From: FANCHAPHAW@news.delphi.com (FANCHAPHAW@DELPHI.COM) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories Subject: MEADOWLARK'S NEST-1 (man/boy) Date: 20 Nov 1994 15:58:58 -0000 FAN CHA PHAW PRESENTS: FROM THE ARCHIVES: "MEADOWLARK'S NEST" This story is from the archives of Fan Cha Phaw. This story might have appeared previously on the net, or in other publications. This is an adult fiction story, which consists of sex and sexual scenes between men and boys. If this type of story offends you, or your community standards, exit now and do not continue reading. If you are under the age of 18 (in the US), or under the age in your country to read such stories, exit now and do not continue reading. Fan Cha Phaw does not condone the actions of the actors in this story. Fan Cha Phaw does not condone the breaking of any laws. We can be reached at fanchaphaw@delphi.com PLEASE REMEMBER that all repost requests, comments, and discussion belong on alt.sex.stories.d, and not on the discussion thread. MEADOWLARK'S NEST By Chris Foster The day had begun like any other that long, languid summer. I woke to the sound of the Indigo girls bantering about Lesbians at work, or some such thing. The air was already as thick as clam chowder and if the weather report was accurate the afternoon would bring even more severe heat. It was only nine a.m. and I was already drenched in my own pungent sweat. Peeling my naked body from the wet sheets beneath me, I made my way across the floor and hit the snooze button on the alarm, then lay back down for yet another fifteen minutes of quiet semi- consciousness. I lay pondering the events of the coming day. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your perspective, the events of my days had come to be fairly predictable. Since fully embracing my occupation as a freelance writer some years prior all of my days were spent at my typewriter in the study. I try to spend at least eight hours a day at my work, though more often than not, I spend closer to ten or even eleven hours absorbed in my craft. I keep promising myself, once the work gets steady I will dedicate more of my time to social activities, though as yet, I have not reached the point of this comfort. Thus, the majority of my days are spent huddled over the faded keys of my ancient Corona. It's gotten so I can just about predict the end of my fifteen minutes siesta, and thus had my feet on the floor again just as the Doobie Brothers began their vocal recognition of China Grove. I stumbled to the bath and watched on trance-like as the steam rolled up along the tiled wall. I have never been the type that responds to the summers heat by casting myself under a cold shower and I most certainly would not have done so first thing in the morning even if I was so inclined. Drowsily, I climbed in and let the steaming hot water first scald my feet and then move up the length of my body. By the time I had my head under the spicket my flesh had already become accustomed to the heat. Slowly, I turned the water down to a more bearable temperature. Strangely enough, I've come to accept my morning showers as an omen for the day. It works like this: if I get a hard on prior to soaping, I can pretty much count on a good productive day. If I get a hard on after soaping, the day will be fair. And if I don't get a hard on at all, I might just as well have stayed in bed. And though I am quite certain that there exists no empirical evidence to support my claims, it does seem to work for me. This morning I got a raging hard-on as the scalding hot water burned my inner thigh. I can't be certain what this says of my sexual deviations, but, I did take it as a super omen for the day. Masturbation was slow and intense, I even turned off the water at one point to completely saturate myself with soap. I've always enjoyed sliding my hands over the slippery surface of my soap covered body, sliding into the cracks, stroking the length of my eight inch cock. The day could not have begun more appropriately. I do believe that for a person to love another, he must first love himself. I don't say this as a narcissist, but rather in recognition of a proverbial truth. Thus, as a truly well rounded and sexual person, I do not view masturbation as a pre-occupation of the young or perverted, but rather as another extension to my sexuality. I hope to continue this form of love throughout my life, regardless of relationships or age. By ten o'clock a.m. I was hunked over my cast iron typewriter ready for a day of productive creativity. Though, as is so often the case these days, I couldn't think of a thing to put on the page. Just the same, as I'd been taught, I sat patiently waiting, always on the ready for that stray creative word or phrase. Writing has always been synonymous with discouragement. But, good writers simply don't possess the common sense to stop. I am one of those who works doubly hard to dispossess myself. It's amazing how many things are capable of drawing your attention when your immediate task fails to excite. A pencil becomes a weapon, tested on the back of the hand. Your chair becomes a carnival ride. Every crack and crevice in the wall, ceiling or floor become objects D'art, all a source of infinite contemplation and inquiry. Even the sight of my own near naked body works as a diversion from staring endlessly at the stark white page. "I've gotten a bit chubby," I muse. "I really should think about joining the gym." Anything and everything to pass the time. There have actually been periods of weeks when I was unable to write a single word, thus, spent whole days contemplating meaningless, frivolous abstractions. One day I'd become so bored I spent the entire afternoon shaving my body of it's every strand of hair, save for the hair on my skull of course. One other afternoon I spent the hours timing my masturbation sessions. Ie: How long an interval was required between sessions? How long could I jerk off before spewing my load all over the top of my desk? So, when I'm asked, as I sometimes am, "What's it like to be a writer?" I respond with a mischievous laugh. Although, I must say, I wouldn't mind teaching the craft to some of those who have inquired. Now, here I am, once again wordless, checking out the pimple on my leg where my robe has slipped away. I wonder how many other writers are similarly engaged. I can only imagine. Eleven o'clock rolled around without a single word printed on the still brilliant white page. Twelve o'clock came equally barren. By twelve thirty I'd decided I was hungry and ventured upstairs for a bite. I finished eating at just about quarter past one, and was headed back down to the study with my third cup of coffee. I was hoping that my filled stomach would help activate my creative juices. What I was really praying for was diversion, meaningful diversion, something that couldn't be ignored. So feverant was my plea I could almost hear the words, "Please, anything!" "Anything to escape this hell." -End Part 1- ...to be continued