Date: Fri, 30 Mar 2001 17:10:32
From: Ganymede
Subject: Pandora's Box I

WARNING:

This story contains a graphic description of sexual acts
between a man and a MINOR boy. We do not condone child abuse,  how-
ever boy-love as described in this story is an entirely  different
matter. If the subject of man/boy sex offends you, if this material
is illegal in your place of residence, or if you are under the
legal age for such material, do not read further! You have been
warned! Read at your own risk!

The story is copyrighted under the pseudonym, Ganymede. A copy
has been placed in the Nifty archives for your enjoyment. Feel free
to post it to appropriate newsgroups or send it to your friends. The
story cannot be used to derive monetary gain. It cannot be placed in
archives that require payment for access, or printed and distributed
in any form that requires payment.

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FINAL WARNING:

If you are under the age of 18, if this material is illegal in
your place of residence, or if man-boy relationships aren't your
thing, then exit now and save yourself from a life of sin!


Pandora's Box by Ganymede and Christopher.


Introduction by Ganymede.


This is the first story on which I have collaborated. I have
done so as a special favour to a very good friend, actually two very
good friends, Steven and Christopher Kaufman. Of course, that is not
their real last name. It would be far too dangerous for them to do
otherwise. Not only is this my first collarboration, but it is also
the first story that I have written where I am a real character,
even if I am peripheral to the main story.

When Steven and Christopher approached me about writing the
story it was already decided that they wanted it to be told from
Christopher's eyes. That is a daunting task, to see the world from
the perspective of an eleven year old boy. It was like opening Pan-
dora's Box. Indeed, Christopher said that about himself the very
first time we met. The introduction that follows was written almost
entirely by Christopher. As you will see, he is a remarkable person.


Introduction by Christopher.


Everyone who knew Steven Kaufman knew that he liked boys.
Everyone knew that except me, and I was a boy. In fact, more than
any other boy, I should have known what he liked. My mother and I
were in Palm Springs for two days before I learned what he liked
about me. I became Steven's boy when I was eleven years old, just a
few weeks after my birthday.

In a way, finding out about Steven was like receiving a delayed
birthday present, instead it was not just one present, but a tide of
gifts that had started even before I arrived at his house. I was
over-whelmed at first. What boy what not be over-whelmed? I was
staggered by the attention that was suddenly lavished on me. Looking
back, the surprising thing is not that I didn't know about Uncle
Steven, because I had never met him prior to the family reunion, but
that I didn't understand anything about the effect I had on men like
him.

And I had an effect! I think I first realized I was interesting
to look at when I was four or five years old. People looked at me!
Mostly they were men, from teenagers to men who were old enough to
be my grandfather. Sure, there are a lot of boys who are so good
looking that they naturally draw interest from people, but in my
case it was more than that. The fact is that some boys draw the
interest of men in particular. That's how it was for me. You can see
them everywhere, those men whose eyes follow young boys when they
are at the mall, playing in the street, or at the beach. You can
find them wherever boys can be observed and whenever they are worth
looking at. However, I know now that there are other boys, boys who
are less aggressive, boys who would rather play music, or study art,
or go to ballet school. Those boys get different looks yet again.
They stand apart in the melee of boyhood, distinctive in some myste-
rious way, attracting attention in their own special way.

I became used to those special looks, those all too frequent
glances from men who I did not know. I had been subject to them for
as long as I could remember. Yet, it was more than mere appearance.
Such boys have an aura that goes along with a striking appearance. I
also had that aura, that mystique that would eventually become the
essential characteristic of my sexuality. But at eleven, I simply
did not understand. I merely felt uncomfortable when they looked at
me with their concentrated gaze. At first, I was embarrassed and
believed that I had done something wrong to gain their attention.
Later, I worried about my appearance, that something was wrong with
how I looked. Still later, I ascribed their interest to anything
other that what should have been patently obvious to me. By the time
I turned ten, I did not think it was unusual that they followed me
with their eyes. I expected to be looked at.

Strangely, after a while, I even started looking back. It was
part of a game that I played, a game that allowed me to escape from
my otherwise droll existence. Only later did I learn that they were
hungry eyes that searched me out. They were the eyes of men who hav-
ing seen me, fantasized about what I looked like without my clothes
on, that the looks were about lust and sex. However, I'm digressing
from my real point. This is the story about Steven and me. By the
way, my name is Christopher Bryce Kaufman. That's now. When I was
eleven, when I first met Uncle Steven, I was Christopher Faran. Five
days later I became Christopher Kaufman.

Finally, before we jump headlong into five days of my life I
would like to convey my special appreciation to Ganymede, although
that is obviously not his real name either. I could not have under-
taken this story without his help. He must get all of the credit for
writing. I could not have done this without his help. For myself, I
am happy that this story is here for you to read. Thanks, Ganymede.



Pandora's Box I: Friday Morning.



"For heaven's sake, hurry up. We have to leave, Chrissie."

That's how it began. In a rush. We were always in a rush. There
was just my mother and me living in the apartment. I didn't have a
father. Of course, I had to have a father somewhere, but I never
knew him. He was a graduate student at Harvard University, at least
that was what I was told when I asked about him. I'm not even sure
what college he attended. My mother vacillated between Business and
Law, but she was, and still is prone to exaggeration. For all I
knew, he went to Boston U., or worse. I began to ponder the question
of my parentage increasingly as I grew up. What boy in my situation
would not? I did not look like my mother. I had her blue eyes and
mouth, in fact my lips looked more like they belonged on a girl than
on a boy, but there the resemblance ended. My mother had blond hair
with a pale complexion. By contrast, when I observed myself in a
mirror, at least during summer, I saw dark brown hair that glistened
auburn on the ends and skin tones to match. I tanned quickly. For
all I knew, my father might even have been an Italian waiter from
one of the North End restaurants.

I ran down the stairs, taking the last three in one stride. My
mother gasped as I hurtled towards her, but I was ready. I caught
hold of the newel post and swung around it so that I came to an
abrupt and actually quite well-coordinated stop next to her. Two
suitcases, matching in color if not in size, were next to the door.
She had purchased them from Filene's Basement along with new clothes
for both of us. I had yet to see what she had purchased for me to
wear. It was going to be a surprise, but she was positive that I
would be happy with her choice.

"Chrissie, honey, I do wish you wouldn't do that. You could
break a leg or something."

I chewed off the end of my tongue. I wanted to tell her that I
wished she wouldn't call me `Chrissie', or `sweetie", or `honey', or
any other of the thousand pet names she had for me.

"Mom!"

I probably shouldn't use an exclamation mark there. I didn't
exclaim `Mom'. Instead, I whined. I wasn't a whiny kid. Not like
some boys. I whined when I didn't like being treated like a baby.

"Are you nervous, Sweetie? I know I am."

I shrugged and tried to but on a brave face. "A bit," I mur-
mured.

"Well Chrissie, it's only five days. There is no need for you
to be nervous. You know your cousins, Cynthia and David, so you'll
have someone your own age to play with. It'll be just like a holiday
for us."

I followed her out of the front door, closing the door behind
me. I remembered to give the door handle a hard pull and a double
turn just to make sure it was well and truly locked. We lived two
blocks off Brattle Street on a mostly quiet lane that not too
unpleasant most of the time. That was before most of the block was
torn down to make way for some multi-million dollar development
project that was owned by Harvard Corporation. Our apartment build-
ing was destined to be demolished sometime in the following year. We
lived there not because it was cheap, because it wasn't. It was
close to the hair salon where my mother worked. My school was half-
way down Mass. Ave. so I was used to walking a lot.

At least it wasn't raining when we emerged onto the street.
However, it had been raining most of the morning. There were puddles
in the brick paving and water was still running down the gutters. It
was a dreary, typical New England day. During the last week it had
rained three days out of seven. I followed her, pulling my wheeled
suitcase as she skirted the worst of the puddles.

"I think you need a haircut, Sweetie."

That as we waited for the lights to change at the corner where
Brattle Street joins with Mass. Ave. I watched a yellow Ryder moving
van pull to a stop next to us. The driver, swarthy, overweight,
seemed to be trying to stuff an entire donut into his mouth without
chewing. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, glanced out the side
window. I felt his eyes on me even as I quickly glanced away.

"What do you think, Chrissie?"

"Mom!"

Okay, I was whining again. My voice was high-pitched, a near-
soprano if I sang on key. My mother thought I could sing treble. I'm
not sure my music teacher would have agreed. Add high-pitch to Bos-
ton accent, throw in a little pre-pubescent scratchiness and what do
you have? My voice was hardly choir material. I did not like singing
very much at all.

"Do we have time? I wonder. Surely it won't take us two hours
to get to Logan will it Sweetie?"

"I don't know, Mom."

The truck driver was still looking at me. The lights changed
and the car behind him beeped loudly. Finally, the truck started
moving, although slowly. Even without looking, I knew that his eyes
still followed me. I expected that his head would turne back to get
a final glimpse. I stared down at the road as we started across.
When I reached the curb on the other side, I gave in to temptation.
I looked up, but only for an instant. I played my game.

I was being followed. There were Russian spies everywhere in
the Square. Many of the professors were doing top secret research in
top-secret labs scattered across the Harvard campus. My specialty
was,... Astro-physics,... No, Plasma Physics, whatever that was. The
future of American technology depended on me. I had better be care-
ful, get ready to run, plan an escape route for when the agents
inside the back of the truck made their move to kidnap me. Breath
deeply, try to stay calm, don't look, whatever I do. The slightest
hint that I am onto to them might cause them to assassinate me
instead. Just keep walking. If need be, I can use my suitcase as a
weapon. Swing it around my head and hit them low. Keep walking Pro-
fessor Faran. Don't stop. Now, he's looking at you in the rear
vision mirror. Get ready to run. It's a good thing I represented the
U.S. in the 200 meter sprint at the Australian Olympics,... Don't look
at him. Keep my eyes down.



"Chrissie, I think we'll stop by the salon. It won't take more
than a few minutes for Bryce to give you a tidy up. He always does
such a nice job with your hair."

There was no point in arguing that I did not need a hair cut,
or a `tidy-up' for that matter. Grooming, like clothing, was impor-
tant to her. My mother was a hairdresser and she worked at `Top
Cuts', in the Square. So we detoured, turned left instead of right,
and walked the two hundred yards to the salon. Ten a.m. was not a
busy time of day. I sat down in Bryce's chair and waited there until
he finished the final touches of applying a pungent perm to a gray-
haired Radcliffe professor. He bustled over, flapping his hands with
the same characteristic enthusiasm that he greeted all of his regu-
lar customers with. He seemed to be even more animated that morning
or was it just my imagination? Still, he beamed at me and it made me
feel welcome.

"Hi Katie. And a very special good morning to my very favorite
boy. How is my little Prince Charming doing today?"

"Okay."

"This is the big day today, isn't it Christopher?"

"Uh huh."

There was something about Bryce that made me feel, well uncom-
fortable when I was close to him. Not all the time, but sometimes,
and only when he was within an arm's reach. The rest of the time he
made me feel awkward. I had known him for almost as long as I could
remember, ever since my mother had started taking me to the salon. I
liked him. He was very entertaining. However, I was never quite sure
whether he was teasing me. I liked how he smelled, how he laughed,
how his eyes looked. It was like looking at Bambi. He was not only
very good looking, but he had an indefinable aura that struck a
chord within me. He was not like most men I saw around the Square.
He had a slim build and smooth, brown skin, a sunlamp tan. Even in
the middle of winter he looked as if he had just returned from some
exotic Caribbean island resort. For some reason that I could not
explain, he also always made me feel nervous.

"My, but don't you look handsome today. You do need a little
trim, though."

His voice inflected. I think that's what it was called when he
made a question out of a statement. He did it all the time. It also
unsettled me, made me even more taciturn. I don't know why, but
being around Bryce made me tense. I felt like I was being constantly
appraised, and that he knew something about me that I did not know.
My mother said that he was flirting with me, but it wasn't a problem
because I was still a boy.

"Just take a little here, Bryce," my mother interjected point-
ing to the side of my head, "Oh, and there too if you would."

"Certainly. It's just a tidy up. Well, are you excited Christo-
pher?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"It's your first time in California?"

Another inflection. One became accustomed to the nuances of
speech with Bryce. I nodded as he secured the green satin cloth
around my neck

"Oh, I do so love the west. You know I spent two years in San
Francisco just after you were born, Christopher. Then, I came back
here. Such lovely people over there. It must be the weather."

"We'll be in Palm Springs," my mother said absently.

"Ahhhh. With all those movie stars? Christopher will fit right
in, I'm sure. He'll be the belle of the ball." He tittered, twirling
his fingers in my hair. "Well, not the belle, obviously. But you
know what I mean"

"He'll be perfectly charming, won't you Chrissie?"

I shrugged, slouching in my seat as I tried to ignore them.

"It must be so exciting for you. I mean meeting Steven Kaufman
and all. He's so utterly handsome. Not like most of those actors in
Hollywood. He's a man's man. You know what I mean, don't you Kate?
He's such a fur ball. And you're going to meet him in person. I'd
give anything to go with you."

"According to my sister, the plans have been changed. We were
supposed to be staying at a nearby hotel, but it seems that now
we're staying at his mansion," my mother added delightedly.

"Oh, how absolutely wonderful. And he's so rich. You'll have a
fabulous time. You must take lots and lots of pictures for me. I'm
vicarious you know."

Bryce backed away a step and surveyed my head by cupping his
hands with his thumbs together and looking through the gap like a
movie producer studying a scene before action was called for. He
smiled at me, that strange smile of his. Beguiling, that's the only
word I can think of to describe that smile. It was like there was a
secret between us, only I did not know what it was.

"He needs something different, doesn't he?"

Bryce ignored my mother for a moment. My eyes met his. I felt
like he was looking inside my head, signaling something, something I
should have been aware of. I looked away first. He was very good
looking. He wore black leather pants, tightly cut from his waist to
his knees, then flared. There was a noticeable fold in his crotch.
Indeed, the bulge behind his exposed silver zipper seemed to be
accentuated whenever I glanced at it. He also wore a skin-tight
black tee-shirt, so tight that if you looked closely, you could see
the points of his nipples. Vaguely, I wondered what my mother would
say if I told her that I wanted a tee-shirt like that. I was smart
enough to know that asking her for a pair of black leather pants was
way out of line, but a tee-shirt like Bryce's could not be all that
expensive, could it?

"Something more expressive?"

"Yes. I think a little more stylish too?" Bryce suggested. "The
bowl-cut, well it just isn't right for him, is it? Not when he's
going to spend a whole week with Steven Kaufman."

"I'd like something sensitive, but more,... dramatic," my mother
intoned. "Attention getting."

"Yes, well, let me think. He'd look divine with tips, Katie.
And with those beautiful blue eyes of his, blond would be his
color."

"Hm,... I hadn't thought about changing his hair that much. It
would be alluring though, wouldn't it?"

"Mom?"

There I went again, whining. There was no point in saying any-
thing, not when she was like this. Her mind was made up, and when it
was made up I had nothing to say and no say in my life. I never had
any say in how I looked. It wasn't that I minded my hair being
totally restyled, because that was what they were talking about. A
few of the boys at school had hair that was tipped, dyed blond and
spiked into points. If it was done properly it looked great. I had
no worries on that account. Bryce was very good at his job and he
seemed to take extra care with my hair to get it just right. How-
ever, it meant that my hair would be cut much shorter. I had no
problem with that, but it would take much longer to get ready in the
morning if I had to use mousse each time. Not that it mattered, in
my mind it would be worth the effort.

"Yes, Chrissie darling. What is it?"

I scowled. I did not appreciate it when she called me by her
pet names when we were in public. I wasn't sure if being with Bryce
was public or not. It made me feel self-conscious. I was awkward
enough around him as it was. As always, I resorted to saying as lit-
tle as possible.

"The time," I said glumly.

She glanced at her watch. "It's okay, Honey. We'll have to take
a taxi instead of the subway, that's all."

So Bryce went to work. He was skilled with the scissors, not
like some hairdressers who have to make sweep after sweep to get it
just right. He cut most of my hair in the first pass, constantly
checking the length between his fingers as he went. Lengths of dark
brown hair with a reddish tinge began to accumulate in my lap. It
was all that remained of my bowl cut of the last three years. I
really didn't mind. There was a tentative sense that I had that said
maybe it was time for a change. I felt a little bit like a butterfly
emerging from its cocoon. In fact, I had a pervading feeling for the
last few minutes that I was becoming a different person.

"Well?" Bryce said. "Is it expressive enough?"

"Absolutely. You're good, Bryce, much too good to be working
here. You'll be working on Rodeo Drive one day."

"Oh, how I wish. I'd miss my Harvard undergraduates though.
Some of them are so sweet and innocent, Katie. I get weak-kneed just
thinking about them. There are a couple who come in here. They are
so,... hot. I simply live for when they come in for a tidy up."

"I bet you be able to keep them just as happy in Beverly
Hills."

"Well, it'd be fun trying, I must say. I do like my customers
to be happy, Katie. Especially when they're beautiful boys like our
Christopher," Bryce tittered.

I wasn't embarrassed. The way he said it was very complimen-
tary. He was always possessive of me. I smiled at him, looked up
with the intention of meeting his eyes to show appreciation, only to
realize that his eyes had immediately drifted away. I felt my face
flush, lowering my eyes instantly. I didn't understand why I had
become embarrassed. Bryce was a friend. Perhaps he acted a little
weird at times, but he was still someone who I thought I could talk
to.

He turned to my mother. "Now, about the color? How much lighter
would we like?"

"Oh, I'd go very light, Bryce. Wouldn't you? I think I'd get as
much contrast as possible so he really stands out, but you know me.
I'm an extrovert."

It sounded as if they were talking about decorating a room
instead of my appearance, yet I sat there with trusting ambivalence.
When my mother was like this, I had learned to be quiet. In the
past, her decisions had always turned out for the best. I was teased
a lot at school, but it no longer bothered me.

"Yes, very much, but then so am I," Bryce chortled. "Just on
the top, you think Kate? That's how most boys have it."

"Maybe just a little on the back. Not too much, yes, about to
there."

At this point, Bryce was beginning to prepare a concoction of
chemicals that probably needed EPA approval prior to disposal even
if they did not require FDA approval to be applied to a human head.
His hands slid into latex gloves with loud snaps. I had a vague
awareness of his hands moving through my hair, creating his art
while at the same time providing a not too unpleasant massage of my
scalp. In fact it was all rather enjoyable. Unable to join in their
whispered conversation about who the father of Cheri Hart's baby
was, I opted to ignore what was happening around me. It sounded like
it was a particularly vexing problem for my mother. My eyes closed
and I allowed my thoughts to drift into the aimless vacuum of a
bored eleven year old mind. Time passed.

"A little more, don't you think Katie? He'll want to make a
good first impression, and blonds are always so conspicuous."

"I'd like him to stand out, but not to be pretentious. I don't
think showy works at all at his age."

"Then he's quite light enough, I think. He'll be absolutely
stunning when it dries."

I opened my eyes and looked in the mirror. The difference was
startling, the change so great that it was almost another boy who
gazed back at me. Bryce had not finished, yet the final effect was
very apparent. My hair was blond-colored on top and part of the way
down the sides and back. Underneath the newly dyed layer, my natural
darker hair remained. When my hair was spiked the end product would
be very fashionable.

"Well, Christopher, what do you think about the new you?" Bryce
asked. He stepped back to assess my reaction.

"It's pretty trendy, Bry. It'll be really cool with spikes" I
admitted.

I think that was the most that I had said to Bryce since I had
known him. He widened his eyes with an exaggerated look that said he
was more than happy with the outcome.

"It's absolutely divine," my mother gushed effusively. "It
expresses him perfectly."

"Doesn't it though," Bryce bubbled. "It's bold. It's audacious.
It's right for him. It's so absolutely chic!"

He paused and rubbed his chin as he considered the overall
result. He waved his hands, making pretend spikes as he imagined
what my hair would look like when he was finished. Finally, he
snapped his fingers.

"Yes?" my mother asked attentively.

"The inner boy is certainly starting to come out, Katie, but
you know what's missing, don't you?" Bryce said expertly. "Detail.
It always comes down to the details. The composition is ideal, and
his features are simply magnificent. There couldn't be a more gor-
geous boy in all of Boston, but we need to draw more attention to
his features."

My mother nodded approvingly. I felt confused.

"Something to make his eyes stand out perhaps," Bryce added
thoughtfully. "Not shadow, of course. He is a boy after all,... but we
need to draw attention to his eyes. They're so beautiful. I don't
think I have ever seen such lovely eyes. Perhaps if his eyebrows
were just a tiny bit thinner on the ends."

"I don't think so, well, maybe,... Just a little narrower,
Bryce."

Bryce nodded and went to work. I had seen my mother getting her
eyebrows done often enough that I knew it did not hurt. It was not
like they used a pair of tweezers to pluck out the hairs. Still, I
sat there awkwardly as Bryce opened the drawer and brought out the
small electric tool that was used to do it. It was over in a few sec-
onds. From where I sat, I could not see a noticeable difference.
However, my mother smiled appreciatively. She picked up a hand mir-
ror and passed it in front of me. I had a momentary glimpse. My eye-
brows were definitely thinner at the ends than they had been. There
was a difference. My eyes seemed to be bigger, well not larger, but
more accentuated. I liked how they looked, although I realized I
might be subjected to a lot of teasing when I went back to school at
the end of the following week. I could live with it.

"You should be working in Beverly Hills, Bryce. Really you
should. It's just the right amount of accent," my mother said.

"Oh, I think I'd miss the wonderful Boston weather too much,"
Bryce laughed. `And like I said, I'd miss my Harvard undergrads.
What would they do without me? But let's think about our Christo-
pher. A pretty face always demands my fullest attention," he added
gaily as he expertly reconsidered my appearance by taking a step
backwards yet again. "Now what is it that's missing from utter per-
fection?"

"Of course, I have some new clothes for him," my mother said
pensively.

"Have you ever thought about an earring or a stud for him,
Katie? It's so modish for boys today."

"Actually, Chrissie and I were talking about it just the other
day, weren't we Sweetie?"

I nodded absently. Only the previous weekend, my best friend,
Paul Saunders, had gotten a stud in his ear. He wasn't the first boy
in my class to have one, and he certainly wasn't going to be the
last. I hated to be left behind.

"We could do a piercing right now if you wanted, Katie," Bryce
offered. "I'm sure Jeffrey won't mind. It's not like we're busy this
morning." He glanced around the salon and used his hushed voice.
"There's just that old lesbian from Radcliffe. I think she likes
you, Katie. In fact she asked about you when she first came in."

"Bryce!" My mother really wasn't shocked. She just pretended to
be.

"What would he like, do you think? There's a nice little red
children's stud that I saw this morning in the box. It's plastic of
course, but it looks just like a garnet. Or something in cubic-zir-
conium? I have some that look exactly like diamonds. I'm told
they're all the rage for boys nowadays. At our cost, it isn't all
that much. I suppose he really ought to start with a plastic stud,
just in case he's allergic."

"Hm, I don't know. What do you think, Chrissie? Would you like
a diamond? Later on, I think a plain gold ring would pick up your
color better. And of course it wouldn't clash with your chain. I
think we'd better go with the children's stud for now. I expect we
can find a ring in Palm Springs when you're ready for it."

She did not wait for me to answer. Later on it was going to be
a gold ring, no matter what I said. Paul had what looked to be a dia-
mond, but apparently wasn't. While I would have liked mine to be the
same as his, there was also something to be said for being differ-
ent. I shrugged. I wondered whether it would hurt. Paul said it felt
like a buzz when his ear was pierced, and it wasn't sore at all, not
even when the girl at the mall put the stud through his ear lobe. I
liked how it looked. It was daring, and while Paul was hardly dar-
ing, it did seem to make him more exciting to be with.

"I think we'd better do it in the back room, in case he
screams," Bryce teased. "You know I did a piercing in there just
yesterday. He's one of my undergraduates, from Harvard. He is so
charming. You'll never guess where it was?" He giggled. "He was big
the whole time too. So was I too. I don't know who was more excited,
him or me?"

"Bryce!" my mother exclaimed mockingly. "Not in front of Chris-
sie. You'll have him wanting one there next."

"One where, Mom?"

"A ring in your belly button, Sweetie."

I didn't know of any one in my school who had a navel-ring. Of
course, it was impossible to know for sure, but it seemed that some-
thing like that would spread through the rumor mill very quickly.
There was supposed to be one boy in the sixth grade who had gotten a
tattoo, at least that was the buzz in the playground earlier in the
month. The idea of a tattoo did not appeal to me very much. Neither
did the idea of people having rings in their eyebrows, noses, lips,
and belly buttons.

"Well, I guess the big question is should it be in his right
ear or his left ear?"

I returned to reality and began to listen again.

"I really don't think it matters any longer, do you?"

"That's true but I've always said it pays to advertise, Katie.
Besides, if a boy has something to say, he ought to come right out
and say it."

"Oh, Bryce! You are such a tease. Sometimes I don't know if you
are being serious or not."

The decision was made without further discussion. Bryce's into-
nation, and the emphasis on coming `right' out, left no question
which of my ear lobes was going to be pierced. I wondered why which
side the earring was in was even important to begin with.

Bryce bustled around, applying gel to my hair. It wasn't the
usual styling gel that he used. It smelled very different. It had to
sit in my hair for a long while, and the smell became increasingly
unpleasant the longer I waited. Bryce darted away to finish the perm
he had been working on before we entered. My mother ambled off to
the waiting room to find a magazine to read. The next time I looked
in her direction, I saw her smiling. She was reading People maga-
zine. After a few minutes, she stood up and came back to where I
was.

"Chrissie, you've got to read this. There's a very nice story
about Steven Kaufman. It sounds like there's a very good chance
he'll get an Academy Award for `Pandora's Box'. And we'll be there
for the awards, not actually where they give them out of course, but
still. It's so exciting."

"For directing, Mom?" I asked. "Or Best Picture."

"It doesn't say, but I expect so. There's even a picture of his
house. Aunt Sue wasn't exaggerating when she said he had a mansion."

She held up the magazine so I could see. There was a photograph
of Uncle Steven. He was handsome in a rugged manly way. His face
made me think of Sean Connery, only fatter. He was dressed in a
white polo shirt and he carried a tennis racquet. He had strong
arms, thick and dark, and covered with black hair. He had a nice
suntan, which immediately made me think that the picture was not a
recent one. That was until I realized that winter in Palm Springs
was probably very different to winter in Boston. While the picture
had been taken in a tennis court, and the house was quite some dis-
tance away, you could still see that the house behind him was spec-
tacular. I tried to read some of the article, but it was difficult
to concentrate. My eyes kept drifting back to a man I had never met,
or at least to a man I may have met when I was younger but who I
could no longer remember. More than ever before I looked forward to
meeting him. He had a serious face, but it was also a face that sug-
gested he was interested in the world around him.

It was just before ten o'clock when Bryce gave the finishing
touches to my hair. He had pierced my ear while the perm chemicals
were doing what perm chemicals were supposed to do. I was waiting
for the pain to start, but there wasn't any. It was over before I
realized he had started. The plastic garnet in my right ear did not
really suit me, I decided as I studied my reflection in the mirror
he provided. Luckily I only had to wear it for a few days. I liked it
a lot less than Paul's `diamond' stud, yet the extraordinary thing
was that I had a feeling of completeness for the first time in my
life.

"I think you said that Christopher has a necklace?" Bryce asked
as he stepped back to inspect me for what had to be the hundredth
time since I sat down.

"Oh, yes he does. Actually, his grandmother bought it for him
for his birthday," my mother said exuberantly. "You have it on now,
don't you Chrissie?"

"Mom! Of course I'm wearing it."

"Well show Bryce, Sweetie."

"Now that's very nice," Bryce tittered when I lifted the thin
gold strand up from underneath my shirt. "I'm surprised I didn't see
it earlier." Slowly he smiled. "Of course, Katie, it might not be
quite right the way it is."

He leaned over and whispered in my mother's ear. Not much, just
a few words, most of which I could not hear. I did hear `Kaufman'
and `Jewish'. My mother nodded.

"You're absolutely right. I should have thought of that. It
wouldn't look right, would it, wearing a cross in his house?"

"It'll be easy to take the cross off. I'm sure I have a pair of
tweezers in my drawer, unless Jeff has borrowed them again."

"What's up?" I asked curiously.

"Nothing dear. Bryce just thinks, and I have to say I agree
with him, that the cross is just a little bit too much. It clashes.
Anyway, it's not like we're all that religious, is it Chrissie?"

Bryce opened the drawer for the last time and took out a small
pair of pliers, the smallest I had ever seen. Working from behind
me, he fiddled with the chain for nearly a minute before he handed
the gold cross and its tiny clasp to my mother.

"There," he said. "That's much better." He rearranged the chain
so that it was outside my shirt. His fingers flitted away, brushing
against my cheek as his hand moved back. "It would look so much
nicer if it was against black."

"He has that black tee-shirt in his suitcase," my mother
offered. Then she smiled. "And as we both know, Bryce, clothes can
really express the inner person. Now, don't look Darling," she added
mysteriously.

Without elaborating she walked over to where our suitcases had
been placed behind the front counter. She knelt down and began to
open one. Since I had not packed my case, I had no idea what was in
there. I did know one thing. Over the last week and a half she had
been bringing various packages home with her after work. For a
while, I had assumed that the packages contained clothes for her
because she would want to look her best at the reunion, but eventu-
ally I discovered some discarded labels for clothes what were
clearly my size.

She returned with a precisely folded black tee-shirt, which she
promptly handed to me to put on. I glanced around shyly.

"I can't get changed in here, Mom," I said awkwardly.

"Of course you can, Sweetie. No one's going to see you, not if
you're quick."

"Mom," I griped. I glared at her. Bryce was standing a few feet
way and he smiled oddly.

"Don't be silly, Chrissie. Bryce isn't going to be bothered if
you change in here. I'm sure he's seen lots of boys without their
shirts on. Haven't you, Bryce?"

"Of course I have. If you're embarrassed, Christopher, I can
turn around."

"It's okay," I said moodily.

I started to unfasten the buttons of my shirt. It was the stan-
dard issue blue `Cambridge preppie' that nearly every boy I knew
wore when he wasn't allowed to wear what he wanted. I slipped my
shirt off and handed it to my mother. I managed a fleeting glimpse
at Bryce. He was looking at me, staring actually, as if he had never
seen a half-naked boy before. His Bambi eyes were even bigger than
usual, but the truly bizarre thing was that it was me who was Bambi
standing in the meadow. I felt like the hunter's gun was aimed
directly at me. I didn't remember ever feeling so exposed.

"Well, he's a bit skinny but look at that preteen six pack. I
can see someone's been lifting weights at the gym," Bryce chuckled
gleefully.

"Yeah, right," I grinned.

"Actually, Bryce, Chrissie's been doing Karate since Fall.
Didn't I tell you already? He's been going with our next door neigh-
bor, Lee. She's on the Harvard Karate team, or is it TaeKwondo? I
always get them mixed up. It doesn't matter. Chrissie is so lucky.
She's been giving him private lessons every other day and then she
stops over for dinner. If I didn't know better, I'd swear she has a
thing for him."

"Well, I'm sure she won't be the first woman who wastes her
time. Once he has a tan, he'll look positively stunning. I'm begin-
ning to wish I was going with you," Bryce snickered.

I was very aware that Bryce's eyes had not left my bare chest.
I was not what you would call skinny, but neither was I fat, not
like Paul. Whenever we were together in the playground there were
often comments, some of them not very nice about Paul's size. I
returned Bryce's stare with a stare of my own as I hurried to get
dressed again. It was the only way that I could get away from
Bryce's fixed gaze.

I took the tee-shirt that my mother handed to me and spent a
few precious seconds removing the remains of a price tag. The price
had been nearly obliterated when the tag was torn off. Unless I was
mistaken the original label had been marked with twenty-five dollars
and something. It was a lot of money for a tee-shirt. I realized it
was different to the Jockey tee shirts I usually wore as soon as I
started to put it on. I hurried, by then less from an anxious need
to be dressed again than from a confusing desire to see what I
looked like when it was on. The tee-shirt was exactly like Bryce's
tee-shirt, only smaller. He smiled at me again, but not like he had
ever smiled before. I had a strange feeling that if I was wearing a
pair of black leather pants, it would be impossible to tell the dif-
ference between us.

"You have to tuck it in so it's tight in front," Bryce com-
mented pointedly. "What I do is I cross the back over so it forms a
`v' behind me."

"Of course. That way it's nice and tight in front. You really
should have it tight because you definitely have a tummy worth show-
ing off, Chrissie. Doesn't he Bryce?" my mother added.

"Yes he does. And he's so nice and smooth too. I've always been
partial to fur balls, but I'm beginning to realize that I could eas-
ily be converted from bears."

I did not know why I felt my face flush. What was a fur ball? It
was the second time he had used the expression since we walked into
the salon. I did not ask. Instead, I did what I was told. As soon as
I had finished tucking the tee-shirt in, I glanced downward, follow-
ing a depressed line down the center of my body until it disappeared
under my jeans. Unless I was mistaken there were two tiny points
over my nipples, and a pronounced ripple about where my navel was
located.

"How wonderfully right," Bryce said with a peculiar lilt in his
voice. "He's absolutely divine isn't he, Katie?"

I don't know why I did, perhaps I was embarrassed about all the
attention I was getting, but I lowered my eyes. The funny thing was
that the bulge in Bryce's tight leather pants appeared to be even
larger than the last time I looked. In fact, there was a pronounced
crease that extended down his right thigh. Then, I was aware of the
silence and it was suddenly disconcerting. I glanced away again,
trying to understand why I felt so uncomfortable. At that moment I
would have given nearly anything to have a pair of black leather
pants.

"You don't think it's too much?"

"Oh no, not at all, Katie. If what you told me about him is
even half true, he's perfect. Someone is very lucky."

What Bryce intended by that comment also bypassed me com-
pletely. I was not even sure whether he was talking about me or
someone else. I certainly did not think of myself as being lucky.

"Oh goodness, look at the time," my mother screeched. "We're
going to be so late."

"There's usually plenty of taxis around this time in the morn-
ing." Bryce giggled in his self-absorbed way. "Why don't you send
Christopher outside to get one while you settle up in here? He'd
better be careful he doesn't cause an accident though."

"Chrissie would you be a sweetheart and go out to the curb. Try
to get one that isn't too dirty."

"Okay, Mom," I replied as I headed off on my mission not to
miss our 10.25 flight from Logan.

"Oh and Chrissie, will you put your shirt inside your case and
zip it up again before you take it outside."

"Oh Katie, don't be a stick in the mud. He's not going to wear
that boring old thing when he's in Palm Springs with all those movie
stars. Here, leave it with me and I'll keep it in my trophy room
until you get back. Now make sure you have a nice time in Califor-
nia, Christopher. I'll want to hear all about your adventures with
Mr. Kaufman when you get back."

I mumbled a fond good bye. I had a vague sense of Bryce taking
my folded up shirt from my mother as I took my jacket from the pegs
on the wall. I dragged my suitcase on its noisy little wheels and
went outside. It was refreshing, not all that cold but invigorating.
The Square was just beginning to come alive ready for the midday
traffic. I stepped out of the way as a group of students hurried by
on the way to class. Down the road, a motorcycle roared and a horn
blared. The sounds and smells were as familiar as the sights. I had
grown up in Cambridge. Except for shopping in Boston and a few brief
vacations on the Cape and last year's trip to visit my cousins in
Fort Worth, Texas, I had never left Cambridge. Palm Springs was a
long way away, so far that I dared not even try to imagine what it
was like.

I watched for an open taxi. The first four cars had passengers.
I spotted the fifth taxi and waved furiously, hoping that it did not
have a delivery stashed in the trunk. I beckoned hastily to my
mother and caught her eye. She hurried out, let the taxi driver put
her suitcase in the trunk and slid across the seat to make room for
me. I scrambled in after her. The last thing I remember seeing was
Bryce standing next to the counter. He appeared to be holding my
shirt to his nose.

The trip to the airport was uneventful, if you can call driving
down Mass Ave through Friday morning traffic, while your mother
tries to incite what was probably an unlicensed Lebanese taxi driver
to go even faster. We got there with twenty five minutes to spare.
The bad news was that there were long lines at every one of the
Coach-class check-in counters. There was next to no one waiting at
First class or Business Class, but that's the American socio-eco-
nomic system at work. At first my mother tried to explain to an eld-
erly couple that we needed to check in because we did not have much
time before our plane departed. Her request fell on deaf ears,
although I thought that the woman was beginning to weaken. So we
took up position at the end of a very long queue, knowing that it
was very likely that we would miss our flight to Palm Springs.

After a few minutes of fuming and feeling very frustrated, a
woman came out from behind the counter as a co-worker made a general
announcement that any one who was about to miss a flight, but who
had no baggage to check, should proceed directly to the gate. My
mother, in characteristic fashion went up to the woman ready to
engage in a heated conversation. I stayed in the line, watching with
both embarrassment and humiliation as my mother rifled through her
purse to find our tickets. A moment later she hurried over to me,
grabbed her suitcase and led me towards the First Class counter.

"Mom!"

"For heaven's sake, Chrissie. What is it?"

"Mom we can't," I implored. "It's not our line."

However she was already out of hearing range and I was not
going to shout since that would draw even more attention to us. It
seemed as if everyone was watching our spectacle. I felt more awk-
ward than ever. Yet, she did not stop. She seldom stopped when she
was driven like that. She bustled up to the counter and handed over
our tickets. I lagged behind, trying to distance myself for when we
were told we needed to check in at Coach class.

She turned around and beamed at me over her shoulder. She did
not appear to be agitated in the slightest.

"I don't know why I didn't notice sooner."

"Notice what, Mom?" I asked. I was turning red, I knew I was.

"The tickets, Chrissie. The tickets that Mr. Kaufman sent us.
They're for First class. Imagine that. I've never flown First Class
before. This is so exciting."

Our tickets were indeed for First Class. The woman at the
counter was very polite, even addressing my mother as `Ms. Karan'
when she asked if we would like someone to escort us to the gate.
Unfortunately, there was not enough time to visit the flight lounge.
Almost as soon as we arrived, we went on board the plane. There was
one unusual thing that happened when we boarded the plane. It was
just before we went through the exit door. I heard a girl who could
not have that much younger than I was say something that sounded a
lot like, `Mommy, do you think he's a movie star?' For a few seconds
I thought she was talking about someone else. Then, as I scanned the
other First class passengers, I realized that her comment might have
been directed to me. I smiled.

I would have liked the window seat, however, my mother was
first in line. She patted the seat next to her. As if I would sit
somewhere else? The seat next to mine, but across the aisle was
already occupied. The man was probably in his late forties. He had a
computer on his lap, one of those thin very expensive computers that
the Harvard Coop sells and only Harvard students and faculty can
afford. He glanced up from his work when I sat down. A minute later
I peeked at him from the corner of my eye, aware that he was still
looking at me and not at his computer. I tried to ignore him by
searching through the magazines in the seat pouch in front of me. My
mother was oblivious to everything and everyone except the People
magazine that she had purchased on the hurried rush to the gate. It
was open at the article on Uncle Steven and she was reading labori-
ously. Obliquely, I studied the picture of him, remembering Bryce's
comment that he was a man's man. I liked how he looked.

When I glanced up again, I noticed that his eyes flickered
away. I risked a glimpse to the side, turning my head to pretend
that I was interested in the people who were now straggling down the
aisle towards their assigned seats in Coach class.

The girl who thought I was a movie star finally went past us.
She stared at me, trying to decide who I was. I ignored her and
casually flipped through the first few pages of a magazine that
promised feature articles on cruising in the South Pacific Islands
and the upcoming Cannes Film Festival. I began to read the later
article industriously, reasoning that someone like Uncle Steven
would be more interested in that than traveling by luxury yacht from
one palm-tree-covered island to the next. After a few minutes, I
peeked again. At first I thought that the man across the aisle was
back at work on his computer. However, his head lifted and turned
slightly with the pretense of looking out the windows on our side of
the plane. I knew he had been looking at me.

I held my breath. Waiting. The plane would take off soon. The
passengers were all loaded. The next stop was Heathrow Airport out-
side London. The microfilm copies of the papers were hidden in the
soles of my shoes. It was the last place they would search if I were
arrested. The hostess walked down the aisle. For once, her Aeroflot
uniform was clean and pressed. I swallowed dryly. Five more hours
until freedom. It had been a difficult mission. This was the last
mission I would do for British Intelligence. That man across the
aisle from me? He has to be from the KGB. Their operatives all look
the same. Dark business suits made by tailors who are paid by quan-
tity rather than quality. Does he know he's sitting next to Christo-
pher Faran, the CIA's best spy? I think he's recognized me. He's
been glancing at me continuously for a while now. I wish to God the
plane would take off. Aeroflot is never on time. Damn, he's staring
at me now. He knows who I am. I could still make a break for it. No,
they've closed the door now. Is he carrying a gun under his jacket?
The pilot has started the engines. Too late. We're backing way from
the gate. It's time for a new plan. Why hasn't he made his move. He
keeps on looking at me. Why won't he stop looking at me?

"Chrissie, Honey, listen to this. `Steven Kaufman has always
made it his business to support others who are less fortunate than
himself. Major donations are made by the Kaufman Foundation every
year to the Boy Scouts of America and the Big Brothers Association
of California. In addition, he personally provides support for the
Daley-Lehr Home for Boys.' Isn't that wonderful, Chrissie?"

"Uh huh."

"He must be incredibly rich if he has his own foundation."

"Mom? "

The man's eyes darted away, gazing down at the first thing that
came to hand, his computer.

"Yes Sweetie?"

"Nothing! I guess we're going to take off soon."

"You aren't scared, are you Chrissie? Don't tell me my Karate
champion is scared of flying?"

"No Mom!"

I tried to return to my magazine. A minute passed, two three,
four minutes as the aircraft moved forward, stopped, moved forward
again. I stared out the window, watching the tarmac disappear
beneath the wings. I could feel his eyes on the back of my head. The
uneasy feeling was back.

"Mom, the man next me is staring at me," I whispered.

"Oh Chrissie. I'm sure he isn't."

"He is, Mom."

"I wish you'd stop imagining things. Chrissie."

"Mom, I'm not imaging anything."

Her response was to turn her head to the side and study the
passenger who was sitting across from me. Working on his computer,
at least to a casual observer, he seemed to be minding his own busi-
ness.

"For goodness sake, Sweetie. Anyone can see that he's perfectly
harmless."

"Mom, he's been staring at me since we got on the plane," I
whispered back.

"Don't be silly. You make it sound like people are always look-
ing at you."

"No, I don't. They do! Besides it's not just anyone," I
retorted. "It's almost always men."

"Now you are exaggerating. If any one looks at you it's only
because you're gorgeous. You might as well get used to it, Chris-
sie."

"Mom!"

I buried my face in my magazine, trying to shield as much as
possible of myself from his view. For the next hour or so it was
hard to tell if he looked at me after that, at least I didn't notice
him doing it. I began to enjoy flying. First Class was much nicer
than Coach class. Not only was there a lot more room between the
seats but the hostesses brought me whatever I wanted.

The hostesses even apologized that they weren't able to show a
kid's movie for me in our section of the plane. Instead, I got to
watch the movie that my Uncle Steven had directed, `Pandora's Box'.
Apart from the kissing scenes it was actually quite entertaining. I
discovered that I could relate to Thomas, the thirteen-year-old boy,
in his relationship with his mother. His life was even weirder than
mine. There were a few parts that seemed as they might even be true.
The movie was about halfway through when I twisted around in my seat
to get comfortable. My eyes met his again. This time he was looking
right at me. His laptop computer was still open and switched on, and
his face had an eerie glow from the display screen. He smiled like
he knew me, and I shivered.

Now I had to concentrate hard on watching the movie. I knew
that if I lost my concentration, I would give in to my impulse, that
peculiar need I had to see if he was still watching me. That he
might be, was disconcerting, but at the same time strangely reassur-
ing. Yet, I did not need to peek to confirm what I already knew for
a fact. I had to make myself breath slowly, timing both inhaling and
exhaling so that I remained calm. I wanted to understand why I was
so nervous. I had thought about it a lot over the last year, but
there was no logic to explain it that I could find. It wasn't that
the man was doing any harm, because he wasn't. Even my mother down-
played my concern. My anxiety became stronger, along with a pressing
urge to empty my bladder. That was the only problem with being a kid
in First Class, endless Cokes.

Finally, I could not stand it any longer. I unfastened my seat
belt and mumbled something to my mother about going to the bathroom.
I could feel his eyes on my back, boring through my new tee-shirt. I
hurried up the aisle. Fortunately, there was an open toilet. I
latched the door behind me. Man, was I bursting.

Like any airplane toilet, there was not enough room to turn
around, let alone stand and aim at the bowl with any hope of suffi-
cient accuracy to avoid splashing. At home my mother was strict in
that regard. If I missed, I had to clean it up. I guess I grew up
sitting down when most boys were standing up. I opened my zipper in
preparation for relief. Instead of extracting my thing through the
open gap, I unfastened the button at the top and pushed my khaki
slacks down to my knees. Just before I pulled my boxers down, I had
a vague realization that my thing was hard. Yeah, I know it's not
called a `thing'. It's properly called a `penis', and an `erection'
in its then current state. I learned that in Health Sciences class.
In the playground or on the way to and from school, I learned its
other names. There were lots of them. My mother called it a `thing'.

Anyway, my thing was hard. I could not remember it being so
hard. It caught in the opening of my boxers and I had to lift them
away before I could take them down. I could not help but look down.
It was the ultimate temptation to look. That part of me stood
straight out. It looked like a thumb, certainly no larger, with a
slightly upward curve at the end. The skin had a strange reddish hue
and instead of folding over the end like a nozzle, it was pulled
back to give a glimpse of the darker, crimson colored knob inside.

I resisted touching it for as long as possible. Some things are
just inevitable, I guess. I sat down on the seat, shoved my pants
and boxers further down and spread my legs wide apart. Then with the
fingers of both hands I endeavored to point it into the bowl. It had
a mind of its own and stood straight up. I tried again, forcing it
into an uncomfortable position that served only to make it even
stiffer. No wonder boys called it a `boner'. It felt just like there
was a bone inside it. I strained down but to no avail. Nothing came
out. My penis throbbed. I closed my eyes and tried not to think
about it. Instead, I thought about the man who had been sitting
across from me. I had the weirdest feeling immediately. It was like
a rush through me, starting where my fingers were, becoming a warm
flush in my face. I trembled. It was bizarre. I had played with my
penis before, what eleven-year-old boy has not, but it was never
like this. This was like nothing I had ever done before. My penis
was jumping, twitching every time my fingers stroked against it.
Some thing told me I should not keep on doing that, but there was no
way I could have stopped. The more I stroked it, the better it felt.
The warm flush became a hot glow. I wanted to curl my toes up. My
thighs jerked every couple of seconds, faster if I rubbed faster.

I made myself stop when my heart was pounding. It seemed impos-
sible that anything could feel so wonderful. It felt like my entire
body was concentrated there, pulsing with every beat of my heart. I
felt very much alive. It was both excruciating and painless. Slowly,
I realized that I was gasping. My head was spinning, suffused with
hazy images of the man in the plane, the man in the truck, even
Bryce. They were telling me not to stop. That it could only get bet-
ter.

I risked looking down at my penis. It was both serious and
amusing at the same time. So short, yet so hard. It felt like it was
alive. It quivered expectantly, begging me to keep stroking. I did
not want to stop either. I ventured to touch it again, trying to
convince myself that it would only be for a few more seconds. This
time I touched it right on the tip. I shuddered from head to toe,
experiencing a surge that was centered in my penis and spread out-
ward from there.

"Oh God."

Was that me? Had I said that? I breathed heavily, not daring to
touch the end again. `Daring'. That was what Bryce had said about
me. That and more. The new Christopher Faran was daring. His words
came back in a rush. My mind filled with thoughts of Bryce, and the
prominent bulge in his black leather pants, and without warning my
thoughts became fears. It was more than being Catholic, for my
mother had made it very clear to me that my being Catholic did not
include an over indulgence in confession and atonement for sin. Peo-
ple were only human, she said, not the perfect beings required by
the Church.

Then `gay'? The fact was that I barely understood what the word
`gay' meant and I certainly did not fully appreciate that it very
well might apply to me and what I was doing. I knew it was cruel and
that boys at school who were called `gay' tended to be a lot like
me. They weren't what might be termed `jocks' by any stretch of the
imagination. If anything, it was the jocks and in-kids who did the
name-calling. Some of my friends from school even used that word
about Paul, but only when he wasn't around to defend himself. I won-
dered whether they also used the word behind my back as well. Yet as
scared as I was, I could no more deny my thoughts than I could stop
stroking my penis. My mind dwelled on Bryce, trying vainly to recre-
ate him, to picture him, to see hidden what was behind the shiny
black leather.

It felt better if I touched the tip. That much was obvious, but
why? Why didn't they teach the really important things in school?
And why did they have to talk about sex in such an obscure way?
Well, the answer to the last question would be obvious to anyone who
has taken a Health Sciences class with twenty fifth grade boys. They
giggled and snickered though most of the class. I could only imagine
what would have occurred when we were told how babies were made and
`penis' and `vagina' were replaced by `cock' and `pussy'.

I touched the tip of my male sex organ, holding the plump lit-
tle knob between my fingers. I tried squeezing it. That felt nice,
almost too nice. I breathed out as slowly as I could and did it
again. I inhaled in a hurry.

"Wow!"

It felt just like a bolt of lightening had just shot through
me. My penis quivered with what had to be residual electricity. I
expected to see sparks coming from the end. There weren't any, but
it felt like there should have been. I took a moment to consider
what had happened. I had only squeezed on the knob part, but it felt
better than everything else combined. What caused it? And the bigger
looming question. Would I dare to do it again?

I knew enough to realize that the swollen bulb partially hidden
under the skin at the end was no different to other boys who did not
have the skin. Some boys had skin there, but the vast majority of
boys did not. The important thing was not to be discovered when you
looked at what they had. The left side of my brain, the part respon-
sible for indisputable logic went into action. I reasoned that it
was probably the bulb that caused the feelings, because if it was
the skin then boys who did not have skin would not have the same
feelings. Since that did not seem fair I went with the bulb. I
touched the exposed end gingerly. Other than being slightly moist
and very hot, it did not feel unusual. I caressed around the tiny
skin lip that had pulled back about an eighth of an inch. It felt
flexible, stretchy, almost as if it could pull back further. I won-
dered if it would hurt. Nothing I had done so far had hurt, although
I would have been the first to agree that touching my penis the way
that I had been doing felt so good that in a way, it did hurt.

Cautiously I tested the skin by easing my fingers along the
shaft of my penis. I trembled as the skin pulled tight at the end.
The electricity was back. I took a deep breath and did it again.
Slower. Pushing further this time. I could feel the delight building
as the skin grew taut. I could see it too. My penis jerked, strain-
ing between my fingers. Another breath. My hand was shaking. I was
going to do it this time and nothing would stop me except an emer-
gency warning from the pilot to return to my seat.

"Okay, Faran," I whispered to myself. "Just take your time.
There's no rush to do this. You can always stop if it hurts too
much."

I breathed deeply, taking air through my nose the same way that
Lee had taught me. I inhaled until my lungs were full. In Taekwondo,
meditation is essential to success. I focused my thoughts, away from
hazy images of Bryce or the man in First Class. I thought of one
thing, the sight of my bulb exposed like the skinless boys at
school. If I tried hard, I could be like them.

I gripped my penis resolutely. I closed my eyes, readied myself
for a sudden shock of pain because something told me it would hurt a
bit, and pushed down slowly. It was nice as the pressure built. In
fact for a moment it felt like something was being squeezed out the
end of my penis. The electricity hovered in the background. I could
feel the skin being stretched and it did not feel nice at all. Then
suddenly I realized what I had done and I opened my eyes and gaped.
You can imagine my surprise. I was eleven years old and I had never
seen my glans. It was purple colored and the first thing I thought
of was that it looked like a little cherry had been stuck right on
the end of my penis. However, I had discovered that I was exactly
the same as other boys, and that in itself was an enormous relief.
The skin closed up behind the flared ridge that ran most of the way
around the head. With the ridge made even more pronounced by my
tight foreskin, it looked exactly like a fireman's helmet.

"Okay," I sighed. "That wasn't too bad. Now what?"

I suppose some boys learn to masturbate as a matter of course.
They do it as part of a natural process of figuring out how the
thing works and how to put it to another use besides peeing. I
regarded my penis with a distant fascination, appreciating that it
had a different role thanks to sex education in the fifth grade, but
not at all certain what to do about it. It was bizarre, seeing the
end of my penis exposed like that. I gazed down at it, watching it
wilt slowly. After a minute the skin eased back over the softened
head and it was back to normal again. Finally, I was able to uri-
nate.

The walk back down the aisle was less onerous than I antici-
pated. He glanced at me momentarily and then went back to work on
his computer. Actually, he was not typing but reading. As I resumed
my seat I leaned to the side, pretending to locate the strap of my
seat belt. I craned my neck to see what he was reading. The only
thing I could make out was the name of something, a story perhaps
because there were lines of typing below. It had the odd title of
`Why Not Me.'

"What took you so long, Chrissie? I was beginning to think I'd
have to get a hostess to go in and get you out."

I shrugged. I had not been gone that long. Or had I?

"I had to go number two, Mom," I answered.

It was a good lie and one that was guaranteed to get her inter-
est diverted as well as reassure her that I was having regular bowel
movements. I settled back in my seat and tried to resume watching
the movie. The characters were still the same, but they were older.
The boy who I had identified with before was grown up and his mother
was an old woman. The action was in a very different place and the
movie was less interesting than before I went to the bathroom.

`Why not me'? I thought. Indeed, why not me? On reflection, I
had spent my entire eleven years, two weeks and two days pondering
the second of life's great questions, `Why Me?' Other boys had
fathers even if their parents were divorced. The closest thing that
I had to a father was Bryce, who even I was beginning to realize was
hardly the perfect male role model for a boy who was approaching
puberty. I excelled at nothing in particular. Although my teachers
unanimously agreed that I could do much better, my school work was
only a bit above average. I did not play boy-sports like soccer or
baseball, or at least not with any noticeable degree of success. I
was always picked for basketball teams before Paul was, but only
because I was marginally more popular and less likely to screw up.
It wasn't a matter of being clumsy. I was just not aggressive enough
to excel at sports.