcohol tolerance is okay, I knew better than to avoid going
to bed without consuming two glasses of water with a mild painkiller in it,
and allow Mother Nature to sort me out, during sleep. It largely prevented
dehydration in my body, 'furry' mouth; and so long as my bladder didn't
wake me, I was in for sweet dreams. Cleaned my teeth, anyway, turned my
mobile off, and unplugged the TV.

Not even bothering to turn on the salt lamp in case I needed to get up in
the middle of the night, I shed my grubby clothing by my bed, and crawled
inside it. There's something indescribable about clambering into clean,
warm bedding, and I don't what the term for that that is, but whoever
cottoned on to such a simple and profound pleasure of life, should be
knighted at the very least. Sleep was pure bliss.

I jolted awake. The use of an alarm's forbidden in my apartment; people
sometimes question how on earth I wake up in the morning. It's simple:
visualise what time you need to be awake, seeing the digits or hands of a
clock in your mind, and you will wake up at that time. Whether you get out
of bed or not, is another matter.

7:02 a.m. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and pondered why it felt like
I'd had a mere ten minutes of shuteye. Checking in with my body, nothing
felt out of place, or missing, and I didn't have a headache, either. Thank
you H2O and Ibuprofen. That thought triggered my bladder, and I threw back
the covers and made for the toilet; my erection quickly softening as I
went. I sang in the shower - one of the few places I do that, as I am very
much off-key when it comes to it. I also suck at dancing (and I can feel
that someone's waiting for me to go: 'but not penis.'
Instantrimshot.com). I dressed, checked my appointment schedule for the
day, grabbed a few mandarins and an apple to kickstart my bowel movement,
and took the bus into work.

I ate beetroot waffles at a trendy cafe near the school, and downed a
triple shot soy flat white. If that didn't give my waste system a clean
sweep, nothing would.

There were more hearty congratulations flung my direction during the school
meet - opening night had attracted some good reviews - both online, on the
radio, and in print - but more importantly, a new sponsor was coming on
board, and wanted to see me personally before the show finished, about
Amadeus, and other shows next year. There was also the strong possibility
of a scholarship being offered into the bargain, with yours truly
overseeing it. Oh, and the rest of the season was fully sold out, so
notwithstanding cancellations or unforeseen disasters, it would be a tidily
profitable play to boot. Not enough to retire on, though. That said, you'd
have to be a monkey's uncle to really screw up staging Arthur Miller.

So cast and crew were ecstatic when I gave them the news half an hour
before curtain up. I praised their work ethic again, and cautioned them to
avoid being overexcited and making mistakes onstage.  We still had nine
shows to go, and it wasn't over till the fat lady sang. Not to mention that
our mystery sponsor could be in the audience one night. They got the
point. With my blessing for the Saturday performance bestowed upon them (no
broken legs or middle of the day undies run, thank you very much) I bade
them farewell and said I would see them all again, if not for the matinee,
then for Sunday night's show. I didn't want to make a promise to attend, as
that had backfired on me in the past. Failing sticking my head through the
door backstage at the last minute, I would definitely be there in person on
Wednesday, anyhow; and of course, there were the usual class interactions
with some of them. "Piss off, James," they all chorused in unison. Taking
the hint, I fled.

The A.S.M. - whose name was Dudley - accompanied me back downstairs,
chattering away on his head set with the S.M. about when to allow the
audience entry to the auditorium, and whose turn was it to drive the show,
this afternoon? I couldn't hide my grin when I saw the box office manager
wave the 'Sold Out' sign on the counter, at me. Yes, I was chuffed that I'd
had three gold-plated shows in a row, and Mozart would surely be the
fourth, but I wasn't keen on looking too far into the distant future.
Other than a niggling hunch to do something relatively risque, for
end-of-year next year, I wouldn't succumb to the faculty's planning
committee by announcing the curriculum as far in advance as they
preferred. In this, the campus directors backed me up. "Hurry up and wait"
isn't just a film industry saying.

On the way back to my apartment, I swung by the organic store and stocked
up on fresh produce, nuts and grains, plus some snacks as well as chocolate
bars - with enough to last me through the week. I knew my fridge and pantry
were looking forlorn, but with my finger on the fast forward button over
the past fortnight, it was a wonder I'd managed to eat properly.

I set the pasta to cook, and threw together a marinara sauce with extra
tomatoes and basil. Left it to simmer and ran the bath. Sprinkled in Epsom
salts and a few drops of Rose and Sandalwood essential oils.

If there was one other pleasure besides my snug bed that I adored -aside
from time spent chilling out on the giant purple sofa - it was wallowing in
the deep claw bath, with hot water up to my neck, whilst listening to
classical music. However, for today's indulgence, I chose the very relaxing
melodies of spiritual musician Kip Mazuy, from one of his Infinity Sky
albums. As I disrobe, I remember my cellphone was still in my trouser
pocket. Mentally telling myself off for keeping it turned off all day so
far, yet secretly pleased by the lack of intrusions, I set it down,
deciding it could wait until after dinner.  Why ruin a perfect day? But
then, the notion that perhaps my would-be knight in shining armour had
touched base, got the better off me, so I switch it on. Sign in. Several
alerts download, including two from last night - last night??? how come
they weren't there, then? Stupid technology... I listen to my voice
messages - no angel sponsor on the first two - but then there were a few
breathless, brief urgent ones from Mrs. Hashimoto. My gosh. In all the
activity with the play, I'd totally forgotten about her and
Hunter. Nantucket (which is sometimes my way of saying, 'f*ck it') I may as
well see what's going on with them. I took a deep breath and rang back,
half-hoping it would go straight to an answering machine. I shucked the
rest of my clothing as I waited.

It picked up on the sixth ring. Putting on a cheery tone, I breezed:
"Mrs. Hashimoto, how are you? I'm so sorry I haven't been able to get back
to you until now. The play has kept me very busy, and today, I didn't even
have my mobile turned on until moments ago."

"James, thank you so much for ringing me," she sounded relieved. I wondered
if Hunter had indeed turned into an oni, and she was hoping I could perform
some sort of exorcism.  Although my knowledge of such techniques is very
scant when it comes to Asians. I had an inkling it wasn't that.  Shaking my
head to clear my overactive imagination, I listened carefully. "We could
not find you at all, and were worried you did not want to speak to us
again."

"Well, I'm here, now," I soothed, as I turned the bath tap off. "How can I
be of help?" At least it wasn't late at night this time.

"I don't know where to begin, James-san," she started out.

Try the beginning, I thought sarcastically.

There was the sound of water moving as I stepped into my bath. Another
pause from the other end for a moment. I could virtually see Mrs. H
blushing at intruding on my privacy. "Is Hunter okay?" I enquired.

"Yes, Hunter is fine, thank you for asking. He is here in his room, and
would like to say 'hello' if that is okay with you, because he knew I was
going to call you."

"Sure." Still I waited. It was like the proverbial blood from a
stone. "Mrs. Hashimoto?"  "It's Scooter," she spoke in a hushed tone.

"What's happened?"

"The doctors ran some tests on him, but they cannot find why he has
pneumonia --"

"Wait, what? He has - what?" I interrupted.

"They think he has pneumonia on his lungs. But he is a very healthy
boy. They want to keep him in to watch over him, and run many tests to try
to determine, but I am so worried."

"Does Richard know about all this?" That's her husband.

"Yes, he knows, but he is still at sea and not due home for three more
weeks. If it's something... if it is very serious, they may fly him back,
but not until they are completely certain."

Fair call. It's taxpayer money after all.

"I see." I played with the surface of the water. "So they will run scans on
Scooter, right?"  "Yes."

"Well then, they're bound to find out whether it really is or not, and if
so, the doctors will prescribe the right medicines and let Mother Nature do
her part, too." I didn't want to sound harsh, but I still couldn't see what
all this had to do with me.

"I know..." she went silent again.

I took a moment to think. "Is there something you're not telling me,
Mrs. Hashimoto?"

"I do not think it is pneumonia."

"Then what do you think?"

"Cancer." She whispered it so quietly, I thought it was my imagination
playing tricks.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I cannot repeat, James-san."

"You said 'cancer' though - right?"

I could hear her crying down the line. I had to brace myself to not drop my
water resistant mobile in the bath. Fuck a duck. She knew I'd been a
volunteer for Ronald McDonald House in my past, and had known many kids
with cancer, so maybe this was why she was reaching out? That and her
conversations with Richard would've been short on time, difficult to convey
over radio, and not exactly private. She needed a strong friend, maybe
another male influence and energy to steady her, and lean on where
possible.

"Mrs. H, we have to take these things one step at a time. Not rush to
conclusions." In my mind, Scooter was busy charging around doing tricks and
flips at the skatepark, maybe with some of the other kids looking on in
envy. It didn't seem right, somehow, to picture him flat on his back in
some hospital, with tubing running in every direction. "How long did they
say they will keep Scooter there, do you know?"

"Two weeks, minimum."

"Okay. So he's probably going to be back home before or just as the show
finishes. Therefore, I'm happy to pop over then, if you'd like me to do
that."

"Yes, please. I have Mama-san helping around the house, but it's hard. You
know what boys can be like."

"I completely understand." A gush of thanks followed. I politely brushed it
off. "Was there anything else, Mrs H. - my bath's getting warm," I joked.

"Oh, forgive me, I am keeping you from your rest, " she stated. "Hunter
would still like to say hello, I think. Choutto matte kudasai." Wait a
minute, please.

I could hear her carry the handset to his room. Switching my mobile to the
other hand to give my right one a moment to restore circulation from
holding it in an awkward position, I waited, pondering how some lives are
turned inside-out and upside-down so easily, in the blink of an eye.

"Gidday, James," his voice called cheerily.

I chuckled. "Gidday, mate," I answered. "How's life treating you?"

"Life is good, maaate," Hunter came back.

"Happy to hear it, kiddo. And sorry about your little brother."

"Me too," was all he said. I heard his bedroom door shut, and lock. "James,
my pee-pee--"

"Penis, Hunter. You're allowed to call it a penis. You're not three years
old, anymore."

A giggle. "My penis... is soooo hard. Every morning, almost all day,
too. It's soooo embarrassing in class, when I have to stand up and read
aloud to everyone and I am sure they can see it poking out at the front of
my trousers, and then again just as I'm ready to leave to go to the next
class, bing! there it goes again. Sometimes, when teacher not there, girls
point and laugh. Shame..."

"Sounds awful," I deadpanned.

That laugh again. Made me stir inside. "I think I got bad penis, James. I
must teach him how to behave properly. I spank him with my hand, but he
likes that."

"Mine does, too, kiddo."

"Really?" he sounded incredulous. As though an adult would've run out of
battery life for his penis by now.

"Cross my heart and hope to die," I intoned. "Although, mine doesn't
misbehave in class like yours does, Hunter. But I do masturbate him a few
times a week, and --" I suddenly broke off, wondering why I was confessing
my solo sex life to a twelve-year-old kid I didn't know intimately outside
of school. "So it's in good working order, is that what you're saying,
Hunter?"

"Yeeees... I'm so happy."

"Likewise." I took a risk and made a joke. "A boy's favourite toy and best
friend is his penis. They might not tell you that, but it's the truth."

"I know. I think he is mine, too. I think I will marry him, James."

I spluttered. "I can't see your parents agreeing to give it away to your
right hand, but I get your point."  Another titter. And semi-whispered:
"It's pointing now, James."

"So is mine, Hunter."

"Cool beans. Wish I could see that."

I laughed. "I'm sure you do, but I'm not about to flaunt it via the
internet just so you can get your rocks off."

"I would show you mine in return."

"No doubt you would."

"I got more pubes, too."

"They don't grow that quickly, mister."

"They don't?" He sounded sad.

"Nopers. Nice try, though."

"Yeah, I have to try my best."

"Hunter, no one will ever be mean to you for doing your very best."

"Thank you, James."

I suddenly smelled the pasta sauce. "Hey buddy, I'd love to talk till the
cows come home, but I gotta finish my bath and rescue my Marinara sauce
before it reduces down to a sticky mess in the pan."  "I know a sticky mess
in the pan you can leave."

Ha, ha. Never heard that one before." More sarcasm. I rose up out of the
deep bath.

"One day, I will be able to shoot for the moon," he brightly asserted,
utterly ignoring my tone of voice.

"Or Mars," I countered.

That boyish laugh again. Pure gold. "Okay, I go now and finish training my
erection. Thank you for talking with me again, James."

"Any time, mate," I replied. "Give my love to Scooter when you see him."

"I promise I will. He will be happy to hear it."

"Take care, Hunter. "

"I will. You too, James." It was starting to sound like The Waltons. I
wrapped a towel around my waist and went to rescue the sauce. Juggling
phone and towel, walking and talking at the same time, I almost missed him
say: "I love you."

Click.