Date: Tue, 16 Aug 2011 08:19:41 +0200
From: 510512@hushmail.com
Subject: Picture The Scene

This is a work of fiction; the subject matter of such will I think will
have resonances for many. It contains strong language and references to
sexual acts, therefore the usual warnings found at the top of the stories
on this website apply, please leave if by reason of your age or laws of the
land prohibit you from reading such material.

If you have any comments, please do not hesitate to contact me at
510512@hushmail.com.

Peace to you all.
Kenny


Picture the Scene

Len finally arrived home. Exhausted & stressed out; it had been a long,
long day and an even longer week. The weather was appalling, the Friday
homeward traffic horrendous, his mood foul -- why - that bitch he had to
work with had done his head in all day.

"Now Len, I don't think this is quite good enough, normally you are so
dependable.  Therefore my dear, perhaps if you were to..."

"Dear," he muttered under his breath, he remembered how her mouth always
reminded him of a cat's arse as she reeled out her 'just a few tiny
suggestions how you could improve.' Words seldom uttered from his lips
during the working day flew threw his mind.

"Arse face," this time shouting out loud. His shout relaxed him so he
added, "arse face, bas -- TARD!"

He threw his coat on the hallway chair, chucked his keys into the bowl
where they were kept,

"Well I'm not going anywhere tonight, that's me in for the night I'm not
going back out there."

Len lived by himself, he'd known since a teenager if not before that he was
gay and whilst he had often dreamt of having a partner the right one had
never turned up, not that he had ever really searched for one. And now,
well it was probably too late and besides, if he did find one that would
mean coming out to family and friends, not a scene he relished. For many
years he had persuaded himself that he preferred being alone, now, maybe it
was true.  Sure there was the occasional encounter, a little assignation on
holiday, the looks across a crowded room, the knowing exchange, or perhaps
the park, the `cottage,' the `tea-room,' the -- well it happened, but not
often. Perhaps the internet was his ideal partner -- always available, non
- demanding and gone when you wished it so. But also, during the last few
years Len had realised that what he desired -- with all the guilt
associated with this, was strictly speaking, illegal in the majority of
countries and the consequences of being discovered were -- well, as he
often thought, "let's not go there!"

His home was a simple town house -- a couple of rooms downstairs, a
couple of bedrooms up plus the usual facilities. It was neat, tidy and
unremarkable. He kept the window blinds drawn most of the time -- spoke
to his neighbours when they spoke to him; but generally kept himself to
himself.

But for tonight after such a week he said out loud, "I know what I need,"
and his mind raced.

He entered the kitchen, opened the fridge and poured himself a glass of
Chablis, glugged half the glass, put the bottle back, closed the door, but
then changed his mind and retrieved the bottle. Carrying the glass in one
hand, the bottle in the other he climbed the stairs two at a time and on
reaching the landing entered his favourite room, his den. Officially it was
the second bedroom, but whoever came to stay overnight? Many years ago his
mother had surprised him by arriving for a weekend but now, no-one. He put
the glass down; switched on his laptop and made his way to his bedroom
where he peeled off his work clothes before going for a pee.  At the loo he
slowly stroked his cock to encourage the pee to come, which it did. It
relaxed him even further.

"Mmm, that's better," he told the bathroom floor.

He returned to the den after donning a worn sloppy and slightly ripped tee
& a pair of old faded and somewhat shall we say `stained' dark cotton
shorts; his underwear was left lying discarded on the bathroom floor. Back
in his den he let out a long sigh as he sat down at his desk, gave his
balls a good scratch and emptied the glass. Looking down at his shorts he
spotted the tell tale dried stain -- "These need washing but they'll do
for tonight."

Len loved it in here; it was his haven, his sanctuary, his desert island.
Simply furnished, there was an old comfy sofa which was long enough to
stretch out, snooze, and, well you know -- find `relief' on. Also there his
old pine desk, now aged to a mellow golden hue, the reclining swivel office
chair, some `Billy' shelving from Ikea containing a wide selection of gay
literature both classic and modern, and on the floor an old faded Turkish
rug. He poured himself another glass.

"Well now, let's see who's sent me any messages."

He logged into his `Hushmail' email account -- Len enjoyed sending and
receiving somewhat colourful, erotic and some would say kinky emails with
similar minded men from around the world. He had no desire to meet them,
none at all, but their common interest kept him amused and it has to be
said, often aroused. Tonight there was only one and he smiled as he read:-

"Thank you for emailing me, I'm pleased you enjoyed the story. It's a long
time since I wrote that one for `Nifty' so had to re-read it. Even I got a
good hard-on which meant I was able to enjoy a slow, slippery wank. (I love
using lots of lube.) Why don't you read `The Boy in the Public Library?'
It's my best. Keep sending me emails, I love receiving them from my kinky
horny readers, tell me all, and I mean ALL!  Yours, Dickie Luvtocum."

The story in question had in fact been fairly crummy, poorly written with
endless, improbable and impossible sex. But Len understood the type of
reply required and regularly supplied them. At times he wondered why he
engaged in this mindless activity, but he did and so -- `what the heck.'

"The Boy in the Public Library," he mused out loud, "which section will
that story be in `fiction' or `non-fiction'?" He laughed at his own
inadequate joke. "Well, perhaps later; but for now what's it to be: some
porn, gay chat or perhaps another glass of wine?" He shrugged his
shoulders, as if unable to decide, but, surprise, surprise, another glass
of wine won the day.

Len often talked to himself, all the time in fact and sometimes even when
other people were present -- an aspect that worried him in case he said
something out loud that was perhaps, better kept to himself.

He switched on the one lamp filling the room with a warm gentle glow,
flopped down on the sofa, breathed deeply, sighed, and then drank some more
wine.

Spotting his latest paperback on the floor he leaned over and picked it
up. It had arrived from the ever resourceful Amazon just a few days
ago. This novel had been recommended to him by one of his more intelligent
email acquaintances but it had to be said that he was finding the story a
bit too much like his own life: too many hidden desires, not knowing who
you really are and conforming to the society you live in.

"Too much thinking about it and not enough doing it," he suggested out
loud, "just fuck the lad stupid and get on with it."

He lay back and opened the book at the folded corner; scanning down the
page to find where he was up to he then started to read.

He found it difficult to concentrate, bit by bit his mind wandered back to
the events of the day, "Concentrate, damn you, concentrate!"

One hand was holding the book but his other found its way inside his shorts
and without being aware of it; he began to play with himself.  He shuffled
on the sofa to get into a more comfortable position and carried on
reading. His spare fingers continued their dreamlike explorations, stroking
his cock - not wanking you understand just smoothing and stroking, perhaps
casually pulling back or twisting his foreskin, twisting his pubes and
gently manipulating his balls in a stress relieving way.

"Oh, come on, get to some action -" and with that he closed the book,
dropped it back on the floor and closed his eyes, "no, not tonight
Josephine, I just can't be fucking bothered."

The house was silent apart from the cooling fan of his laptop and the rain
pattering on the window pane. He listened to these gentle sounds, the
mesmerising rhythm of the rain, the soporific whirring of the fan, slowly
he felt himself beginning to slide into a gentle all -- encompassing
sleep. Stretching out his legs all the way down to his toes he let himself
slide -- such divine pleasure, he thought "two, well perhaps three
glasses of vino and hey `snoozeville'."  He allowed his slide to continue
and for a moment or so his other hand continued its `manipulations' adding
to Len's dream like state, but it too gradually ceased. His body felt both
tired and heavy, it had, definitely, been a very long day.

oOo

Some unknown time later he woke -- not with a start, but full in the
knowledge that something or somebody had woken him. His mouth was dry --
was that the wine or fear, his body stiff? With his eyes still closed he
listened to the normal house noises, the rain was there but the laptop fan
had switched off, `shut-down' he thought. He opened his eyes, it was
darker, night was falling.

He made to move, but there was a noise -- what was it, where was it, who
was it?  He listened again -- there it was again -- a scuffling noise
and foot stamping, out loud he declared, "sounds like somebody in the
garden -- what the fuck?"

Slowly pulling himself up from the sofa he hobbled across to the window and
flicked one of the vertical slats of the blind to look outside. It was
still raining -- not heavy and torrential but the sort of persistent rain
that; and I know this sounds really stupid, but the sort that really makes
you wet through.

The den was at the back of the house and looked out onto the communal
garden that served the block of town houses. It was well tended in a
functional way but he rarely bothered with it. The grassed lawn area was
regularly cut, the shrubbery annually trimmed back and paved areas for
barbeques or laundry drying were -- well, just that.

Just as he was about to let go of the blind he noticed a movement. For in
the corner of the lawned area, sheltering under the one tree was -- at
first he could not make out who -- a boy -- yes a boy, but was he a
neighbour or a visitor and furthermore what was he doing there? And yes, he
was stamping his feet.

He let go of the blind, "What the fuck, poor sod'll be wet through," he
thought. Once again he peered through a gap in blind, but his `Clochemerle'
twitch had been noticed for now the boy was definitely looking up in his
direction. "What the fuck," this time very out loud. What was that kid
doing there? He didn't resemble any of the neighbours' kids, he didn't look
like a criminal; he didn't look like anything -- just a teenage boy.

Once again he tried to peer through the blind but this time without moving
it. The boy was still looking up at the window; he seemed to know that Len
was there for he gesticulated with his hands in an almost religious manner,
hands apart and palms turned upwards and inwards in a pleading way. His
mouth opened and in Len's imagination he though the boy said, "Please?"

Len drew back from the window and sat down on the sofa. "Jeez," was the
only thing he could think to say. His heartbeat increased, his mouth
started to dry even further. It was obvious; the boy was soaked through and
wanted in from the rain. But why was he here? Who was he? What if...? Len's
imagination raced through several possibilities, some worrying, some
illegal.

Between the devil and deep blue sea Len was at a loss, "But you can't leave
him out there," he shouted to himself.

Emboldened Len pulled on the cord that allowed the blind to open
fully. Immediately the boy stepped out from the shadow of the tree and once
again silently implored Len for help. Len stood motionless, staring out to
the increasing gloom, suddenly, he moved away from the window. In darkness
he quickly but silently made his way downstairs to the kitchen and without
putting on the light peered through the slats of the Venetian blind. The
boy was still looking at the upstairs window - Len watched him more
closely.

`Perhaps 14 or 15,' he mused, `soaked through no doubt.' He smiled wickedly
to himself picturing himself helping that boy out of his sodden
clothes. His naughty hand re-positioned itself inside his shorts.

"Stop it, stop it now!" he whispered. (But his naughty hand disobeyed the
command.)

Rummaging through one of the kitchen drawers he found the key to the back
door, inserted it, switched on the outside light and opened the door.

The boy, about 20 yards away got a fright and almost fell into the wet
grass.

Len tried to say something then realised his mouth was now as dry as
sandpaper and his heart beating far too fast, "Yu can come in..." his
voice, thin, squeaky and barely audible over the rain. The boy looked
across anxiously.

"Eh," Len thought he said?

"I said come in out of the rain," his voice a bit stronger, "if you like
that is," he added cautiously.

The boy crossed the lawn in a few strides, he spoke as he walked, obviously
nervous, "I'm supposed to be meeting my friend from number 16, but my
mobile's died on me then it started to rain and I don't know where he is
and there's nobody in..."

"Number 16, Oh, David you mean?"

"Uh, yeah," for our boy was not really sure, he had after all only met him
once before.

The rain continued to pour down - "Well are you coming in or not?"

The boy was stood in the pool of light from the kitchen door. He looked Len
up and down, taking in his general attire and naughty hand.

"Well, are you sure, I mean if it's no bother or...?

"Just come in, you must be soaked through."

The boy cautiously but thankfully crossed the threshold; Len closed the
door behind him and in doing so caught the whiff of adolescent youth soaked
in rain.

Both collected themselves and viewed each other nervously. Len spoke,

"I saw you in the garden and wondered..."

Interrupting, the boy began again, "Yeah I saw the light on before you
appeared and wondered about knocking on your front door but I don't know
anyone here apart from the lad at number 16 and I don't know him that well
and then it started raining and then my mobile phone died on me and then he
didn't show and perhaps he didn't want to see me again and... " He stopped
himself, "I was so hopeful that he would show... you see we..."  He stopped
himself, and after a moment of recollection his eyes welled up and the
tears brimmed over.

Len shuffled, uncomfortable and uncertain what to do or say, crying teenage
boys were not part of his experiences. Furthermore, all wicked thoughts in
his mind dissolved instantly.

"Hey, no worries," suggested Len trying to sound light and casual but
realising too late that it didn't , "no problems, you can, er, use my
landline."

"I just oh, so wanted to see him again and oh but..." But for now he could
speak no more, his upset was stronger, audible and to Len, now very
upsetting. The boy slumped to his knees.

Len's heart broke, what was he to do, what was permissible, his whole human
instinct urged him to comfort the boy, to hold him, to calm him, to say
something of help, to... But... what if afterwards the boy said something
to his parents, or a teacher; what if he, Len the dependable could not
control himself...?

There was a difficult moment, the boys sobs the only sound.

Then allowing his natural human instinct to take over, Len knelt on the
floor and, tentatively at first reached out a protecting arm to hold the
sobbing boy's shoulder. This minimal comfort resulted in the boy breaking
down even further. Now with both arms Len pulled him closer; the boy came
willingly whilst his sobs and now heaving body continued. Len put all
worries behind him and with both arms encircled him in a loving and
supportive embrace.

"Fuck society," he thought, for once not speaking out loud.

For a moment neither said anything, eventually Len, whispered, muttered,
croaked, "there, there, you're OK, whatever it was has passed, relax, you
safe." He held on to him, rocking him like an infant.

They remained on the floor, the boy's sobs gradually ceasing, and his
heaving body relaxing.  They stayed there for some time; Len gradually
ceasing his rocking as the boy calmed and relaxed. Len placed his cheek on
the boy's head, pulled him closer, and, without thinking he kissed the
boy's head.

Neither moved nor reacted, until finally, after a few further moments of
silence and calm and almost by a mutual, sudden agreement they pulled
apart. The boy, still on his knees visibly shivered, Len stood and said,

"Look my name's Len but you need to phone somebody; your parents, a friend
and secondly you should really get out of those clothes, you'll catch your
death of..."

"Sorry, I'm so sorry for all of, of that crying stuff..." he shrugged
whilst rising to his feet, "I was just ...," he almost broke down
again. Len quickly took control, became the adult, the person with all the
answers, the knowledge.

"Hey. I've told you, no problem, now let's sort things out, I'm only sorry
that I did not come out earlier, it was foolish of me."

"No, I should have left ages ago -- but I so wanted to meet him again
-- and oh, thank you for opening the door, and by the way I'm Billy."

Len relaxed, "Well, Billy. What do you want to do -- ring someone, change
out of those wet clothes, tell me?"

Billy looked across to Len dressed in his shorts and tee - the stain on
those shorts was kinda obvious and the ripped tee -- was that a nipple
showing?  Billy shook his head both in confusion and negation," Neither,
can I use your loo? I'm kinda desperate."

Len's mind immediately went back into a whirl; uncertainties flooded back,
should he let this youth, this hunk of everything he desired go to his loo?
To say `No' would be -- well unthinkable, "Well er, no, just taka leak in
the garden" went quickly through his mind and instead, "Sure, it's this
way," was the reply.

Len pointed to the door and led the way to the bottom of the stairs, "First
on the right at the top."

Billy climbed the stairs and left a confused and worried Len at the
foot. Once again he overcame his desire to speak out loud, "he needs to go
home, but I so want him to stay, come on, and get a grip, there is no way
anything is going to happen. Stop it, stop it now."

He almost wanted to sit on the stairs and cry -- "Jeez, what a day!"

"What d'ya say?"

"Fuck," thought Len, "what DID I say?"

Len turned and saw Billy at the top of the stairs, "Oh, you've
er... changed."

For standing at the top of the stars was Billy dressed in Len's
bathrobe. "I hope you don't mind, I found this hanging behind the bathroom
door -- I've draped my clothes over the radiator, they might dry a bit."

The view from Len's perspective at the foot of the stair was of legs --
legs that seemed to go on forever leading finally to the darkness where the
bathrobe hid that which was hidden.  "Jeez -- does he have idea what he's
doing to me/" He could feel stirrings down below.

"That's fine," he said," but better still bring them down here, I'll put
them in the tumble dryer."

"Okay -- not be a sec."

And with a turn and a glimpse from under the revealing flap of the bathrobe
he disappeared from view. Len moved back into the kitchen and sat at the
table. The angel on one shoulder suggesting phone calls to thankful
parents, whilst the devil on the other suggesting he should have him on the
kitchen floor.

"Ah -- there you are," once again Len's voice had lost power and had that
squeaky sound caused by nervousness, fear or perhaps both. He quickly
grabbed the wet clothes from Billy and once again trying to take control
said, "I'll put them on the highest setting -- they should be dry enough
in about twenty minutes or so."

"I'm sorry to bother you with this, it's is not what I had in mind for this
evening..."

"Nor me," interjected Len!

Len stuffed the wet clothes into the tumble dryer and switched it on. He
turned to face Billy who was still standing dejectedly framed in the
doorway. The effect of the boy -- framed in the open doorway, lit by the
kitchen spotlights and against the darkness of the hallway was almost too
much for Len, for this was one of her innermost desires.

Picture the scene, a youthful, intelligent and hollywoodesque Len, is
preparing a delicious light supper -- his aristocratic (nearly a `Royal')
lover Simon, having just had a post coital shower appears framed in the
kitchen doorway, he is wearing Len's bathrobe, just a little to short --
"Hey you've not bothered dressing then."

       "Well, you know, I thought we might...?"

       "What again? Now?"

Len crosses to him, they kiss, his hands caressing Simon's body, finding
all his favourite places, feeling their joint desires rise between
them. Simon lets the robe drop to the kitchen floor and...

"Are you OK?"

Len, still on the floor by the tumble dryer shakes his head to dispel the
dream.

"Yeah, just..."

He starts to rise, once again seeing Billy's naked legs and the loosely
tied bathrobe, his angel and devil retake their places on their relevant
shoulder. Glancing down Len realises he has the beginnings of an erection
tenting the shorts and pointing embarrassingly to the tell-tale stain;
quickly he attempts a cover up and sits at the table. ("Did he notice --
perhaps not -- bit I hope so!")

"Come in, sit down, let's decide what's best to do." ("You'll say --
`fancy a fuck?'")  Billy pulled out a chair and sat -- the robe gaped
across his smooth hairless chest; Len gulped and tried not to stare. ("Is
he wearing any underwear or is it in the tumble dryer?")

"Do you want to ring your parents?" ("Hope not.")

"No point, they're away for the weekend!" ("Interesting...")

 "Well, er..," Len suppressed an evil thought, "I suppose we can wait for
the dryer to complete its cycle and then...," Len's voice trailed
off. ("Fuck -- he is so gorgeous.")

"Yeah, something like that." ("Well -- what do YOU have in mind?")

"Perhaps your friend at No 16 will be back?" ("He could come along too.")

"I don't think he'll want to see me again." ("...?")

"But why, just a few moments ago you were very keen, is he your best
friend, why have you changed your mind?"

"Just cos...," Billy shrugged and looked crestfallen; he pulled the bath
robe in more tightly almost as if cuddling himself, he stared at the table,
uncomfortable and unsure. Len was equally unsure, not knowing what to say
or do. Not wanting Billy to get upset again he sat quietly and waited; for
once no other thoughts in his mind.

Billy remained looking down at the table and in a voice not his own said,
"I've only met him once, just last weekend at a birthday party of this
school guy. Then things happened, on the way home, in the park."

"What, did you have an argument or did you say something?"

"No, things, other things just happened. We sort of arranged to meet
tonight."

They sat, the man and the boy, each uncertain, each confused, each deep in
their own thoughts.

Len looked across the table at Billy, "How old -- 15 -- 16 -- with
his life in front of him and yet he seems lost, this friend -- what's
going on, what's happened?"

And then -- as if the clouds of confusion passed away Len knew, - well
guessed what had `happened.'

"Jeez -- I see -- err..."

"Look, I've never said this to anyone before, and here you are a complete
stranger and an adult, but I'm going to tell you something -- something I
have to tell someone -- something I've known since I was a child,
something..."

Len interrupted this flow now certain what was going to come next and not
wanting to allow this `thing' to be said, this `thing' that had plagued him
for so many years, and here was a mere child about to confront him with it,
"

"Look -- would you like a drink, - I've got a bottle opened upstairs --
or you could have a coke or something or...?"

"I'm gay!"

"... I'm sure I've got some in the fridge -- let me look." Let stood
abruptly and looked back at Billy looking up at him, he stood still, again
uncertain of everything.

"I..., I kinda guessed, and you should know that I too..."

"You don't have to say it -- but I too guessed -- the way you looked at
me -- the er... stain on those shorts and the reading material at the
side of your bed -- sorry I didn't mean to spy but..."

"That's OK." Len sat down; he reached across the table still uncertain of
what was going to happen next. He laid his hand on Billy's arm. "This is so
difficult for me -- you are so, brave, so courageous, so right,
so... It's something I should have done years ago -- and now here am I
-- probably thirty years older than you, supposedly wiser, the adult -
huh what does that mean?" He paused, Billy looked as though he was about to
say something, Len held up his hand and continued.

"But wow it's my turn -- and I have to say this out loud - you are the
first person I have ever said this to -- the one and only -- for I too
am gay."

The two sat across the table from one another -- Billy reached out and he
too placed his hand on Len's -- nothing was said -- nothing needed to
be said and then Len started to cry -- the tears welled up from thirty
years of hiding -- thirty years of fear and solitude.

They sat, the only sound came from the tumble dryer.

And then it stopped. The cycle was over. Len rose from the table and
collected Bill's clothes.  "There still a bit damp but better than they
were."

"Thank you, I'll just go and..." Billy indicated the doorway and the
stairs.

"Yeah -- that's fine."

Len remained in the kitchen -- he knew he was going to do nothing with
this boy -- this young man for he had too much respect for him. Yes the
devil in him still wanted to climb those stairs and find him naked in the
bedroom -- but no -- it was not to be.

Billy reappeared -- now fully clothed. "Thank you -- I mean -- I
don't know what else to say..."

"No -- THANK YOU -- you've made me realise things about my life --
things I have not fully confronted before -- this has been..."  he
shrugged and his voice trailed off.

Billy looked towards the front door, "Well I be off then."

"How will you -- I mean I could give you a lift..."

"No, I'll can catch a bus from the main road, it'll be -- better."

"Yes, you're right."

"So, I'll go...?"

Len looked anxious -- old fears returning, "what if the boy said
something?"

Billy read the look on Len's face, "Hey, don't worry -- I'm not going to
say..."

"No, I should know that you are not that kind of young man, but thank you
all the same."

They moved to the front door, Len opened it. "Well its stopped raining --
at last, - shall I see you again -- or would that be unwise?"

"Probably - for both of us -- my street cred, your reputation."

"True."

"But if you like -- I'm often in the Public Library most Saturday
mornings."

"Well, we'll see -- but for now `Ciao'."

"Yeah -- Ciao."