Date: Mon, 9 May 2005 01:38:02 -0700
From: Guy Trache <pfantazm@gmail.com>
Subject: Options 3

OPTIONS 3

by Pfantazm

~~~

Author's Note:  So many changes.  But I think I'm catching back up with
life.

This story contains depictions of naked people, doing the sorts of things
that naked people will tend to do.  If the very idea of naked people
offends you, then it's a real shame that there's a mirror in most people's
bathrooms to go with the shower, isn't it?

There are issues and situations throughout this series that I freely admit
I am not professionally qualified to deal with.  Do not take any of it as
gospel, medical advice or any sort of replacement for therapy.  Mainly,
the point is to get through some ideas of mine and get people thinking
about them too.  None of what follows is real;  don't mistake one person's
scribbling for fact, either when dealing with abuse, or with sex with
people whose full sexual history you don't know.  Be safe.

~~~

My first weekend at the campsite was nice and bright and sunny.  I knew of
a secluded pool of water - a large pond or a small lake, your choice - and
I spent the day swimming and sunning myself there.  In the raw, but I
shouldn't have had to tell you that.

I come back to my tent in an old baseball cap and hiking boots and socks,
my hair no longer wet, and my body smelling of sunblock.

My zipper is down.

No, my *tent* zipper.  And I know better than that because in the back
woods there are all sorts of flying beasties that like to bite exposed
flesh, and I'd rather keep as many of them outside as I can.

I call out, "Hello?"

I hear movement in the tent.  Armed with nothing more than my seven-inch
blackjack, I peek inside.

It's Artie, the young man who'd tried to rape me the other day and got
off, but only on a technicality.  He wasn't a bad fuck.  A little angry,
maybe, but not bad.

"Gawd, don't you ever wear clothes?" he asks.

"Not while I'm on vacation," I say.  "You do realize that this is the
second illegal entry into a private space of mine you've committed in less
than a week."

"You had it coming!"

"The first time.  Maybe.  What about this time?"

"He's only seventeen."

"How is your brother doing?"

"You don't get to ask about my brother.  He's not legal age."

I raise my eyebrow and say, "To vote, maybe.  If I remember correctly, the
age here in British Columbia is fourteen."

Arthur just glares at me.  "Funny that you should know that number."

"I don't," I say reasonably, sitting cross-legged on my sleeping bag.  "I
might have the number wrong, but it's not eighteen."

Arthur is deliberately not looking at my crotch or my eye.

"I notice we've conveniently forgotten the part where Greg decided to join
the two of us that day.  He doesn't seem to have a problem with any of
it.  Only you do."

Now he's looking daggers at me.  "It's not right."

"Your opinion," I tell him.  "What I see that's really not right here is
you making decisions for your brother and expecting him to live by them.

"You may have a problem with me, with my age.  If you're going to insist,
I'll promise to keep my hands off, but it's not going to change much of
anything.  Someone else will come along that he's interested in.  And if
you keep kicking up a fuss, telling him he can't have what his body is
telling him he wants, he'll see you as the problem.  Not us.  He'll resent
you.  Then where will you be?"

"There's more to this than you know," Arthur said.

"Greg told me most of it, I think.  Your father hurt you.  He didn't go
into details, but he got the point across.  Then your Bible-thumping
foster parents found out how close you two were, and threatened to split
you up."

"Why the fuck is he telling you any of this?  What am I doing here?"  He
starts getting up.  "It's none of your business."

I pull him back down off his feet and into my lap.  He, of course,
struggles.

"Let go of me, you perv!"

"In five minutes."

"What?"

"I am going to hold you for five minutes.  After that, you can get up and
get out of here and never look back."

He tried to buck free from my grip, but I'm not messing around this time.
Over the next minute or so, he tries this again at random times to see if
I've let my guard down, but I haven't.  He does succeed in knocking us
over, so now I'm on my back, and he's on top of me.

"Let go!  You're hurting me!"

"Only because you won't stay still."

Eventually he gives in and settles down on top of me.  My arms move
subtly, changing from holding him down to just holding him.  My forearms
are folded up the length of his back.  He shifts, getting his own arms
free from between us and now they're on either side of my chest.  My face
is intimately close to his neck.

I whisper to him, "The touch of another man can be a wonderful thing.
It's a shame that you had that pleasure taken away from you."

He knows I'm not getting my jollies from this;  he can feel that I'm still
completely soft.  So Arthur has time to let the honest meaning of what I
said to him to sink in.

This time there's no shower around to fool me into thinking that he might
not be crying on my shoulder.  I say things like, "It's okay, Arthur, I've
got you," to help him feel better about having his breakdown while lying
on top of a naked stranger.

He clings to me, like a drowning man would to a life preserver, and his
sobs shake us both.

Long after his five minutes are up, his sobs gel into language.  "Goddamn
him for turning me queer."

"Is that what you think?  That your old man did something that made you
gay?  It doesn't work like that, Arthur."  I wipe the tears from his
cheeks with my thumbs and look him in the eye.  "As a younger man, I was
damn near married to a woman.  It took me until I was in my late 20's
before I figured out which way my switch was set.

"Here's the way I've got it figured.  You ever hear of a black box?"

Arthur had calmed down and seemed ready to listen.  "Like on airplanes?"

"Not exactly.  A black box is an engineering term.  It's a device that you
don't know what it does, but you don't want to open it up and see what's
inside either, because opening it up might break the thing.  All you have
are a few inputs that you can use, and outputs on the other side.  By
feeding the black box and seeing what comes out the other end, you can
figure out what the thing is for.  You with me so far?"

Arthur just nods.

"Everybody's sexuality is a black box inside their head.  You can't ask it
directly what it wants, and we sure as hell can't crack it open and figure
it out by looking at it, since the human brain itself is just a bigger
black box.  All we can do is try poking it with different thoughts and
actions, feelings and see which ones turn us on.

"Now take me.  I thought I was totally straight.  That's what most people
are, or think they are, and as long as that was working for me, there
wasn't really any good reason for me to go looking for anything else.

"Then it found me," I say with a smile, "and it fucked me up but good.
Best time of my life and I never thought it was possible.  I learned
something about myself, but I had to ask the question before I could hear
the answer.

"You, on the other hand, had to face that question way too early in your
life.  I don't know there's a kid alove mature enough to handle going
through what you did and wouldn't have trouble figuring out what to make
of it.  But your father only asked the question.  The answer's always been
right here."  I stroke his head.

"I could be all wrong.  I'm no brain surgeon, psychiatrist.  I'm nothing
more than a glorified repairman.  That kind of thinking has never steered
me wrong yet, though."

I know Arthur was listening.  He showed me that much later on.  He was a
far cry from accepting it at this point, but he *was* listening and that's
a start.

In the meantime, before there could be any kind of real revelation, he
clings to me like I'm his driftwood going down the river.  One of my hands
is flat against the small of his back, and the other lies limp at his
shoulders.  Arthur, it seems, has gotten perfectly comfortable with my
holding him like this, and he shifts to improve his body contact.

"You really are a handsome guy, Arthur."

He looks up at me, trying to figure out what *my* angle is.  I don't
bother trying to say anything more to convince him of something.  I let my
hand drift lightly across his back, keeping my touch light.  Arthur
shudders and his body tries to burrow into mine.

I play his back like a harp, varying my strokes, my locations, so he never
know where I'm going next.

The poor boy squirms and moans in delight.  Goose bumps appear.  His cock,
which seemed unsure whether it wanted to play earlier, had now reached a
definite decision.  Arthur moans and gasps, and he grips my body.  His
gyrations have him pressing his groin against mine.

When I finally decide that he's had enough, I smooth out the
hypersensitive skin of his back.  The pressure of my hands is firm and
soothing.  At long last, he comes down and he's breathing heavily.

"Oh, fuck, Roger," he whispers.

"Okay," I say.

He looks me in the eyes; his are smouldering.  "You want me to?" he asks,
like he's not sure he's heard me.

"As long as you do it properly."  My tone of voice isn't the least bit
accusatory.

"But--"

"Arthur.  I can choose to take something that was previously forced on
me.  The other option is to deprive myself of something I want because of
someone else's lousy decision-making."

He just lies there, no knowing what to say to that while I fish around in
my bag.

"But I guess," I point out, "that you're figuring this out."  I hand him
the lube.

I bend my knees back to my chest, and he fingers me, but you know his mind
is somewhere else.

He watches me, looking for who knows what on my face.  Some sort of
negative reaction I suppose as he sticks it in me.  The boy still doesn't
know how to be gentle, but he'll learn, I'm sure.  After we adjust to fit,
he starts fucking me like only someone his age can.  Fast.  Powerful.
Desperate, like he's already late for his *next* orgasm.  I'm just getting
nice and warmed up when he shoots into me.

For a while, his eyes are closed, his head is tilted back and his chest
heaves.  Then the excitement of the moment passes and he tries to pull out.

Only, my heels are behind his ass and in his way.

"Where do you think you're going?" I ask with a smile on my face.  "I'm
pretty sure I told you you had to give me a proper fucking this time, and
I haven't gotten to cum yet.  Lie down here."

He gets down onto my stomach again, gingerly.  He's still all-the-way hard
and buried deep within me.  As soon as his face is close enough, I reach
up and kiss him,  He's taken by surprise but he adapts quickly.  Our hands
are all over each other.  Arthur is manhandling my pecs and fingering my
nips.  I'm fondling his fucking muscles in his ass and thighs.  My heels
are hooked together behind his back.  Getting fucked always turns me soft
but I'm firming up again.  He goes after my neck, licking and sucking.  I
turn my head aside and moan.

His hips start to move, confined by my calves as they were.  He fucks me
nice and slow this time;  his cock is still probably tender from his last
cum.  My hands brace his ribcage, my thumbs at his pretty pink nipples.
They rub into them, moving the hardened pecs from side to side.  His hands
are hiding under my shoulders.  I pull myself more onto his cock with my
legs.

This is more like it.

My chest hair tickles and scratches his smooth skin.  He groans into my
ear.  I breathe warm air across his neck.  I spread my feet apart again so
he has more freedom to move and he takes advantage of it.

"Mmmm, yeah, Arthur. . . fuck me like a man.  This is the way it oughta
be.  Two hot bodies coming together, taking and giving.  You've got such a
nice dick on you, Arthur.  You feel my hot meat against your stomach?
When you cum, I want you to cover my cock with your jizz.  Get it all over
my thick meat and balls.  I wanna see 'em drip with your juices. . . ."

I keep talking dirty in his ear and he moans and gasps in mine.  He moves
faster, thrusting more forcefully into me.  His hips are pounding me into
the sleeping bag beneath us.

In one swift move he pulls out and jerks his cock fast.  He's cumming; I
can feel his hot spunk splashing into my pubes.

"Fuck, yes, boy, soak my dick . . . ."

Artie's face is beet red and he's choking out every breath.  When he's
done his body sags and he labours for air.

I take my cock in hand and rub Arthur's fresh cum into my skin.  My
fingers fly up my shaft and down again.  Artie's head is down, and I think
he's watching me.  He nudges my wet, sticky balls with his spent rod.  I
groan and let fly, covering myself with more juice.

Arthur soon lowers his body onto mine, smearing his front with the
remnants of our sex.  We kiss, more passionately than before.  Our limbs
envelop each other and we cuddle close.

I smile up at Arthur proudly.  He's come a very long way since he let
himself into my tent.  Hard to say how much of it would stick.  "How was
that?" I ask him.

"It was . . . .  Thank you.  You didn't have to . . . ."

"I know.  I did it because I figured I'd enjoy it.  I was right.  What
about you?"  I'm thinking, I'm gonna make you say it if it kills us both.

In the middle of his opening "I--," he yawns wide.

"You not sleepin', Artie?"

"I should go."

"No.  You should stay and have a nap with me.  We could probably both use
one."  I reach out and snag a small towel with my fingers.  I clean us up
a bit with it.  Arthur gives me no further backtalk.

The sleeping bag only fits us both if I unzip it and we use it more as a
blanket.  We roll ourselves up into it with me spooning behind him.  He
uses my biceps as a pillow and purrs happily surrounded by my warmth.

I lie there, watching over him, and feel him slip into blissful slumber.
I follow soon thereafter with a silly grin on my face.

I'm not real sure how long I was asleep.  Not long enough for the sun to
go down, but too long to catch Arthur sneaking off without saying goodbye
again.

Why did I clean up?  I coulda felt the dried cum pull out my stomach hairs
one by one when he got up.  Woulda been the perfect alarm clock.  Instead
I have to wait until one or the other of them runs into me again.

For that matter, why am I getting myself involved in this situation in the
first place?  As I said in the beginning, Greg and Art are not my usual
type;  I like the daddy type myself.  And that seems to be exactly what's
happening here.  I'm becoming some sort of father figure here.  It's
probably the last thing either of them wants, given how their real father
treated them.

I don't know where they're even from.  They could live up the street, or
they could be from Florida, on the opposite end of the continent.  They
have the flat, unremarkable accent that most urban North Americans have
these days.  And they could be leaving any day, too.

So why am I bothering?  They keep popping up, entirely on their whim,
which, would usually drive me nuts, by the way, and I'm not going to solve
their problems.  I know this.  As much as most people go through life
waiting for someone or something - Mr. Right, winning the lottery, the
miraculous change of heart of a soon-to-be-ex-spouse - no one can solve
your problems but you.  If you don't know how to make a relationship work,
you will be all wrong for Mr. Right, and you won't even be able to tell
which guy he really is.  If you are bad with money, there's no amount you
can win that will keep you from pissing it all away.  I'm not even going
to comment on the last example.

If your family has fucked you up but good, then all you can do about it is
keep living.  The longer you go on, and go on without them and without
falling into any other bad experiencesm the more normal you get.  You'll
never *be* normal, but you can approach it, and learn to imitate it.

I know all this.  Learned it through bitter experience.  Only Greg and Art
can help Greg and Art.  Maybe they can help each other because they know
*exactly* how fucked up their brother is.

So those are all the reasons why I shouldn't do a thing.  The next time I
see them I should tell them to go sell their crazy somewhere else 'cause
we're overstocked here.

But you and I both know I'm not gonna.

And I think it's for no more special reason than that I like them.  I
enjoyed toying with Greg that first day and drawing him out of himself.
Even Art was damirable in wanting to protect his brother.  It was still
bloody stupid, the way he went about it, but even that behaviour is
correctable.

I can easily see how both of them could grow into fine men.  I wanted to
be a part of the process.  Maybe show them a bit of normal so they know
what to aim for.

By now I'd want to hang around with them even if they weren't fucked up,
which is the best, most healthy reason I have.  That makes me feel better
about the whole thing.

~~~

Afternote:  Roger's memory about the age of consent in BC is sorta right
and sorta wrong.  According to what I was able to find out, anal sex is
only legal for the over 18 crowd, and as to whether any sexual contact is
legal under that age is still somewhat hazy.  But if it *is* legal, then
the age of consent is 14.  Life always has to be complicated, doesn't it?