Date: Sun, 29 Jul 2001 10:55:28 +0100
From: ben erikson <benhere23@hotmail.com>
Subject: My Summer with Carl: Part 6

Growing up in England: My Summer with Carl

A story by Ben Erikson

Episode 6


Our afternoon games and fantasies now sometimes led to bed. One time my Mum
called round for me unexpectedly to drag me to the nearest town for new
school shoes. Both Carl and I were upstairs naked as she called us from the
hall. We had to dress so quickly, were so desperate, I ended up with vest
and pants the wrong way round and hadn't quite got my trouser zipper right
when I appeared on the landing, clutching with awful conviction the shaft
of Carl's guitar. I had to go back to ruffle for my socks amongst the bed
linen. Up until the night he'd painted me, the nearest I had ever come to
bringing Carl to orgasm was when I had innocently (and in this area, at
least, my explorations were, believe me, innocent), run my finger across
the head of his already full-blown cock and taken the slick of seminal
fluid onto it. It's texture was an enormous surprise to me. I knew how
babies were made, all of that, but somehow I'd got the idea that semen
(just "it" - I had as yet no name for this, not even a dirty one), was
pollen-like, yellow, smudged and slightly crystalline. Just the kind of
thing, in fact, a modernist painter such as Carl would use to suggest a
sunrise or, maybe, rotting fruit.

I let it sloop into a pendulum on my finger and held it up, my head tilted
back, my mouth dentist-wide. I thought I could see tadpoles swimming in
its' murky pool. I stuck my tongue out and waited a long moment for the
drop. A shiver hit me at the salty taste and thick-spit texture. The room
tilted strangely; we were suddenly in a Cubist bar, knocking back
cocktails. Maybe there'd been an earthquake. I opened my eyes (when did I
close them? Do you remember?), and watched blankly as Carl pulled his
foreskin tight around the head of his cock, simultaneously arousing and
stemming whatever it was he felt.

My favourite thing was to lie snuggled in the crook of Carl's arm. I'd
stick my nose into the hairs of his armpit and breathe easy. Sometimes I'd
nibble at these hairs and, this way, loosened more than two or three. He
had plenty to spare although his chest itself was hairless save for two
long wires which reached aimlessly from his nipples. I loved these
especially and only began to leave them be when once my teeth went too
close and nipped a nipple, causing Carl real pain. I buried my face in
shame into his crook until he gave a relieving squeeze to my shoulders.
Another position I liked was lying sprawled indulgently on top of Carl, my
head higher up the bed than his and slightly to one side. He'd cradle my
buttocks in one hand, pushing the cheeks together with his pressure and
stroking me gently with the inside of his thumb. His other arm was flung
behind his head, his mane of hair. My arms would rest on either side of him
and stroke its' curls. In this position, we told each other stories,
invented silly voices or just talked or not talked depending on the moment,
depending on whatever.

He'd begun to slip into our talks the idea that the time had come for me to
stay away and concentrate on school, which started in two weeks. I knew
this would happen. There were no arguments I could prepare. How could I run
away from home? I lived next door. And anyway, I knew he wouldn't want me
to. These past few weeks, he'd taken me to task for my selfishness and lack
of thought, the ease with which I'd colonised his life and now expected
tribute paid on time, in full with no receipt. I stroked his curls between
silences. His left hand drifted lazily over my behind. I raised it slightly
to his touch and farted briefly.

"Ben, that's disgusting! That's really disgusting!" He rolled me off and
lifted his fingers to his nose. And he was calling me disgusting! I leaned
my face towards him and we sniffed my smell together.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about" he said. "You can't just carry on
like that. It isn't fair. No-ones going to like you if you carry on like
that!" This was a sore, sore point.

"You do." I said.

"Yes, Ben. I do. You know how fond of you I am. But this isn't about
me. You should be outside playing with your friends. Friends your own age."
That was all I needed, a reminder that my two best friends were him and
Wasim.

"I've got friends my own age" I said, although, in point of fact, no-one
had suggested that I hadn't.

"You'll be able to see me at half-term" he said consolingly. "I'll still be
here."

"That's ages yet."

"Six weeks after you start. Not so long. And anyway, a lot can happen in
six weeks."  I didn't want a lot to happen in six weeks. I wanted nothing
to happen, nothing to change. Six weeks not to happen. Not without my
Carl. My Carl.

"After all," he continued slyly, "six weeks ago you knew nothing about vot
beans can do to small boyz, ja?" He'd slipped into a cod-German accent,
taken from the corniest of B-movies. He was referring to a game we'd played
and played again to fill a rainy afternoon. I'd earlier discovered whilst
shifting through a draw, a thick, long leather belt, three-times as thick
at least as any I had seen before. It looked like something horses wore.
He'd used it in the game to tie me up. He'd stripped me to my underwear and
sat me on a kitchen stool, bound my ankles loosely with the belt and then
my hands behind my back with one of his silk ties. I'd been surprised to
find a small hoard of smart clothes and expensive ties which didn't seem to
fit the Carl I knew. He'd then spoon-fed me baked beans, I resisting all
the while with bean juice smudging my chin until my giggles let him in and
I was forced to take a mouthfull. He kept up a commentary in this crazy
accent:

"Ve haf vays of making you eat your beanz. Ve haf vays of making you fart."

I'd hobble like a carthorse round the kitchen table, laughing bean
fragments onto my vest.

"Ze prizioner iz ezcaping! Ze prizioner iz ezcaping!"

At one stage I had seriously to run for the bathroom and get on the toilet
quick. When I came back, the torture resumed again. It only stopped when I
turned on Carl and opened my mouth wide to show an orange cud of bean. He
seemed suddenly annoyed with me and tired of the game.

"Don't do that, Ben, love. It's not nice. I don't want to see that again,
OK?" No funny accent there.

I was so lucky to have found someone like Carl, someone so kind and
sweet-natured. Any one else in his position would have long since used that
belt on me.

The evening before I had to leave for boarding school, I hadn't seen Carl
for four whole days and nights. We'd said our goodbyes. I'd cried real
tears; Carl, I suspect, cried tears of relief. He sat me on his knee and
rocked me to and fro. He told me I was gorgeous; good enough to eat. I'd
see him at half-term, six weeks away. Be good, be brave and watch out for
ze beanz. I had to go to bed at 9.00 o'clock to make it fresh and zippy for
the afternoon minibus. Given that I rose at 8.00, that gave me seven hours
to wait tomorrow. That's a lot of zip even for a ten-year-old. Especially
for a ten-year-old.

I'd made a card for Carl. I wanted him to know I forgave him, didn't hold a
grudge; that I might, indeed, in time accept his letting me go like this;
his not tying me up and stealing me away into the night. It was a childish
replica of one of his moon paintings done in crayon and signed inside with
one red kiss. My Mum (bless her!) agreed that I could post it through his
door before I went to bed. I sneaked out round the back, my card in hand
and padded up the stairs to the window of the extension. I knew that Carl
was decorating this room now, would be in here tomorrow. I'd surprise him
with the waiting card, a gesture that might just about be enough to change
his mind and send him running for me before the minibus arrived. Once
inside, I placed it first on a beanbag, thought again and propped it on the
rung of his ladder just above the roller in it's tray. That way he wouldn't
miss it.

Out of habit I checked the door that led to the upstairs landing just out
of sight and sound, I knew, of Carl's bedroom. To my surprise it was
unlocked. I'd really have to have a word, the security round this place was
appalling. I shivered as I turned the knob, a better plan forming. I
listened a second and went back to the ladder to retrieve my card. How
witty, how artistic it would be, and how much more effective, to have Carl
find it on his bed tonight, to wonder at my ingenuity, the dangers I would
brave for him, the pains I would go to to verify our love.

Silently, I stooped down on the far side of the door and listened for
sounds of life. I left the door open behind me for a quick escape. My mum
would be expecting me about five minutes ago. I froze to the sound of Carl
muttering to himself from the bedroom. This was not supposed to happen. He
was going to mess things up again. I had to take a minute to get my
breathing right, so tight had it become. I crept almost on all fours to
where I could catch a discreet angle into the bedroom. A man I'd never seen
before was lying, naked, on the bed, bound, it seemed, with silken ties,
his hands entwined above his head. Carl raised the thick, long belt and
brought it down.

The next day I had to be coaxed up at 9.00. My Mum told me I was too old to
make a fuss, taking my introspection as a final sulk against the school
bus. On the contrary. I wanted out of here. I sneaked the matches from the
kitchen shelf and burned Carl's card in the bathroom sink and washed away
the ashes of the moon.

When I returned for half-term, Carl had gone. I'd thought about him on and
off these six weeks now but had begun to find it difficult getting his face
quite right. I was more mature now, no doubt about it. He'd notice the
difference, I was sure. Perhaps we'd pick things up again, although I knew
they'd never be the same. I pulled out my suitcase from the minibus and
turned to our house, then his. The "For Sale" sign outside his porch
creaked noisily in the first approaching storm of the Autumn.