Date: Thu, 1 Jan 1998 16:03:35 -0600
From: Feather Touch
Subject: Jimmy & Frogger Part 2

Please see disclaimers in Part 1.  Not intended for immature audiences.

Jimmy and Frogger, Part 2. (45K)


In a world of malls, sex rules.  Paul didn't know where that little gem had
popped in from, but he was looking for any port in a moral storm.  It was
one thing to talk, but when it came to pulling down the boy's underpants,
that was different.  He stared into Jimmy's eyes for long moments.  He was
literate; whip smart, all the way to eighty eight (but what kind of
schools?).  In the scant hours since he'd come bursting in is as Frogger
he'd sloughed five coats of nonsense, and was down to a towel.  Jimmy
looked back.  Paul saw a gleam of yellow.  Fortunately he wasn't stoned and
so was not sidetracked by the possibility of jaundice; recognized only the
howling yellow terror placidly named Chevrolet.  Fortune in boy's eyes?
Speed?  They'd have to cover that soon enough.  Malls, sniffs, pills and
phallic television.  There were a lot of things to ask Master O'Rourke
about.  And before anything exciting happened.

"Jimmy, do you smoke?"  The boy shook his head.  Paul explained to him how
easy it was to start; that a single puff would set off little sparklers,
yet nothing more.  Like holding your breath too long or getting a little
dizzy.  No big deal -- at all -- and therein was the devious trap.  No big
deal, so what's the harm in another puff, cigarette, pack, carton, case,
truckload?  "More than anything," he continued his lecture, "It's the
money.  The endless hundred dollar bills.  Cigs cost almost fifty dollar a
carton in New York; buying them by the carton.  Five dollars a pack is
twenty-five cents, per.  Huge.  Dig?"

"Yes," Jimmy replied.  "Pot's okay," the logic may not have been perfect
but the sentiment was sincere, "But alcohol is not.  Dig."  Jimmy knew he
had not missed a hardness to those eyes, and it was there now.  "It's for
my own good?" He asked, letting a little brightness into his eyes.  "That's
the selfish way to look at it and I guess we must be twins because I look
at it the same way.  A healthy, happy non-addicted Jimmy O'Rourke is the
only Jimmy O'Rourke a man would lend his car to.  After all, being eleven
years old is hardly much of a starting point, so I hope you don't feel I'm
being overly fierce."  That was sobering thought for the boy.  He had never
even been tempted by baccy or booze, but the marijuana did sound
interesting.  Of course Paul was pretty much a working definition of
interesting so the boy began to make a practiced effort to take it in
stride.  He let his twins gaze away, not having to hide a thing from Paul.
It was fabulous that he cared, but, then again, he wouldn't have looked
half bad holding a flute of champagne.

"Do you think I'll get in trouble with the car?" Jimmy asked.  Was he
trying to distract himself from what was about to happen.  He didn't know.
He wanted it just as much as he had with Jeremy, but this was it.  This is
the part he would remember.  Getting a little bit inside each others skins,
not in a forced way, but at least a little bit slowly and along some line
of common interest.  He had a boy brain, so line became lines and they
stretched thick and black from his imaginary feet to a yellow dot
disappearing from sight.  His imagination was so acute he even noted the
notches that indicated the first, second, third and fourth shift points.
The final one, he realize, would be out of sight from his vantage point
because it would have been laid down nearly a quarter-mile away.  This
thought process took eleven seconds.  With Paul so close Jimmy considered
the length of the diversion almost miraculous.  Enough intervention!  "Do
you know how we were talking about words?" he asked Paul.

"Yeah?"  "Well, sometimes Jeremy and I didn't use any words.  The walls in
this house are really thin.  My bedroom's right next to my parents.  They
lie in bed at night worrying.  We couldn't use any words, or make any sound
at all."

"I hope there were exceptions to that rule," Paul said, causing Jimmy to
giggle and blush.  "Yes," the boy acknowledged, "But they were hardly an
improvement.  "Did you signal each other by touching?" a young Batman asked
his growth-spurt Robin.  "We didn't have to.  Or, I guess it was all
signals."  The long-legged elf giggled again.  He was a bit of something.
Since both the young males were headed to the same destination there was
ample time for diversions and doing it right, the first time.  "Did Jeremy
teach you about diseases; I mean you mentioned it but I'd like to know."

Jimmy giggled.  "He taught me to use a condom.  He had to do that on one or
our silent nights."  The boy suddenly lunged beyond his giggle mode and
began to quake.  He made a mature effort to control himself; maintain a
semblance of the dignity appropriate to an eleven-year-old only child.  He
lost dramatically and as a loser practically split in a screaming fit of
laughter..  He shrieked, howled, bayed and shook like he would break.  It
took over a minute and numerous false starts before he was able to connect
his wicked brain with his dancing tongue.  "We had white Christmas three
times before I got it on right," he choked, and was back to his happy
howling.

"That ought to keep any autism at bay," Paul mused as he watched the
shuddering boy.  Strange thing that; in younger kids, autism was caused by
too much communication.  Babbling parents and especially endless
threat-and-count, I'm not understanding you cycles, with nothing to back
them up leading to a complete and permanent void in any understanding..  In
older children, the sickness expressed itself in a morose, lackadaisical
lethargy of speech; deliberate and extended.  By this time, the parents had
talked themselves way out of the loop and had nothing to add.  Paul was
pleased to see the boy communicating modestly but fully.  If he was a bit
of enthusiastic over his sophomoric foray into the world of side splitting
humor, well, there were two possibilities.  Boys will be boys.  Or, and it
was Paul's turn to stifle a giggle, maybe it had simply been the holiday
season.  In any event, the display was of a boy in tune with the world;
relatively mall-free; existing soul; entirely worth his time, money and
effort.  The older male was delighted to realize his feelings had nothing
to do what was going to happen in the bathroom over the next hour and a
half.  They could have gone for pizza for all he cared.  Michelangelo had
it about right and eschewed all carnality as his art took him in its iron
grip.  Or maybe he was too tired to climb down from his scaffolding at
night and any boys too scared to climb up.  Anyway, he helped put the whole
thing in perspective.  It was great.  It was nothing.  A close home game
would bring out more emotion, verbal and physical, than the vast majority
of sexual encounters.  A mild headache could make you forget all about it.
Personality, nine-hundred-ninety-nine, penis, one.

Paul remembered an escapade in a Denver arcade.  Cute fifteen-year-old.
The youth had followed him into a booth and Paul had started to take him
from the rear.  But the boy didn't arch.  That was weird.  Nor did the boy
make any effort to disentangle or leave.  So he had unzipped him and found
his way inside the boy's briefs to fondle him.  Cold snail.  He'd almost
jumped back in revulsion.  At that point the boy had asked for money.  Paul
had quickly handed him a five and the boy was gone in seconds.  It had been
a great lesson.  Without passion, a penis wasn't a prick, it was a snail.
Nothing.  The Denver incident had gone a long way toward keeping him
pervert-free ever since.  If they don't want it, it's nothing but nasty
even for the elder queer.  He thought of pornographers.  Wouldn't ravishing
sex on the web keep thousands off park benches?  He chuckled to himself.
He'd spent some months in Mexico.  It hadn't taken porn to keep him off
those plaza benches, incredibly young and obviously delighted boys had done
that job.  Like Michelangelo, Mexico had it down about right.  It was
common for Mexican truck drivers to have supple pubescent boys riding with
them.  Some were sons, was his guess, but not all by a long shot.  Paul's
Mexican travels had yield an even better yardstick than the park benches.
A quarter mile from the San Ysidro, Tijuana, border was a banos vapor;
steam bath.  Kick-ass little place; totally Mexican.  About eighty percent
gay; yet, not gay at all.  Any male could use the facilities.  And there
were no men and boy couples.  He'd visited nearly fifty times; it was the
perfect break in a bike journey from Los Angeles to San Philippe where he'd
spent his weekend camped on the beach.  So here was a place any man could
take any boy, it was cheap, they served beer, it was funky and reeked of
charm, and men never brought boys.  And an hour trolley ride from San Diego
and its vast naval facilities.  This was a true enigma in his mind.
Repeated statistics reported fifteen percent of boys (and twenty percent of
girls) were molested by family members.  If that was true, why weren't
there lines around the block at a place where a man could take a boy, in
perfect legitimacy, to at least begin the desensitization process?  Even
without boys, where had been the allegedly gay navy?  In his numerous
visits he recalled only a few dozen anglos, period, much less probable
military personnel.  Was it all a hoax?

He thought back to what Jimmy had said about Jeremy, the boy who seemed his
twin in a search for the truth.  Jeremy's sampler had been men and boys
stuck in a cabin for a weekend.  His parallel thought went along the line
of a clinic where healthy, middle-aged males would be hauled in off the
street, totally at random, and paid a thousand dollar to watch a half hour
video of juvenile sexcapades.  Assuming total anonymity and a relaxed,
private atmosphere, how many men would leave after the mandatory five
minutes?  How many would stay the whole half hour?  How many would
demonstrate a physical reaction and how many would engage in physical
action?  A book called "What Cops Know" had what might be an answer to
Paul's question about how many men would do what.  In this non-fiction
work, a young prostitute was portrayed.  The description reads, "She had
nothing of being a woman about her." Or words to that effect.  She looked
like a ten year old child.  When this prostitute went out, the first car
always stopped.

Now who goes to prostitutes.  Steel workers, politicians, yard workers and
professors.  The traffic by a particular cruising area would sample out
with denizens of pulpit and penitentiary; older, younger, richer, poorer,
once a week or once a year.  As gamuts can be measured, the gamut.  And all
stopped; the first one, always.

How many Iowa girls made it safely home?  The little girls that were herded
in droves to the pageants, festivals, fairs and similar displays.  They
were dressed as prostitutes; ages nine, ten and eleven.  Cleavage, garters,
a few naked inches on upper thighs below a patch of pale belly.  A dad that
could get a girl dressed like that safely to and from would have an ugly
daughter, indeed.  In the Victorian era, and Paul was an expert on this,
despite his tender years, no girl was ever left alone in the company of any
man, absolutely period.  The lust factor was regarded by these parents of
the technological revolution as one hundred percent prevalent.
Father/daughter.  Older brother/younger sister.  Uncle/niece.  Up the line
to the preacher, and down the line to the actor.  The world of Pollyanna as
played by Haley Mills.  Oddly and complexly, also the world of Lewis
Carroll and his sprightly little Alice -- perhaps proving there was
chaperoning and chaperoning in them thar Puritanical times.

Happiness?  According to Jane Austin they did pretty well in that
department, though today it is the suppression, neurosis and laudanum that
are remembered.  Could there be happiness in a non-Victorian environment?
Maybe that was the best interpretation.  Yet, at the same time, weren't
those very strictures and restrictions the source of the taboo that made
what he and Jimmy were going to do together upstairs in the bathroom vastly
more engaging than they were a pair of Polynesians doing what came
naturally any time they wanted?  He defined this as a rhetorical question
and let it slip away, the better to communicate with the boy in the here
and now.

Jimmy had recovered from his seasonal prancing and dancing and was now
simply glowing.  "I think it's time or I'm going to have an accident," he
said.  Paul's towel snapped up just below his waist and Jimmy grunted at
the sight.  They were bow and string.  So exactly alike it scared them
both.  Incest.  They stared into each other eyes.  Jimmy's mouth was a bit
large, he had a bit of tall-boy stoop to his head.  Paul was a bit craggy
to be perfect Neither had perfect teeth.  They twined these thoughts
between them as Paul rose.  First this time.  The boy had talked the talk
so it was up to the dominate male to walk the walk.  Jimmy rose and they
held hands as they climbed the stairs to the bathroom.  Paul noted it was
easy to see the approaching road and drive.  It felt very safe.  "No
friends likely to drop by, package deliveries, anything like that?" he
asked Jimmy.  "Small chance," the young boy answered.  "If they do, they'll
come from the front.  No one ever comes to the back door.  It's cool."

"Do you wish I was Jeremy?" Paul asked.  "Only about half," Jimmy answered.
The boy went on, "We could be with him, sometime, if you want.  He only
moved a hundred miles away.  Twenty-five minutes if we go in the yellow
Satan," he concluded in a giggle.  They were soon in the bathroom, standing
eighteen inches apart.  The math whiz spoke.  "We have to start by
measuring," he said.  "No touching.  Just with a ruler held close enough to
measure within an eighth of an inch.  Is that okay?"

"When do we touch?" the older male asked.  "That has to be done a very
special way," Jimmy replied.  "How is that?" Paul whispered, leaning as
close to the boy's right ear as he dared.  "The slow way," the boy
whispered back.  "There's a totally special prize if we do it slow enough,"
the boy added with a bit of mystery intruding on the very quiet husk of his
whispering.  Paul found himself hoisted on his own petard, whatever that
meant.  He'd meant to delay things, to check and double-check.  He almost
thought it check and double-chick.  The boy was so young.  Younger than
Tim, considering their relative ages.  Younger than he had been with
Jeremy.  So the discovery process had been extra slow, gentle and
deliberate as befitted an extremely nice young boy.  And now who was full
of mysteries along with plenty of artful delay and crafty suspense?  He
said it again to himself, subtle child.  "Okay," he said out loud to Jimmy,
"Since this is going to take awhile, what do you say we proceed directly to
step one?"

"Mostly you've got to think of things to stay excited.  That's all the
steps, really," the broth of Scotland replied.  He added: "Since you're
older you've got to go first to keep me excited.  You've got to tell me
about the first time with Jon.  Deal?"  "Deal," said the man.  Paul added:
"But, before we take any more steps, you have to say the m word to me.  The
shorter one.  You have to invite me.  Please."

Jimmy leaned almost impossibly close to Paul's ear and just breathed in and
out for several moments.  "I want you to molest me," he whispered.  "What
do you call the result of getting molested," he asked in his own whisper.
"Sperming," the young boy said: "Is that okay?  Or spraying."  "And you
want to sperm with me?" "Yes!" the child whispered close in his ear, his
warm breath doing nothing to lessen the impact of his total acceptance of
the two of them, together.  "You know what?" Paul asked, trying to keep his
whisper level and mature; "I think now might be a good time to do the
measuring."

He dropped his towel and arched his back.  His boner curved slightly back
on itself.  Jimmy stared, his eyes glazing, his mouth slackening slightly.
He was like a boy.  Slim there.  No fuzz.  He'd seen enough pictures, and
of course Jeremy back when he'd eight, so there was a moment of shock and
he looked into his partner's eyes.  Paul looked down and then at Jimmy.
"That's Tim," he answered the un-asked question. "He thought I was a little
full of myself at one point and threatened to get a tattoo if I didn't use
a hair remover and thus show my humility.  It's the only kinky thing I've
ever done. "  He winked at the boy.  "It makes me a better driver", he
said.  "I sure don't want to end up in the e.r. if I can help it."  "Yeah,"
Jimmy replied without hesitation, "Only every orderly and male nurse in
Madison would be checking to be sure you were coming along okay.  You're
awesome.  I'm going to measure you now; there's a tape in mom's sewing
basket.  I'll be back in a second."

Paul reveled in Jimmy's use of the pronoun instead of it.  It was him.
Measure, touch, fondle, hold and caress him, not it.  What was getting
pretty obvious as the minutes passed was that no touching, fondling or like
enterprise was going to be needed by the stallion if the colt kept on in
with his boyish antics.  "He's only two-buttons naked," Paul groaned to
himself as he stood on the bathroom carpeting, "And I'm about to see the
ghost of Christmas past."  Comic relief.  It did the trick but it was
close.  The boy re- entered the bathroom and stood stock still at his
eighteen-inch distance.  A few moments passed.  "Tell me about Jon while I
measure you," he whispered, then sank slowly to his knees.  "It was at a
summer camp.  We had our conversation -- the frank one.  At nap time we
took a short walk, maybe a couple of hundred feet into the woods.  Then we
lay down side by side.  He had the blanket from his bunk with us and he
pulled it over both of us.  We were lying on our back in the middle of the
trail.  In a moment or two he took my right hand, very gently, and guided
it to where his jeans were open.  I felt his boner.  It was big and totally
hard.  I started to move my hand up and down; maybe he asked my too, I
don't remember.  I did it twice and I felt a tiny splash on my hand between
my thumb and index finger.  `Wow!  That's sperm!'  I remember thinking that
really clearly, and don't remember even knowing the word before that time.
Then we had to get up because in the middle of the path was not a good
place to be.  I never saw anything except one tiny drop of semen on my hand
as he was folding up the blanket.  On the way back to the cabin he tried to
talk to me but what he said went over my head, so I guess he thought I was
a dolt because I didn't answer.  I think he was asking if I liked doing
things with him, but, I'd done very little, and seen absolutely nothing.
Of course he was Harvard, which always leaves the question of doltery
open."

"Eight and six-eighths," Jimmy piped up from somewhere on the planet.  He
translated the fraction to three-quarters and Paul admired the precision of
his work.  His right hand tickled where that single drop of sperm had
landed.  Other parts of him were vastly beyond the tickling stage.  Timmy
had wanted to humble him by removing his pubic hair; this boy was going to
humiliate him in another way, and there was going to be laundry into the
bargain.  He held and held as the boy returned, touch-free, to his standing
position at eighteen inches. "Do you want me to use the p word, now?" the
boy whispered while he reddened, especially at the throat.  "Yes!" Paul
hissed.  "Will you measure my penis?" the boy whispered, more softly than
he had ever whispered to Paul before.  "How long were you when you were
with Jeremy?" Paul quizzed.  Jimmy also loved the pronoun.  How long was
he, the young male.  Not it, someone's toy.  "Three and nine-sixteenths
inches, the boy answered, adding that his more mature partner had measured
five and three-quarter inches, exactly.  "We were both pretty slim.  I
still am," he said.

"Jimmy," Paul asked, "Are you homosexual?"  "I don't think so," the boy
answered.  "There's a killer girl at school, but she's only nine.  Besides,
she looks more like a boy than I do.  But just once in awhile I see a girl
that's awesome.  None of the pancake princesses and lipstick lolas, but you
know, playing ball or something.  Swimming.  I know one that's a fox," he
added, "She's on television a lot.  Some ad for osteoporosis pills.  Starts
with a girl my age on a swim team.  Blue bathing suit.  Stone, absolute,
stop- the-clock fox.  I'd marry her cat to live in the same county.

"They're not all bad," the young soothsayer continued, "But the odds
against girls are tuff.  They didn't write a note of classical music and
you can pile all their literary and artistic contributions in the corner of
a small library or gallery."  He seemed about to carry on, and Paul was
thankful.  Mothers knew everything about laundry.  The slightest stain or
odd marking and an investigation of unimaginable magnitude would be
launched.  The entire front of a shirt might bring on a war footing, nor
was the absence of the shirt likely to keep the peace.  Mothers had to have
some use in the world, and the six-foot three male was glad he'd found one.
Of course, mothers often were not much good at things, so this was not
going to be a lasting remedy.  But, to one who was holding on
second-by-second, it was a bit of a port in an overpowering storm.

But this siren wasn't calling.  He was right there and moving slowly
closer.  Paul reached to the top of his buttoned buttons and unbuttoned the
last one he came to.  Then the second.  Jimmy stood gently, carefully to
him.  "No touching," he reminded, gently.  Paul didn't touch him.  Just
worked down the front of his shirt, pulling its tails gently from the boy's
waist at the end.  Sixteen small moles or large freckles, he counted.  Let
Florida deal with punches and chads, he was lost in mapping the tiny
trademarks of the beautiful young chest and abdomen.  The boys head drooped
as he watched intently the slow progress of Paul's beautiful young hands.
They had to stand in front of the mirror, and soon.  But now it was time
for shoes and socks, so he eased onto the tufted black cover of the
commode.  Paul knelt in front of him, and bent to undo his laces.  This
took no more than a week.  Stains on sneakers might be dropped mayonnaise
or spilled ice cream, he thought, and almost lunged against Jimmy's knees
and spilled all over the boy"s feet.  God, that was close.  He grabbed
frantically at any absurdity to contain himself.  The young male was now
stone silent.  The knots were undone, the heels pulled down, then the
socks.  There was a lot of stuff in the literature about boy smells.  To
Paul, boys just smelled.  The slight scent of ammonia that Jimmy's feet was
just the hint of deterrence needed to prevent an overpowering accident that
might include boy, fuzzy black toilet cover, throw rung, and three or four
square feet of flat-painted wallboard.  The porcelain would clean up okay,
but that was hardly a bright spot of any importance.

Then came the magic inch.  Jimmy's shirt was open, his shoes and socks were
off.  Now Paul, careful not to touch, undid his belt.  He pulled the ends
free, and Jimmy whispered instructions about the snap.  It yielded, and the
young man touched the stripling's zipper.  He pulled it out and down.  Then
it was the magic inch.  Jimmy rose from the black cover and Paul gently
slid his slacks down over his young-boy hips.  Jimmy resumed his seat, and
Paul continued easing the trousers toward the carpet.  At the last moment
the boy added to his inch by lifting his feet clear of the garment.  At the
same time he shrugged his open shirt onto the tank behind him.  Paul stood,
naked, and Jimmy stood in his underpants.  Briefs.  White.  Right out of
the Sears' Catalogue.  They separated by three feet.  Paul gawked at the
boy.  His penis was too his right, bulging against the white cotton.  Very
long and slim.  Not his mini meat, by a long shot.  Just slightly smaller.
"Do you take showers with the other boys," Paul whispered to Jimmy.  "No,"
the boy whispered back, reddening beautifully.  He went on, "My gym teacher
wants to talk to me about it, we're meant to have a meeting on Friday."

"During school or after school?" Paul quizzed the young male.  "After," he
answered.  "Do you like your gym teacher?" he asked.  "Yeah; all the boys
do.  He's cool."  "Is he cute?" the older male asked.  "Not like you are,
but yes.  Definitely.  Why?"  "Because," Paul explained, "Middle-school gym
teacher's are usually very tuned-into boys entering puberty.  They
recognize that boys who develop early usually have much higher hormonal
levels than other boys.  Not to put too fine a point on it, such boys make
outstanding partners, probably the best in the world.  Taboo sometimes
seems like overkill in these cases, but we don't have much choice in the
matter.  Anyway, I'm pretty sure your teacher has your fabulous self on his
mind and I want to tell you that, to the point it's any of my business,
which it most assuredly is not, I approve if you want to hang out with him,
any time, any place.  Okay?"

Jimmy changed the subject: "We need some books," he said.  "We have to be
at exactly the right height, which means I have to come up about six
inches."  The boy giggled.  "Jeremy made two little stools in the basement.
My mom thought they were doll furniture and got two hundred bucks for them
at one of her famous yard sales.  But they were for me, so I'd be the right
height for him when he molested me."  The boy giggled again, and continued:
"It wasn't that he minded discomfort; we'll talk about that later; it's
that what he did to me took a long, long time and comfort became a real
factor."  He grinned at Paul.

What an absurdly happy boy.  A natural.  Most gay boys were wrung out of
some twist or another of dysfunction.  A small percentage appeared to be
genetically disposed, or, judging by the length of the boner in Jimmy's
underpants, hormonally disposed, the two, in all probably linked and very
possibly the link.  Even through the Hanes, Paul could tell Jimmy was
notably but hot hugely endowed for his age, long-legs and big-feet allowed
for.  His penis looked about a full inch longer than would have been large
on an eleven year old.  If," his thoughts wandered, "His coach knows what
he's doing there is going to be a shower of very happy eleven-year-olds in
the not too distant future, say, Monday gym if they had gym on Monday.

Jimmy left the bathroom and then returned bearing a stack of book in each
arm.  He also had two belts.  The books were stacked in two piles by the
tub, and the belts looped over the rail for the shower curtain.  "They're
for balance," the boy explained as he finished his rigging and tested the
result.  "In case I get too excited," he added.  "Du'uh." Paul thought to
himself.  He said out loud: "What's going to make you so excited.  I'm not
going to last long enough to turn on a light switch."  But he made himself.
All the fabrics, textures, fluff and trim.  It was a bit weird.  Paul
figured Lynette Jennings was responsible for half the divorces in the
country with her endless treatments, frills and hot- glue schtick.  But the
long-legged stripling looked good surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of
entirely too many trips to Wal-Mart.

"Let's test," said Jimmy, and he mounted his perches.  "Do you want my legs
spread wider?" he asked once he was in position, adding: "If you do you'll
have to help me up.  You can use a towel so you don't touch me.  What do
you think?"  The boy dropped back to the floor and added two more books to
each stack, spreading the stack six-inches further apart.  "Wanna try
this?" he asked.  Paul stood speechless, trying not to ejaculate all over
just plain everything.  In his movements, stooping and bobbing and
arranging things for himself the youth displayed a leggy grace and
coltishly winsome way of making his every move.  He was no perfect little
hip swinger or gyrator; he was young- swan-like with a never-to-be
perfection beyond any that could be written of.  Not too much flesh, and
lots of blood.  Willowy, yet halting and nervous.  "Only one thing left,"
he said.  "Candles.  Only we can't use them because mom would notice.
Jeremy and I figured out a fake; I'll go get it."  And the boy was once
again off the carpet by the tub/shower and off on his boyish way.

The tub was an awful temptation.  A gallon of water, and no one the wiser.
But he had his boy pegged as one not to overdo, and so the kid was back in
less than a minute with a Mag Lite and colored lens.  He set the light in
the hamper after turning it on, pointing it to the ceiling.  With the room
lights switched off the small carpeted chamber took on a new cast, warm,
slightly pink.  Even so, Jimmy's skin seemed to absorb any color, he was so
delicate a white with just a blemish here and mark there to keep him from
being a male version of Sailor Moon, though he was closer in age than Mini
Moon.  "If I could photograph two square feet of him," the artist wondered,
" Which would I choose?"  He answered his question: "Two-thirds of the way
up from his knees to just over his belly button.

"I've got to do it this way," he said out loud to the boy, reaching for the
tape measure.  "Before I take your underpants off.  Is that fair?"
Measuring Jimmy's penis was going to be almost beyond comprehension, even
with the Hanes god watching his back.  The possible touch and feel of
cotton brought up the Lusitania.  Legend had it she was loaded with gun
cotton.  He tried to think of the passengers in the frigid icy Irish Sea.
The thoughts went the way of the Titanic.  Human suffering was never far
from his mind, but the cotton of the present instance was not far from his
eyes.  Closer as he knelt and moved the fabric of the sewing measure closer
to Jimmy's boner.  Paul took a deep breath for the final act.  He did not
want to breath on the boy's belly.  That would be touching.  In the end he
acted decisively, getting seven and one-quarter inch plus a fraction before
lowering the tape and turning to the side to exhale.  "Oh, Dude," he
whispered, "If you ever make me do that again I'm going to measure you for
a body bag.  Dig!"  The boy giggled his warbling chirp.  "He'd be sexy on
MP-3," the mature male thought.  "So beautiful you didn't even have to see
him to love him."  His mind ever on the less fortunate, the musician
summarized he was a boy for the blind.

They had resumed their customary eighteen-inches apart.  "Jimmy," Paul
asked in a whisper.  "If you want to bring your gym teacher over here and
do this with him, I'll invite your parents out to diner."  "Maybe
sometime," the boy answered.  "Well," Paul said, "Try to make it your first
time with him if you can, because this game is more than awesome, though,"
he added, "My guess is you could figure out some pretty good substitutes
with the resources of an entire athletic department at your disposal."
Jimmy giggled and glowed.  For a second he pictured the former champ
swimmer in Paul's place.  "No wonder they called it gay," he thought to
himself, "If I were any happier I'd be a dervish."  But the memory of
swimmer also conjured the image of the willowy female in the swimming-team
commercial.  Luckily, his mind was already sharpening through contact with
his mentor.  "If she's a downer on being gay, then being gay must be more
awesome than the most awesome thing there is."  It didn't make total sense
to the boy, but then outlines sometimes don't.

Paul's sympathy was with writers, in matters like this.  They were stuck
with outlining - sketching.  It's what you did in a song.  But imagine
being able to take a pad and pencil and sketch this long legged stripling
with the seven-plus inch bulge in his underpants.  The artist could capture
a split second, but the moron with the pencil and Jell-O for brains could
use the same amount of lead, or ink, not for a moment in time, but for a
whole slice of his life.  And, tantalizing, pubescent, adolescent as Jimmy
was, only an outline would be needed.  Was the secret of the craft that
simple?  Pick a lanky reed, dress him in white underpants, then just sketch
away to your heart's content?  Perhaps the same thing applied to music.
Write a perfect song, then just sketch away at it forevermore.  John McLean
had done it.  Jimmy Webb.  Chris Kristofferson.  John Williams.  Not bad
numbers when one considered you had to go all the way back to the age of
Mozart to find their equals.

How much practice would it take? The musician wondered.  A million hours
seemed high, so he rounded off to one hundred thousand because the number
represented five- thousand hour a hear for twenty years.  In a sense Paul
was right, but if he ever tried the craft himself he'd quickly come to
realize that the hundred-thousand hour of practice had to come on top of
ten or fifteen-thousand hours of reading from earliest memory through the
school years.  Without that foundation, no amount of practice was going to
produce an artist over any amount of time.  Exceptions were journalists
caught up in traumatic events, but they were like Stephen Crane, one-trick
ponies.

As an occasional stage performer, Paul knew that too much noodling got on
an audience's nerves.  In the present instance he accepted the imaginary
boos of the crowd because they distracted him from an essential nerve which
was getting the mother of all tune ups from the boy in front of him, now
unable to control an almost infinitesimal swaying of the hips, not side to
side, the kid wasn't in Hawaii, but back and front; more to the front.
Paul said good-bye to the shipping lanes, to the wiles and foibles said to
run amok in the writer's craft, and watched Jimmy slowly bring his big
penis within a half inch of the tip of his own.  "You better get me in
position," he whispered.  "How will I get you naked," Paul whispered back.
"I've got an extra pair of underpants at school I can smuggle them in the
house, so you can cut these off when you're ready," Jimmy said.  "With
what?" the mature male whispered.  "My great-granddad's straight razor.
It's in the medicine cabinet, in a blue case with like felt in it."

To take his mind off the present situation, Paul wondered to himself
whether or not it might be possible to stitch Jimmy's briefs back together,
once he had parted them Damn, that would be fun to try.  See if
Mrs. O. twigged.  He searched for a plausible explanation in case the
careful stitchery was ever detected.  One possibility amused him.  Would
she be likely to believe that their nice young boarder had come after her
son with a straight razor?  Paul had once attended a writing seminar in
which Sol Saks had spoken.  He had explained that "Bewitched" only worked
if there was a conflict based on the protagonist's secret identity.
"There's a germane motif," he thought to himself.  "Copious lust under the
eyes of a detergent dragon.  Any tale of two whites, and the secret would
be out and the game would be up."

By this time both young males were hanging their heads in lust and shame.
Their penises were almost touching.  Tips dry.  They were too scarred for
the gentle pre-flow of seminal fluid that normally came with half an hour
of intense foreplay, verbal or otherwise.  No spot at all on Jimmy's
underpants.  Again, twins.  Clean, healthy twins, and if they aren't, for
heaven's sake shut the door and leave them in peace.  They're not telling
you how attractive your son is, they're telling you how pointless it would
be to have anything carnal to do with your son, unless he was mature and
willing, in which case it might be the best idea to trust his judgement.

Paul was reaching the emergency stage which by this time was the mother of
all emergency stages.  He had to take his mind off the open razor in his
hand, off the strip of underpants to be severed, off everything within a
foot of him.  He was lucky.  On the way to Dodgeville he'd stayed at a
motel and they'd had Disney on the cable.  There was a movie called "The
Ultimate Christmas Gift."  Now there was a kid to cool a horny hippo.
Round vapid pie face and endlessly-yammering, snide, sneaky mouth.  He
thought back to the statistics already gone over.  If one in how many would
do thus and such with so and so, how many, he wondered, would do anything,
for any amount, with that pretty- mouthed lump of cauliflower Jell-O?  He
grinned at how surely this loathsome puddle, that it would actually be
against the law to murder, would suffer for his crimes against his greedy
body and because of his odorous personality, in general.  In his whole life
he would never have what young Jimmy had had at eight.  A lover.  Pussy
galore for every dime he had, then not even the rankest hustlers outside of
prison would be interested.  Of all possible justices, the ugly of soul and
deliberately ugly of countenance sentenced themselves to something just
short that rendered by Mohawk females.  He'd known the self-same type.
There were no exceptions.  The autistic probably had it better, and that
was the truth.

"We were all amateurs, at one time or another," Paul chided himself.  He
was feeling a bit smug for having an answer for everything, yet not enough
actual credentials to fill a teacup.  About the same as Darwin or Lindberg.
He let that thought stroke his ego.  He viewed academia as variations on a
theme by parrot.  It was hardly a wonder they did not find him soft, cuddly
and compliant.  He stuck with his music because he did not have the
literary horsepower to break through.  "Wish someone did," he mused.

"We can touch through our hair, that's okay," Jimmy whispered.  Taking the
hint, Paul leaned forward to the boy, forehead to forehead, and inserted
the blade of the razor along his right hip.

"I might fly out when the cloth gives so you better turn the sharp edge the
other way," the boy whispered.  "Okay," said Paul, glad he'd decided on a
practice run.  "That's right," coaxed the boy as Paul reinserted the blade,
careful not to touch the heaving boy-flank less than in inch from his
fingers and thumb.  "I'm ready to be mounted," Jimmy said when Paul
withdrew the blade.  Paul laid the antique razor carefully in the sink and
then took a towel from the rack.  He made a cradle of his arms and Jimmy
leaned against the padded cradle as he stepped backwards onto the now
eight-inch piles of books that would support his feet.  Paul supported his
right arm, first, while he looped it into the belt, then, passing inches
from Jimmy's heaving chest, he secured his left arm to the shower curtain
rail.  He stepped back and Jimmy tested his lashings.  The belts slipped
and they had a close call.  Paul grabbed the towel in place and supported
the boy by his chest as he regained his balance.  Sizing up the situation,
Paul dropped the floor and took the laces from Jimmy's sneakers.  In a few
moments he used these to cinch the two belts respectively in their places
so they would no longer slip.  "Put a towel on the edge of the sink," Paul
instructed.  "You can lean back on it and be comfortable, too."  As he gave
these instructions, Paul used the towel to remount the boy.  This time the
belts didn't slip.  He moved back against the sink, padding its edge as the
boy had suggested.  There was Jimmy, spread eagle, eye to eye.  "In more
ways than four; would anyone believe six?"  he winced to himself.

By arching a bit, Paul was able to bring the tip of his penis right to the
boys thrusting underpants.  When he was naked, the distance would be ideal.

What was god saying here?  Ignore this beauty and suffer yourselves to
overpopulate the world and live in misery?  The Spartans hadn't ignored it
and lived on in legend.  A house needed a boy and a cat.  Then it was a
beautiful home though it be tin in a ravine.  Paul thought to McKinley
Kantor's book, "Andersonville."  In the camp was one Spartan couple.  When
the boy died of an infection, the man plunged against the wire until the
bullets finally bled him to death.  What would he look like stoned?" Paul
wondered.  Almost glowing white, spread-eagle, legs wide, but comfortably
supported at his wrists and feet.  Looking down, half in shame, half to
see, and half to match Paul who was looking down on their thighs, loins,
flanks and belly.

For moments they rested in total comfort, drinking each other in.  There
was no giggling now.  They both smoldered.  "Babe," Paul whispered, "Is it
okay?"  "Yes," the boy whispered back.  And he did try.  All his long,
happy life he would know he tried.  But there is trying and trying and
there is eleven and there is eleven.  He loved Paul as he had Jeremy and as
he might once love a few others.  He loved him, but he was smart.  Brainy.
No matter what, his mind kept working, kept dreaming things up; creating.
Here, in the present situation, he did not have to make anything up.  The
scene was what's known in Hollywood as a natural.  An older male, naked,
was coming at him with a straight-razor; his legs were spread beyond his
being able to regain his balance; his wrists were tied.  He was wearing
only underpants.  He had the biggest boner of his eleven years.  The man
with the gleaming razor was breathing like a furnace, and inching closer
with the four- inches of wicked steel.  And now inches were out of play.
Less than.  A quarter.  The slight chill of the blade before its first
touch on flesh.  Then the director yells, "Cut!"

Jimmy and Frogger.  Copyright, 2000.  TE writing as Feather Touch.

[It took a lot of nerve to jump out here-abouts.  Puts me in mind of the
Max Sennet serial writers.  Well, I know I couldn't write gags for Drew and
Mimi so I guess we'll have to make the best of it.
	What I want to do is get you to donate a nice amount to whichever
host, portal or so-on is tops on your list.  As Nifty points out, the best
things in life are free.  But I doubt that works with their power company.
Once you've done that, you can write or send pictures if you're of a mind.
If all this swims along in a peaceable and interesting way, then there will
be further chapters in the life of our young heroes.  I guess I could
propose a name-the-coach contest or something like descriptions of Jimmy's
Monday, if there is gym, shower.  I'm an ex-soldier and uncomfortable
working in all situations.
	Finally, I would like to point out that it is more than just the
talent of other e- writers that I admire, it's the opportunity to visit
real people outlining real daily experiences.  I believe no other form of
documentary is so compelling, once one has read a few hundred posts.
Domestic and foreign, these writers string us along through a hundred daily
environments from frozen Interstates to Iranian plantations.  We would read
of their lives on no other subject.  With sex on the menu, we gulp a dozen
pages, and learn on every one.  Yes, we Yanks get tired of arses, wanking
and tossing, but for all that we enjoy most every trip most everywhere.
(And my folks left England in 1635, leaving me little room to criticize.)
-- Feather Touch <thomas@btl.net>]