Date: Tue, 10 Jul 2001 07:52:28 +0100
From: ben erikson <benhere23@hotmail.com>
Subject: My Summer with Carl: Part 5

Growing Up in England: My Summer with Carl

A story by Ben Erikson

Episode 5: Art


The one thing Carl had never done in the course of our relationship was
ejaculate in my presence. This was not through lack of desire on his part,
I am sure. Indeed, his part, as a rule, was positively bursting with
desire. As for myself, I had only just begun to realise that our mutual
endeavours might have, if we had but carried on, swept us both towards a
vaster sea in which to sink or swim; an ocean to explore, to get what I had
this Summer long been asking for; more than my bargain; more than I could
handle. Apart from the fact that Carl understood that I was way too small
to accommodate him, way too young and babyish in both body and mind, he had
by now a serious regard for and guardianship of my moral character and its'
development. Taking it up the ass was not an option.

We were lounging round his front room one evening. It was still light
outside, not much past nine although we had the curtains closed, the room
lit haphazardly (with the emphasis, surely, on hazard), by scented candles
which gave a soporific heaviness to our mood and a cartoon-like
exaggeration to all our movements. When Carl got up to change the record on
his crappy Lo-Fi record-player it was like something out of Mack Sennett
mixed in with Bela Lugosi, flickering in silhouette on the walls, the
ceiling, the curtains. I wasn't allowed to touch his records or the record
player on pain of a proper telling off, the kind he gave me now and then
and which sent me into sulks and punishing silence until with artful
casualness he'd brush his hand over my hair in passing one way, bend down
to kiss my head in passing back the other. If that was not enough for me
he'd leave me alone a few minutes more then nestle down on the sofa next to
me.

"Come on, Ben. It's not that bad" he'd say, shifting me onto his knee,
jiggling me some, babying me even more than I had wanted.

"We still friends?" he'd whisper in my ear.

I'd sulk some more in play or say "No" in a mumbled, hurt voice. He'd lean
back and cuddle me in his arms, rubbing his face over mine.

"Well, that's up to you, I suppose, but just 'cos I tell you off doesn't
mean I don't like you anymore. Now listen, you can either go home now or
stay here. But if your going to stay I don't want any more nonsense, OK?"

He looked at me for some kind of response.

"Don't worry Ben, you're forgiven - I can't even remember what you did..."

"I told you to "fuck off"..." I looked at him slyly, the beginnings of a
little grin.

"Yes, you did, didn't you. Well let's say no more about that. God knows
what you're Mum would say."

"I only said what you say!" Get out of that, Carlie!

He'd sigh heavily and squeeze me some more. Game set and match to me, I
think.

This night, the one with the candles, we were listening to old Charlie
Parker records, mid-40's bebop with a 19-year old Miles Davis, not much
older than Carl. "Out of Nowhere", "Moose the Mooch", "Embraceable
You". Carl was sketching me in biro on the back of an old envelope,
cross-hatching like there was no tomorrow. We both felt bored and listless;
laid low by the scented smoke, spooked by the shadows and, at the same
time, jazzed up by the alto sax and trumpet. I lay on the sofa in my white
vest and grey shorts, no shoes and socks and kicked pointlessly against the
armrest. Carl was on the floor a foot away.

"Right, I know." he said suddenly. "Don't move, OK?"

He got up and went out to the hallway, rummaged about in bags.

"What'you doing?" I called. There was no answer but I couldn't be bothered
to go find out. Carl came back in carrying an old and battered satchel. He
grinned at me strangely.

"I'll paint you, OK?"

This was something new, the desire to capture me in watercolours. He took
out half a dozen brushes, mostly long, thin ones with delicate bushes of
black bristle sprouting from the ends. He had a pallette and a child's flat
box of paints. He went to the kitchen and fetched some paper towels and
some water in a jar. I posed myself on the sofa, lying back languidly and,
I thought, sexily, staring off beyond the walls, the shadows, all that
jazz.

"Not like that, Ben. Come here." I bounced up and stood before him, letting
him pose me with my arms straight up above my head. A light grin danced
around his face. He tugged my vest off over my head and tossed it casually
onto the sofa. He knelt down.

"Come here." I walked further into his embrace and he unclasped my shorts
and pulled them down. I laughed deliciously at his attention although was
already slightly uncomfortable at what was coming next. Of course, I didn't
mind Carl seeing me nude but I was very aware from about 10 minutes ago
when I'd visited his bathroom that the state of my underpants left quite a
lot to be desired. They were new ones my Mum had bought for me and I liked
them so much I hadn't changed them in three days.

"Hey, Thunderbirds are go!" said Carl looking at the shiny new cartoon
emblem on the blue briefs. "Down they come..." I let him undress me and
struggled out of my pants, a hand on each of his shoulders. He held my
briefs up. I could see them monstrously backlit on the wall.

"These are nice, Ben." he said in a teasing voice. "Light blue
with...er...brown stripes, is it?" He yanked them away as I tried to grab
them and gave them a closer inspection before throwing them behind me on
top of my vest.

"You really are the most disgusting little boy I've ever met." He held me
with both arms wrapped round my bottom and pulled me into him, kissing me
briefly on the chest and then the belly-button. For one second his mouth
paused above my penis but he'd moved it away before I had time to thrust
upwards to meet him.

"Nudie pictures" I said.

"Exactly. Nudie pictures it is! Only with a little difference..." he gave
an exaggerated devilish laugh and got up to change the record again. This
time he went for "Dark Side of the Moon". I don't think he was a big Pink
Floyd fan but this was one he played sometimes when painting his moon
pictures.

"Stand straight" he ordered. He took the longest brush he had, wetted it
and dabbled on some dark green. Reaching the brush out towards me he
circled the tip with the lightest of touches around my left nipple. I bent
forward, gasping at the pleasure, the strangeness and the thrill of this
new sensation.

"Oh yes!" he cackled. "Not your usual nudie picture. Tonight I'm going to
paint you all over...and I mean, all over!" We were both suddenly on the
verge of hysterics and I briefly had to sit down on the sofa to recover. I
examined his artwork as best I could and stood up again, bracing my body
for more.

For the next 20 minutes he continued to paint my chest and arms in green,
blue and black stripes with the occasional circle or tribal tattoo around
where my puny muscles had begun to show. The slick of the brush against my
skin tickled and aroused. I raised my arms for him to reach my sensitive
hairless armpits and he responded by flicking me delicately with little
spots of paint and water. It was mostly water and I was quite wet by
now. Even in this half-dark near-night there was a stifling heat - the
Summer of 1976 was one of the hottest on record - and Carl had removed
first his loose shirt and then his cutaway jeans and was now standing
before me in a pair of large, greyish underpants weaving his torso about in
a strange kind of dance, his brush poised like a snake, stiffened to
strike. I noticed that his cock was stiffened to strike as well, his pants
spotted with wet on the front. He crouched down and began again, this time
on my legs, curling vivid red and orange-spotted snakes from thigh to
ankle. With his finest brush he made some solemn marks on my face, my
cheeks, my chin, my brow.

Through all this we kept quiet but shared a deep sense of the occasion, the
humour of it, the erotic charge, certainly, but something else as
well. This was some ritual courtship, some ancient dance of seduction, an
initiation ceremony, both improvised and intuited from a deep, shared and
very male memory.

"Kneel down."

This was truly a command and I did as I was told, kneeling uneasily in
front of him, my back bent forward as if to be whipped. I watched my shadow
joggle crazily on the wall, a voodoo ceremony played out in jerky
slo-mo. Carl selected a thicker brush and prepared it. He played it with
the utmost tenderness down the length of my spine, tracing the small bone
structure with an almost scientific precision and detatchment. He wasn't
that detatched actually: when I turned to watch him, his erection was even
more obvious.

"Face down!" he ordered and again I obeyed at once. Replenishing his brush,
he stooped over me and began working on my buttocks, raised up to him
invitingly. I groaned audibly for the first time at the sloppy tongue of
the paintbrush, at the wonderful new sensation and giggled as he put on his
stupid voice:

"Ach so, the little boy wants me to lick his bottom now. V-e-r-y
interezting!"

Without another word, Carl made a single large upward stroke across the
entire length of my crack; I felt the bristles kiss my hole and move on up,
leaving a sticky wet residue, a sudden chill. He loaded the brush again,
this time mostly with water and retraced his path once, twice, a dozen
times. I was now moaning and giggling at once and getting near to some
point of no return. I had both hands around my penis and was batting it up
and down as quickly as I could. His last stroke penetrated me, my rear end
taking in a big mouthfull of soaking brush.

"Stand up, love."

I got up and faced him. He looked like some shaman or druid, his long hair
loosed and damp with sweat, the light from his eyes catching the candle
flicker. I grinned at him. I knew that I was allowed to break the spell if
I wanted, the same way he had fallen into his comedy voices.

"Show me yours" It was my turn to give orders and I reached out with both
hands and pulled down his pants.

"Can I paint you?" I asked.

"We'll see. I'm not finished yet."

We stood there admiring each other for some time. I reached out and stroked
his massive penis, raised it up again between my fingers and rubbed and
rubbed at his thick pubic hair, something I'd discovered by chance drove
him crazy with happiness and desire. My own erection had dropped off
slightly and squeezing it gently didn't seem to do much for it. Carl
reached out his arm and lazily drew a target over the top of my penis and
under my little bumps. I recoiled slightly at the cold lick of the brush
but then pushed my hips forward for him to have access to a bigger canvas.

"Come here, darling" he said, dropping the brush to the floor. He pulled me
towards him and lifted me onto the couch. He lay me down and pulled my legs
up slightly, lying his top half over my painted backside. Slowly he took my
penis to his lips and kissed it over and over. I immediately lenghthened a
half-inch in response and as I thickened he took me into his mouth and wet
me thoroughly with his saliva. He released me only to lick at my
barely-formed balls for a few seconds then resumed his delicate coaxing of
my rapidly-stiffening cock. He made long drawn-out up and down motions with
his head finding all sorts of angles for my relatively small member inside
his cheeks. His tongue ran ceaselessly around me, slippery as the
paintbrush had been, testing my slit, delving briefly below my foreskin,
lapping around and around. I lay back groaning with happiness, giving
myself over to the ceremony.

Gradually he eased himself away, pulled my legs down to relax them a bit
and then back up again, assuming a position higher up above me. His
erection brushed over mine and pushed up towards my navel. With a sudden
decisiveness he launched himself at me thrusting upwards. He supported
himself on the sofa, his forearms on either side of my shoulders, my legs
sticking up over his back taking some of his weight. He kept up a kind of
animal grunting that scared me slightly as the Carl I knew ceased,
momentarily, to be; or, at least, to be in control of himself and I saw for
the first time a plume of semen erupt from his slit, and another and three
more; five pre-emptive strikes aimed at my chest and stomach; five direct
hits. He was sweating like a madman and had a look in his eyes I'd never
seen before. I watched our co-joined shadows leap and fall, leap and fall.

I lay back as he rolled off me and dropped onto the floor. I felt the thick
globs of his semen on my skin and rubbed at them vigourously mixing it in
with the swirls of paint on my chest. I stood and let it run thickly down
my stomach and watched it turning blue and red and green. Carl was panting
slightly and seemed unsure what to do.

"Look!" I said in wonder. "Look what you've done!"

He looked up at me warily and got up off the floor. I let a multi-coloured
dribble of his spunk form over three fingers and reached up, annointing his
brow. I traced patterns over his face with the tips of my sticky fingers,
the same way as he had painted mine. We gazed at each other, both of us
taken aback and moved somewhere beyond time, beyond caring.

"It's getting late." Carl as usual snapped out of it first. "Let's get
cleaned up." He still wasn't quite himself but neither was I, not by a long
way.

"Carry me." I said, offering my arms. He picked me up easily and hugged me
close. By the time we reached the shower room we were stuck together, glued
and inseparable, joined by semen, paint and sweat in some ancient mystical
marriage that would last forever except, of course, for the fact that it
could not last.

We washed together silently, occasionally helping each other out with
shampoo, with those tricky corners. Something in Carl's manner bothered
me. Eventually he spoke.

"Ben...I'm...I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry...I just had to...I couldn't
help myself. You know how I feel about you...I would never...I mean, I
never meant to...planned to..." he trailed off uselessly. I looked up at
him not really understanding his concern, his fears, his hopes. I was
amazed to see big tears forming in his eyes and running unchecked down his
face. I'd never seen a man cry before.

"Carlie..." I was more than worried now, was quite scared in fact.

"Ben, I'm just so sorry...I'm..."

I stopped him, throwing myself at him with all my weight and juddering him
against the shower wall.

"Stop it!" I said, shouted almost. "Stop it! Please. Don't say that. Don't
cry"

We stood another full minute like that together under the shower, Carl
holding my shoulders rather gingerly, me giving him the full bear-hug
treatment. Eventually I looked up at him, his face somewhat recovered,
somewhat calmer now.

"Don't worry, Carlie" I said softly. "You're forgiven. Whatever it is, I
forgive you."

He looked at me looking at him, my eyes urging him to see the uncomplicated
truth of my words. He shook his head slowly and very sadly, leant down and
kissed me once on my, now clean forehead. There was a long silence.

"Time you were in bed, darling." he said. "Time we both were in bed."