Date: Mon, 12 May 2003 22:35:16 -0700 (PDT)
From: Phoenixboy <phoenixboy000@yahoo.com>
Subject: Martin Reinholt - Chapter Two

MARTIN REINHOLT

By Phoenixboy


CHAPTER TWO

What was happening to me?  I could not get Martin Reinholt out of my mind.
He was with me everywhere; constantly drifting in front of my eyes even
when I had them squeezed tightly shut.  I could not imagine an eleven year
old boy could hold so much power over one man.

I have always had somewhat of an obsessive personality.  When I get hooked
onto something, I become completely immersed in it.  I have an entire
collection of Phantom Menace toys, some of which are hanging on the wall of
my bedroom, others in boxes piled up in my closet.  I could recite to you
the plots of every Michael Crichton and Dean Koontz novel.  I have lost
count of the issues of Spider-man comics that are gathering dust at my
mom's house.  I find something I like, and it has a way of taking control
over me.  Perhaps that is why I never drank alcohol; it would be
disastrous.  But now, like it or not, I have let this odd little big-haired
boy take possession over me, and he didn't even know it.

I had to be careful not to let whatever this was--I was not ready to call
it an attraction--interfere with my professionalism.  I had a job to do,
and that involved looking after a couple dozen other kids, and not just
Martin.  While I would be content to spend my entire day with him, I was
not being paid to do that.  I had to treat him exactly as I did all the
others at the Youth Center and simply keep my personal feelings in check.
That was harder than it sounded.

Given the heat of the summer, every single one of the kids wore shorts on a
constant basis.  Even in the winter months, which were generally mild, long
pants were rarely seen, except on the coldest of days.  I would be amazed
at seeing children bundled up with oversized coats on those chilly January
mornings with little bare legs poking out from underneath.  Being in a
sub-tropical climate put people in a different mindset regarding clothing
than in other parts of the country.  Most boys wore oversized shorts, often
ones with pant legs that draped down over their knees.  Why call them
shorts when they were basically highwater long pants?

Martin didn't subscribe to this fashion sense.  His usual attire consisted
of shorts that were lucky if they came to mid-thigh, and which often looked
as if they were about a size or two too small.  I remember seeing a cover
of Vanity Fair with Demi Moore wearing a "suit" that was painted onto her
bare flesh.  Martin's shorts reminded me of that.  Before this summer, I
would've called anyone who stared at the rear end of a young boy a pervert.
But now I found I couldn't keep my eyes off that full, round butt that
filled out the khaki or jeans material of those too-small shorts so nicely.

And his legs!  I suppose the workouts he got with his karate classes help
sculpt the skinny, as yet-to-be developed appendages into something more
than just fleshy twigs.  There was definition to the muscles hidden
underneath the smooth, hairless skin.  I have always appreciated women's
legs, but Martin's were different.  They were not feminine, but not yet
fully masculine, as a man's would be.  They were all his own and I enjoyed
looking at them.

Some kids felt uncomfortable talking to adults, I noticed.  They would
shift their weight from one foot to another in their unease until the chore
was over, only daring to glance up into said adult's face every now and
then.  Not Martin.  He looked you square in the eye and held your gaze.
His big, brown eyes had flecks of gold and green in what looked like a
mini-explosion from his pupils.  They were simply captivating.  When my
eyes locked with his, I felt like a kaleidoscope was hypnotizing me.

I once thought I was in love with a pretty young lady named Jasmine.
Thinking about her had filled my bones with a satisfying warmth.  When I
was dating her, I would often walk around with a semi-dazed grin on my
face.  Looking back at that, I realized how tame my feelings for Jasmine
were compared to what I was experiencing with Martin.  It was as if molten
lava filled my body rather than blood.  I found myself short of breath,
gasping for air even when reclining.  I was restless at night, my apartment
seeming so empty, feeling so alone in my bed.

"What's with you?" my friend David asked as I picked at my sandwich.  We
usually got together once a week at a local coffee shop to talk about
stories we were working on.  He was a fellow writer who was trying to get
published.  He was much more prolific than I was, but many of his stories
just didn't fly.  He had good ideas, but somehow they just didn't translate
to the page.  We had met a few years before at a writer's circle that was
meant to help writers network with each other.  We both found most of the
people pretentious and just wanting to impress everyone else rather than
actually work at improving their craft.  David and I both liked the same
time of fiction, and our personalities clicked.  We quit the writer's
circle and just used each other as our sources of criticism and support.

"What do you mean?" I asked innocently.

"You seem distracted.  I'm almost done with my food and you've barely
started yours."  The running joke between us was that I scarfed down my
food before he could even take a couple of bites.

"Oh, it's nothing."

"Work?"

"No, that's going great.  I've never enjoyed myself better.  I am so glad
to get out of that office."

"Yeah, I bet."  David was stuck in a similar corporate hell from which I
had escaped, but at least he was able to use his writing skills.  He
drafted presentations for monthly meetings within the upper management of a
communications conglomerate.  Exciting work!

"You meet someone?"

I choked on my water with lemon.  "Huh?"

"You know, a girl?  A woman?  Female of the species?"

"Oh.  No."  I felt my face flush.  "I've just, ah, got a lot on my mind,
that's all."

David dismissed this and went on discussing a character arc in a science
fiction novel that he was trying to rewrite for the third time.  His words
washed over me.  I did not hear a thing he said.

Panic threatened to worm its way into me.  Was it that apparent that I had
fallen head over heels with someone?  What if it showed at the Youth
Center?  What if someone realized who it was that was the object of my
crush?  What if I was exposed as some pervert lusting after a young boy?
What if I was sent to jail?  What if--

"Alan, are you okay?"

"What?"

"You look like you're going to pass out."

"I don't feel so well."

"You don't look so well."

"I think the two go hand in hand."

"Why don't you go on home and get some rest," David said.  "We can talk
about this next week.  It's not like this book is going anywhere."

I appropriated a to-go box for my uneaten sandwich and headed back to my
apartment, which never felt more vacant.  I tried to watch some TV, but the
only things on were some mindless reality shows.  I had had enough of
reality, thank you.

What had I become?  Was I this way all along?  They had names for men who
lusted after little boys, nasty names with horrifying connotations.  Was
that what I was?

Then I asked myself: was the feeling I had for Martin really lust?  His
image floated before my eyes during my every waking moment.  I was
intrigued by him, confounded by his contradictions.  His personality drew
me to him.  Things he said and did amazed me and sometimes shocked me.  His
body made me yearn for him.

Yes, I had to admit I did lust after him.  But it was not entirely lust.  I
knew also that the obsessive part of my nature was partly to blame, and
that in time this would diminish, as had all of my previous obsessions.
But lastly, I understood that I actually cared for this boy.  I felt
protective over him when the other kids gave him a hard time about those
qualities that were unique.  I wanted to know more about him, about his
family life, about those problems that I felt were bubbling under the
surface.  I wanted to make it all better for him.  Ultimately, I wanted to
be his friend.

This understanding did not come to me all at once.  In fact, I mulled this
over in my mind for an entire weekend.  Those two and a half days were very
difficult, filled with self-hatred and despair.  I had reached a record low
the very same time that I was experiencing an incredible high.  The joy of
working with children had unleashed the monster of pedophilia.

I reviewed my life to see if the clues of this condition were evident.
When I was a boy, I had a few girlfriends here and there, mostly puppy dog
crushes.  I had gotten somewhat serious with a girl when I was thirteen,
but nothing really came of that, and the physicality mostly consisted of
awkward make-out sessions.  I remember looking at other boys, wondering
what there was to be found under their clothing, trying desperately to
compare my own body to theirs.  I didn't think this was abnormal; in fact
in my analytical mind I figured that most boys went through this very same
thing, so it didn't bother me at all.  I surreptitiously checked out the
other guys while changing for P.E. or at the urinals in the boy's bathroom.
Once again, no big deal.

Then some long-forgotten memories began to surface.  I am not a proponent
of repressed memories, a favorite of contemporary psycho-babble, but I
believe that the human brain only has so much storage space and simply
pushes things aside that are not necessary for everyday living.
Experiences are swept away to some dark corner of your mind like outgrown
toys that are put into the attic, important one day and forgotten the next.

Bobby Peterson was one of those forgotten memories.  He was a
fourteen-year-old who lived down the street from me when I was in tenth
grade.  He looked to be all of twelve, with a round cherub face that had a
tendency to get red when he became excited.  We were inseparable for about
four months, from the time I met him on the bus late in the school year
until we moved away that summer.  Bobby made me feel a way that no girl had
done.  I gave no thought to this at all, even those times when I saw him
naked in the changing room of the community pool while we put on our
bathing suits and I felt my breath catch in my throat.  For weeks, my
nightly masturbation sessions were spurred on by the image of his young,
lightly-haired penis.  Even while I was pumping madly on my member, the
idea of me being gay did not cross my mind.  Hormones were raging, and
sexuality was a beast of its own with no regard to what was proper
according to community standards.

Another boy whom I had all but forgotten came to mind.  Jeremy Cavanaugh
was a thirteen-year-old who lived in the same apartment building that I
inhabited my second year in college.  I often saw him hanging around
aimlessly, and sometimes talked to him.  More and more, he would drop by my
place when I was home, which wasn't often, considering my work and school
schedule.  He was a radiant boy from a troubled home, and I think he looked
to me as a source of refuge.  I really enjoyed his company, and admired the
lithe form of his body that was just beginning to enter puberty.  He would
lie stretched out on my floor watching TV, while I watched him, drinking in
the beauty that nature provided and which would soon rip away to be
replaced with the ravages of adolescence.  I was much too consumed with my
classes to be distracted by Jeremy.  When he was present, I enjoyed his
company, but I did not give him a second thought when he was not around.
When I moved out in order to share a place with some college buddies,
Jeremy was very upset, and I was sad to leave him.  I promised that I would
stay in touch, but of course I did not.  I wonder what ever became of him.

The more I thought back, the more I realized that I have always had an
attraction to boys.  Older teens and men are handsome, but hold no
attraction to me.  Younger boys have always caught my eye.  I had never
considered the ramifications of this.  It took Martin Reinholt to make me
understand this aspect of my character.

It was who I was.  Not the entire me, but a piece of me.  How could I deny
it?  Like my obsessions, if I understood it, I could control it.  For that
was the key--to control it.  Okay, who cares if boys turned me on?  Its not
like I was out trolling for runaways or cruising elementary schools.  I was
good working with children, damn it!  They responded well to me, and I
enjoyed them.  Not only the boys, but the girls too.  If I got pleasure
from being around them, who cares?

The problem wasn't kids in general.  It was one specific boy.  He was
creating an incredible reaction in me.  I could deal with the fact that I
was attracted to him, but how would I actually deal with him?  Could I keep
him at a professional distance?  Should I?

He and I connected on some level beyond what was expected of me as the
Youth Activities Coordinator.  He was an outcast in many ways.  What could
I do to help him?  Could I become a friend to him as well as a mentor?
Would he even want that kind of relationship?  And would that relationship
develop into more than just friendship?

Questions filled my mind.  Insomnia destroyed my sleep.  Self-reproach
conflicted with guilt and uncertainty for equal time.

Popeye had once said, "I yam what I yam."  That's exactly what I decided,
that I was who I was.  I had been like this all my life, even if I was too
dumb or blind to see it.  But I had to figure out what to do about it, what
to do about my feelings toward Martin.

When Monday morning arrived, I had come to a conclusion.  I was going to do
nothing.  I was going to continue to do exactly what I had been doing, to
act the same as I had been acting.  No one had complained so far, everyone
seemed happy, and life was good.  Why screw it up with too much thinking?

Plus, I would be seeing Martin again.  That thought alone perked me up.

Martin.

TO BE CONTINUED


Copyright Phoenixboy 2003

Please send any comments to phoenixboy000@yahoo.com