Date: Thu, 07 Feb 2008 09:21:34 -0500
From: carl_mason@verizon.net.
Subject: JAMIE WRESTON - 10

JAMIE WRESTON - 10


Copyright 2008 by Carl Mason

All rights reserved.  Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal
enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without
the written permission of the author.  However based on real events and
places, "Jamie Wreston" is strictly fictional.  Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.  As
in real life, sexual themes unfold gradually.  Comments on the story are
appreciated and may be addressed to the author at carl_mason@verizon.net

If you would like to read additional stories by this author, please turn to
the "Authors/Prolific Authors" link at the beginning of the Nifty Archive.

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both
adults and teenagers.  As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the
personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults.  If you are not of
legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you
trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral
dilemmas in your life, please leave.  Finally, remember that maturity
generally demands safe sex.


CHAPTER 10

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please note that my e-mail address for comments, questions,
etc.  has changed.  The correct address is: carl_mason@verizon.net )

(Revisiting Chapter 9)

"Doesn't that strike you as something of a dead end?" the redheaded one
persisted.  "I'd always kinda wanted to be a doctor where there was a
future," he added.  Andy was blunt.  "That's not part of the benefits of
this position," he said firmly.  "I doubt that either of us could ever make
enough money to pay for an education even if we banked every penny we
earned - and who can do that?  Our capital is our bodies."  Jamie continued
to mumble to himself: "I've heard so many stories about these positions not
working out - and I've seen a few situations myself.  It has to be rare
where one of us feels he's a member of a family."  "That's right on target,
Red," Andy said as he reached up and turned out his reading light, "but in
this life, a guy pays his money and takes his choice.  No use crying when
the choice doesn't work out.  Just learn from it."

For a good hour, Jamie lay quietly next to Andy in the darkened bedroom.
Andy was right.  There wasn't any use crying when a choice didn't work out.
But how mature, how intelligent were the choices he was making?

(Concluding Our Story: New York, New York)

Though he was getting on in years, Ned Tyone, one of the younger "Old
Gays", was still active in Lower Manhattan.  His art gallery in SoHo, for
instance, was highly regarded.  He and Andy had been friends since Andy was
an orphaned twelve year old adrift in a big city.  In fact, it was Andy who
brought his conversation with Jamie to his attention.  Having grown up on
the Lower East Side, he knew quite a bit about "dead-end" jobs, as well as
the deadening effect of jobs that failed to challenge the individual.  So
Andy had a thing for the boy?  Well, he was gorgeous, and everyone said he
was bright as hell.  Good enough reasons for seeing if he could help...

Jamie was actually quite excited when he received an invitation to the
opening night of an exhibition of Bryce Milbach's recent photography at the
Edmund Tyone Gallery in SoHo.  He hadn't been to a gallery since his mother
took him to several exhibitions in Portland.  He arrived to find a
well-dressed gathering of men and women who were occasionally glancing at
some superb photographs taken in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains of southern
Colorado and northern New Mexico, sipping that which several people called
an "adequate" sparkling wine from Australia, and chattering away like
magpies.  Too bad, he thought.  The photographs really excited him.  In
fact, he was examining his favorite from several different angles when a
distinguished looking man introduced himself as Ned Tyone.  After a short
conversation, Tyone introduced him to the artist and excused himself as
they talked animatedly.

The redhead was even more excited when he received an invitation from Tyone
to join him at the gallery on Wednesday before going to lunch.  How in the
world did he know him?  Lunch in a small, trendy restaurant nearby was a
delight.  When he discovered that Mr. Tyone knew Andy, many of his
questions were answered.  His genial host commented that he had heard that
Dr. Foster was failing.  "Sad," he said sincerely, for he is one of the
great men of the Village.  I did enjoy his antics at our recent club
meeting."  Observing Jamie's blushes, he said not to be concerned.  "Sex is
the salvation of the soul," he said, "and he who excites it is a saint."
He had also heard that Jamie would like to work towards being a medical
doctor.  Perhaps he might be of assistance.  If, say, he were to support
Jamie's education - from finishing high school through medical school -
would the young man possibly be willing to come and live with
him...naturally after his obligation to Dr. Foster had been completed?  He
had always tried to support transcendent quality in anything when
discovered, were it in the arts...or human beings.  Naturally, there were
some requirements.  At his stage in life - and Jamie's, he hastened to add
with a smile - an "open relationship" seemed...appropriate.  At that time,
he had several young artists in his gallery "family" who always needed
exciting models.  He would expect the redhead to model for them, as well as
"to do more", as he delicately put it, for those who needed his support. In
return he would want for nothing.  Even if he decided not to continue his
medical studies, he would have an executive position in his organization.
That, he noted quietly, meant a (very) good life in the greatest city in
the world.  As he delicately touched the napkin to his lips, he asked only
that Jamie let him know of his decision as soon as possible.

Just before his birthday, the news that Dr. Foster would recover from his
second (or was it his third?) major medical crisis only complicated things.
He sent a proper note to Edmund Tyone in which he declined his "kind and
most generous" offer.  Shortly thereafter, he gave Dr. F notice.
Privately, he told himself that his service as a glorified "rent boy" was
over.  He had run away from every serious challenge in his life, behaving
like a scared, red-haired little rabbit!  It was time for him to take
charge of his life, at least to the point of setting its direction.  No
longer would he trade himself for a scrap of temporary security!  For
survival, maybe; for security, no way!  Nor did he want his life to be
simply about getting what he needed for himself.  Wherever he was - in the
Chesapeake Country, in Oregon...wherever - he intended to put more focus on
what he could give others, especially those whom he loved.

Before he left, Dr. F made it entirely clear that he was willing for Jamie
to come back "if things didn't work out."  Jamie thanked him warmly, but
said simply that it was probably time for him to get his own life together,
no matter how long it took.  He just hoped his dad might be interested in
working on it with him.  If he wasn't, he might go back to Oregon.  He had
family friends there - and Portland had always been a pretty "gay-
friendly" town.  The boy hugged and kissed the good man before leaving.  It
was almost as hard as saying good bye to Andy.  The night before, after he
had danced erotically for him in the flickering light from the great
library fireplace, the old man had pressed an envelope on him.  Inside, in
addition to an extremely generous final check, he found a round-trip ticket
from Penn Station, New York, to Penn Station, Baltimore.  He would travel
business-class on the Acela Express, Amtrak's super train in the Northeast
Corridor.  Leaving at 8:00 a.m., he would arrive in Baltimore at 10:10 a.m.
That would give him time to store any luggage in a locker before Matt
arrived.  After they had talked, he would take whatever next steps were
necessary.  All too soon, the taxi arrived.

(Anne's Harbor, Maryland)

Back in Anne's Harbor, the long freeze on action had begun to break up.
After nearly five months, for instance, Dylan Smith came to Matt.  Jamie,
he said, had gone to New York City "to stay with all the other losers and
queers".  "Dylan!  Why on earth have you waited so long to give me a lead
on what's happened to my son?" Matt asked...with an edge to his voice.  "I
know, sir," Dylan answered.  "It was the wrong thing to do.  At the time I
felt that if he really wanted to turn his back on everything you had
offered him, then it was kinda his choice.  Also, I promised him that I
wouldn't say anything."  His voice tailed off as he mumbled, "And there
were other things.  As I said, though, I goofed - and I'll do anything I
can to make it up to the two of you."  For instance, I have quite a few
friends in the city who could help look for him."  Having begun to work a
peck of guilt out of his system, Dylan turned and fled.

Matt picked up the phone, hesitated, and then dialed the Naval Academy.

"Dr. Richards!  Matt Wreston here."  (Pause.)  "Yes, it's great to be
speaking with you, too."  (Pause.)  "Truthfully, sir, I don't know whether
you can do anything for me or not.  It appears my son is in the New York
City area."  (Pause.)  "Yes, it one of the most horrible things that can
happen to a parent.  Still...we can both imagine at least one other that's
worse."  (Pause.)  "I still face the task if seeing if he can be located in
the lower part of Manhattan.  Is there any possibility that the Academy
might give me some help, however limited?  You have some midshipmen who
come from Manhattan, for example.  Money's not a particular problem; feet
on the pavement are.  Perhaps a couple of weekends?"  (Pause.)  "Thanks for
your kind words, Commander, but I assure you that we didn't help Mr. Baker
with any expectation of a quid pro quo.  Further, I am well aware of the
sensitive nature of my request.  That article by the Baltimore
reporter...what was his name?"  (Pause.)  "Yes - and then there was the
scandal itself that was so heavily publicized throughout the region."
(Pause.)  "So Robby is the Brigade Lt. Commander this term!  Fantastic!
I'm glad the mess didn't hurt him.  And Jeb Burns?"  (Pause. Laugh.) "I
guess that Third Classmen don't get their noses out of their books all that
often under any circumstances."  (Pause.)  I appreciate your willingness to
see what can be done, Dr. Richards.  Don't worry about that, sir.  I know
every organization has its own path for decision making.  I look forward to
speaking with you again.  If you need any further information - or if my
coming across the Bridge to plead my case would help..."  (Pause.)  "My
pleasure, sir.  Thanks again.  (Pause.)  Good day."

Matt was at his desk when the phone rang on the morrow.  "Hello, Wreston
here!" he answered.  (Silence.)  "Hi, Dad," an anxious young voice had
said.  (Pause.)  "Given the way I've treated you, I guess I'm one of the
last people you'd want to speak with."  (Pause.)  "No, no, Jamie," Matt
replied as calmly as possible as his heart threatened to careen out of
control. "You're my son, and I'm your father.  Nothing could change that.
I love you as much as when we first came home together.  When two people
love each other that much, there's no wrong that can't be made right.  Now,
what's on your mind, son?"

"Dad, I'd like to talk with you face-to-face," the young voice said firmly.
Would you be willing to meet me at the railroad station in...Baltimore?"
"I learned only yesterday that you're probably in New York, son," Matt
replied.  "Would you prefer me to come up there - or, maybe, to just come
on down here to Anne's Harbor?"  "No, Dad...Penn Station in Baltimore next
Tuesday at eleven would be fine.  If I remember correctly, you have no
classes on Tuesday, right?"  "An evening seminar this term, Jamie," Matt
responded, "but nothing during the day.  You should know that I'd come to
the moon or beyond if that were necessary."  He caught himself.  'Go easy!
It's not the time to press, you idiot!' he thought.  Quickly, he repeated,
"Ok, Penn Station in Baltimore at 11:00 on Tuesday, it is."  Matt thought
he heard some sniffling in the background, but Jamie managed to mumble,
"Bye" without breaking down.  Matt Wreston listened to the buzz of a broken
connection with wonder in his heart and tears in his own eyes.

(Baltimore, Maryland)

Jamie had no sooner stored his cases and downed a cup of coffee when Matt
literally ran into the station.  They stood for a moment facing each other,
about a foot apart, somewhat embarrassed, wondering what in hell to do.
Then each man simply threw himself into the arms of the other, finding it
impossible to hold back the tears as they slumped down onto a bench.  As a
matter of fact, Jamie carried on so that a policeman came over.  Ever the
historian, Matt looked up at him with a dazed look in his eyes and
spontaneously paraphrased a verse from an ancient story: "This is my son,
officer," he said.  "He was dead, but now he lives; he was lost, but now
he's found" (Luke 15:11- 32).  The poor cop looked at the redhead for
confirmation and then turned away in confusion.  Lawdy!  He thought he'd
collared another pervert.

"You still believe in me after all this?" the redheaded one asked
hesitatingly.  "Yes," Matt answered.  "There was the tragedy in your
family, the abrupt move from one coast to the other, and new friends...so
much to endure in your twelfth and early thirteenth years.  When I was
finally sure that you were also having to adjust to being gay, in addition
to getting into adolescence, I suspected that it was only a matter of time
before there would be one hell of a tremor!  It would be a rare human being
who could take that kind of pressure without his life showing some serious
cracks.  I know I'm not one of them."  "Man," Jamie groaned, "that makes
two of us.  I sure crashed!"  "Yeah, you did," Matt agreed, "but the
important thing now is what we can do about it.  (Pause.)  Maybe I
shouldn't have said 'we', Red.  It's up to you, but I hope that you will
let me work alongside you...as a fellow adult...one for whom you are the
light of his life.  It's pretty apparent from your eyes, your speech...your
body that you've done a lot of growing...a lot of maturing.  I only wish it
hadn't taken me so long to figure out that you were gay.  When I did, it
was too late to save you from a lot of hurt.  Rather than concentrating on
you, I guess I was thinking about how I should react to you.  Being both
your father and a gay man creates some confusions, you know."  (Pause.)
"I'm sorry, son.  You wanted to talk with me - and, as usual, I've been
doing too much of the talking."

"Yeah, Dad," Jamie sucked in his breath.  "We've covered some it," he
giggled as he thought back to the poor, confused cop, "but let me ask a few
questions and say a few things.  First, I know now that the way I threw
Craig Bristol in your face was just plain...  wrong.  Good people just
don't treat others they love that way.  Will you please accept my apology?"
"The short answer, Red, is 'Yes,' although I need to say a few things later
about the way I suddenly backed off from my support.  You faced a life
emergency.  If I loved you as I claimed to love you, shouldn't I have taken
a semester's leave from the College and fulfilled my responsibilities?"
"Later, Dad," Jamie breathed and continued.  "I find it pretty hard to live
with the scandal I caused...the damage, for example, that I caused you at
work.  Will you forgive me?"  "In my book, you can't possibly be held
responsible for all of that," Matt replied.  "Quite a few people were
involved.  For your part?  Yes, son.  I forgave you for that a long time
ago."  Jamie continued his litany resolutely. "I took a wrong turn and have
made some real progress in screwing up my life.  Will you help me get
things straightened out again?"  "The short answer is 'Yes'," Matt
said...and fell silent.  (A Longer Pause.)  "I'm gay, Dad.  I know some
things I didn't know five months ago, but I also know I still have one hell
of a lot to learn.  May I have your help?"  By way of an answer, an answer
that his son's body language confirmed was accepted, Matt simply leaned
over and kissed him lovingly on his cheek. Fingertips on the spot where his
dad had kissed him, his voice wavering...on the very edge of breaking, the
boy almost whispered, "Uncle Matt, I so want to be your son."  (Pause.)
"Do I still have a chance?"  "You already ARE my son, you idiot!" his
father growled low. "The important things aren't covered by a piece of
paper, Still, I'll begin adoption proceedings immediately if that's ok with
you."  At that point, the tears simply cascaded down the young man's face.
After a moment or two, the shaken but still imposing fifteen year old
reached over, put his hand on Matt Wreston's arm and, with the deepest
sigh, choked out, "Dad, I want to come home.  Given the mess I've made, I
don't quite see how I can, but I want to so bad.  I don't want to run from
things in my life any more - and I sure want to grow up and make you proud
of me!  I love you.  Can you just love me, give me another chance, and let
me come home with you?"  Matt stood, helped Jamie to his feet, brushed a
dark red curl away from his eyes, and put his hands on the youngster's
heavy shoulders.  Looking deeply into those sparkling blue eyes, he
growled, "I'll love you till the day I die, you crazy cowpoke.  Maybe
longer than that...  Collect anything you brought with you and let's get
out of here!  We've got work to do!"


                             		THE END


AFTERWORD: One of the more common themes in Nifty is the family that exiles
a child because he is gay.  Given the extreme cruelty and/or a
reprehensible lack of knowledge about the long-term effects upon the
youngster, one wonders if such behavior shouldn't trigger massive social
intervention.  We all have to get through adolescence, which, after all,
isn't the easiest task in the world.  Additionally, many children suffer
from various traumas in their background...the father killed in war or
absent due to divorce, the sudden move from one part of the country to
another that rips the teenager from much of his support base.  If to all of
this we add insensitivity to the fact that the teen is also having to
adjust to being gay, one wonders how anything less than a major catastrophe
can be expected.  How many children are doomed to go through life horribly
scarred when they could have been saved with prompt social action?
Orphanages?  Group homes?  Even foster care without ancillary psychological
support?  No, that's not quite what I am talking about.  I suspect that a
far greater social commitment of resources would be necessary to provide a
significant population with needed support, support quite different from
merely sweeping it out of sight.  Further, it surely can't be supported if
the society lacks the will and the tools with which to identify incipient
homosexuality.  Let's face it: The catastrophe about which I have been
speaking - and illustrating in "Jamie Wreston" - is, more often than not,
hidden by the constraints placed upon the teenager by society.  Hence, the
explosion doesn't normally come until these constraints are removed or at
least lessened late in adolescence - if, that is, a predator...or mere
chance...doesn't intervene in the meantime.  Is such an outcome inevitable?
No, of course not.  The point here is that it is all too common.

We also commonly read in Nifty about the gay man who "falls heir" to one or
more gay children.  Commonly, great respect is shown by many authors to
those men who refuse to have anything to do with their wards sexually.  Is
there not, however, a difference between "using" them and "nurturing" them?
In this homophobic world, doesn't the gay father have as great a
responsibility to teach his gay son/ward (who is developmentally ready for
a given lesson) the rudiments of sex as he does the rudiments of courtesy
or fishing?  Must he stand aside and simply hope that the boy will
magically find someone of his own age with whom to experiment?  Is any
deeper involvement to be labeled "immoral", "incest", or the like?  In the
past, I have usually agreed with the majority.  Despite my continuing
opposition to unrestricted man-boy sex, I increasingly wonder if we should
condemn the "Matt Wrestons" of this world who attempt to nurture their own.

Carl Mason
January 24, 2008