Date: Mon, 14 Feb 2005 13:21:10 -0500
From: edcwriter@yahoo.com
Subject: THE PRIEST & THE PAUPER - 5

THE PRIEST & THE PAUPER - 5

Copyright 2005 by Carl Mason and Ed Collins

All rights reserved.  Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal
enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without
the written permission of the authors.  However based on real events and
places, "The Priest and the Pauper" is strictly fictional.  Any resemblance
to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.  As in real life, however, the sexual themes unfold
gradually.  If you would like to read other Mason-Collins stories, you
might turn to "Out of the Rubble" and "Castle Margarethen," both of which
are archived in Nifty's "Historical" section.  Comments on the story are
appreciated and may be addressed to the authors at edcwriter@yahoo.com

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both
adults and teenagers.  As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the
personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults.  If you are not of
legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you
trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral
dilemmas in your life, please leave.  Finally, remember that maturity
generally demands that anything other than safe sex is sheer insanity!


CHAPTER 5

(Revisiting Chapter 4)

Holding a drop of whiskey up against the light, he grinned.  Before he had
departed, the Bishop had told him to have the new dormitory room
constructed and to send the bill to the Bursar at the Diocese.  He also
suggested the food bill for his teenagers must be unbalancing the parish's
budget.  The monthly tabs could also be sent to the Bursar for the next
year.  Finally, he gave permission to the parish to hire one new teacher.
As long as he or she was skilled in remedial work and could work well with
homeless youth, Sister Superior might do the hiring.  "AH, that's good!" he
grunted as he sipped the whiskey.  "Not as good as having Shane in my arms,
but it's good."  With that bittersweet thought, Father Tom took himself
upstairs to bed.

(Continuing Our Story - Breaking Down Walls)

Clouds of cement dust rose as the heavy drill suddenly bit through the wall
at the end of the hall.  "There!" Joe Clancy muttered.  "That does it!"
Skillfully, he gradually enlarged the opening until he was able to enter
the large storage room beyond.  Looking back through the screen that had
sealed off the hallway, he could see the curious kids watching him closely,
their faces and bodies distorted by the heavy plastic.  "Ok, Henry," he
commanded his dust-covered helper, "let's get this mess cleaned up...fast!"

Joe was indeed working "fast."  He wanted to spend Christmas at home with
his family, not involved in a stupid little job that was beneath his
experience.  Still, it was the Bishop's money - and, at a time when jobs
were scarce as hens' teeth in Sherburne, that meant he'd promptly receive a
few extra bucks to spend on food and presents for his wife and kids.
There'd be no promises of payment that would take months to collect!
Within a couple of days, a new frame had been fitted into the opening and a
door installed, the wall around the door frame had been repaired, and a
deadbolt lock had been installed on the door that led from the storage room
into the stage area of the Church Hall.  Roddy Jamison had come in and
upgraded the electricity.  You couldn't ignore the Fire Code, even in
Sherburne!  After the walls and ceiling had been painted, an inexpensive
pad and carpet were installed on the floor of a room that was nearly as big
as the other room that the kids used as a dormitory.

While Joe, Roddy, and the other workmen were essentially focused on
finishing the work...and getting their money...they couldn't help but
notice the dozen or so teenagers who were always around.  Surprisingly,
these kids were polite and tried their damnedest to stay out of the way.  A
few had even offered to help, but that wasn't possible.  Union
regulations...  They'd heard that they'd been living on the streets only
weeks before.  Hell!  They'd seen this homeless crap around town - loud,
filthy, stealing, jostling people on the sidewalks, sometimes selling their
bodies in the bars.  How in hell was this new priest turning them into
human beings?

Slowly, by word of mouth in bars and at work, the word got around.  A few
of the workmen even began showing up occasionally at Mass - and that WASN'T
the rule at St. Patrick's!  Business and professional types, maybe, but
"real men" generally left such things to their women...  whenever possible!
(The "Lessons and Carols Night" had helped, for a few workmen had
reluctantly joined their wives if only to keep peace in the family!)  Over
time, an occasional male would even let Father know that "if he could help
. . ."  Fr. Tom was delighted, for he knew well that teenagers have a way
of growing up.  Damned few of his crew would go on to college or the
university.  They needed good role models among the workingmen of the area
and, eventually, the possibility of jobs.  Oh, sure, he suspected that one
or two of the guys who spoke to him had other things on their minds, but
most of them seemed to be on the up and up.  He was also beginning to
receive an occasional feeler from another group - middle-aged couples who
were still not reconciled to having lost sons in World War II or some other
tragedy.  "If an older boy were REALLY interested in being part of a family
. . ."  Slowly...slowly...  Hope is never realized overnight!

(A Recurring Itch)

It must have been a day or two after Christmas.  In any case, it was cold
as a bear's ass and it smelled like snow!  Sitting on a bench in a small
leafless garden between the parish buildings, a restless and frustrated
Shane had simply HAD to escape the Youth Center.  One more movie, exercise
session, or stupid comment about a girl's breasts and he'd have puked!  Oh,
sure, Christmas had been great!  He'd always remember Christmas Eve Mass;
everyone had been wonderful; dinner, unbelievable; and the heavy sweater he
had received felt super under his coat.  He was even pretty sure that Tim,
the new member of the Gang who had led the painting of the School, had
signaled his "interest."  Trouble was, a little sweaty groping or some
embarrassed jerking-off - or, maybe, even something just a little
more...tasty - was the very LAST thing he needed.  Besides, where in hell
could you do it...around here?  Nuns seemed to be everywhere!  And if
caught, what would that have done to his status as the de facto leader of
the Gang, a leader who was both respected and liked by everyone?

The simple truth was that this strikingly attractive redhead had not been
broken in on vanilla sex!  Ten years old when his parents and sister had
died in the fire, he had been taken in by a cousin - the same cousin to
whom he had turned when he recently fled to Quinassett.  Gradually, he had
learned that it felt good to be naked and have people play with you.  He
also learned that Cousin Pete would be extra nice to him after he had
willingly sat on the laps of buddies during a poker game.  When they got
liquored up, he occasionally got bounced on their laps and poked, but human
beings - even ten year olds - are pretty flexible creatures.  When he hit
puberty early in his twelfth year, the play got a little rougher, in part
because he became more responsive.  It wasn't until his genitals started
growing rapidly, however, that serious trouble began to occur.  Cousin
Pete, who had never married, simply couldn't keep his hands - or any other
part of his body - off the boy.  Over some months, sex became an obsession.
Eventually, Shane could look forward to being fucked several times a day -
often dry - by a drunken monster who was HUGE!  When he began to resist the
constant pain, he was beaten, forced, and/or subjected to a variety of
other indignities.  Now when his cousin's buddies came over, HE was the
entertainment.  In terror and sheer desperation, he finally fled.

Shane spent the latter part of his twelfth year and nearly half of his
thirteenth wandering eastern Connecticut and parts of neighboring Rhode
Island and Massachusetts.  People in this terribly depressed slice of
America were often very kind, allowed him to sleep in a shed or some
similar outbuilding, shared their thin soup, and even provided an
occasional odd job.  Now and then, a male - or female - host demanded more,
but after Quinassett that seemed to be an insignificant and easy price to
pay.  When he absolutely had to beg, steal, or sell his body for a meal or
shelter, he did.  A couple of times when in larger places, he had even gone
looking for "rougher" physical relief - and hadn't experienced the
slightest difficulty finding it.  Eventually the thirteen year old found
his way to Sherburne, Connecticut, where he joined up with a small band of
fellow "rejects."  Strong and intelligent, he quickly became recognized as
the leader of the "Gang of Six."  There was damned little sex that took
place in the ruined factory buildings and other places where they slept and
tried to escape the cold.  Sure, a little playing around and even one
memorable circle-jerk on the Fourth of July, but nothing serious...  Late
in their thirteenth year and, more and more as they began to turn fourteen,
however, Shane noticed that the boys began to talk constantly (and
lecherously) about girls.  His attitude towards such differences with his
friends was easy-going...kinda "whatever turns your crank."  Besides, the
beautiful and increasingly well-built lad had little trouble finding what
he occasionally needed in the back streets and alleys of Sherburne.

Sitting on the bench in the cold at St. Patrick's, Shane nervously licked
his lips as he remembered one guy with whom he had hooked up on several
occasions - a biker-type who worked on and off in the mills.  God!  El
Stupido, as the boys called him, had to be the fattest, ugliest, foulest -
and the most cruel - piece of shit he had ever encountered.  His pig eyes
peered out from a body covered with matted black hair; his immense beer
belly hung down over his belt so far that it threatened to unbalance him!
As far as Shane could tell, he didn't KNOW any words other than
profanities.  Still...and the boy sighed...Lee was one of the few people he
had met since Quinassett who could make his demons go away, if only for
awhile.  He could also make iron bars bend in his hands - and he liked to
hurt young boys.  As if in a trance, the young lad rose from the bench,
left St. Pat's, and began walking up Main Street in the dusk of a winter
day.

After quite a hike, Shane found himself among the oldest mills.  All had
been abandoned many decades ago.  Indeed, their broken windowpanes looked
down upon the newer mills and the town with that condescending manner
possible only for the very old.  Furtively, Shane went directly to a
sliding door that when rocked in a certain manner, clicked open.  His
senses acutely tuned to everything in his vicinity, the lad climbed the
rickety stairs to the third floor.  Carefully avoiding several patches of
rotten flooring, he made his way to one of the few rooms where most of the
windowpanes were still intact.  In back of a large piece of abandoned
machinery, he took out his pocketknife, slowly loosened a section of the
wide baseboard, and removed a few articles from a space in back of the
board.  Then he quickly stripped - coat, sweater, shirt, pants, socks,
shoes, and underwear - tightly wrapped the clothes in his coat, and forced
the packet back into the space.  Replacing the board, he made sure that all
signs of disturbance were concealed.  Then, as quickly as possible, the
shivering boy put on the ragged shirt, pulled the pants up over his legs
and butt (Aghh-h...He HAD grown some!), and jammed his bare feet into the
pair of worn-out shoes.  His big toe pushed through the front of one; the
sole of the other flapped loosely as he took a few tentative steps.

The darkness having fallen before he once again reached the street, Shane
made his way to a corner of town that one normally did best to avoid.
Arriving at a bar whose light barely showed through the multiple layers of
filth that coated its front window, the youth cautiously cracked the door.
Spying a mammoth, misshapen figure sitting at his usual table, he gave him
the high sign, and stepped back into the shadows outside.  Within a couple
of minutes, a mountain of flesh made its way outside and peered down at the
lad.  The smell of sweat, beer, vomit, and urine nearly overwhelming the
boy, the apparition wheezed, "Goddamn, Gutterrat, it's you!  Whadda you
want, you little bastard?"  "Everything, Master," Shane murmured
submissively.  "EVERYTHING?" "MASTER?" the giant answered sarcastically.
"You must need old Lee pretty bad!  None of that 'You can't do this, Lee,'
or 'You can't do that, Lee?"  "No, Master...  Everything.  I am yours...if
you will take me," Shane answered.  Shane suddenly felt the fingernails of
an enormous hand dig themselves deeply into his shoulder and cruelly push
him ahead on the dark cobblestone streets.

Several turns later, the giant stopped in front of an ancient wreck of a
house, pushed him down the steps to a basement entrance, and propelled him
through the door.  On the other side, he secured the door with heavy
planks, slapped Shane harshly on the side of the head, and forced him
towards the rear of the dwelling.  A second door had barely slammed, when
the giant lit several candles.  The flickering light barely provided
illumination, but it was enough for the boy to tell that he was probably in
a partially finished part of the basement.  "Your new place?"  Shane asked,
wanting to hear a voice...any voice.  "Shaddup, Gutterrat!  You know the
game; speak only when you're spoken to - and it's 'Master' when you do
speak!"  With nary a wasted motion, the giant tore the shirt, the tight
trousers, and the broken shoes from the boy's solid body, effortlessly
lifted him up, and literally threw him onto an old wooden table.  Slowly,
he stripped, donned nothing but a studded black leather chest harness, and
turned towards the youth.  Shivering in fear - and anticipation - the
youngster couldn't take his eyes off the terrifying figure before him.  In
the flickering light, it appeared that Death itself hovered over him.  Even
though his pig eyes seemed lifeless, the studs on the harness caught the
light, light that also highlighted the immense belly that began just below
the harness, ballooned, and didn't end until it left uncovered the last
five or six inches of his soft cock.  (In the name of God, how many inches
did it cover - and how long was it when hard?)  Greasy, matted black hair
covered every surface of his body like the pelt of a rabid animal.  Slowly,
it approached.  A filthy hand reached out and fondled the redhead's
muscular shoulders, chest, stomach, and thighs.  As if to snap up a fly,
the hand suddenly flicked out, seized the teen's heavy genitals, and
squeezed as if to reduce them to pulp.  Although Shane screamed, he also
quickly felt the blood flow into his cock and sensed that it had begun to
swell and lift from his body. "You've grown some, Gutterrat - and in all
the right places.  Everything, eh?  Oh, am I going to have fun with you!"
the Master chortled.

Abruptly, the redheaded teen felt himself flipped over onto his front side
and dragged down over the splintery table until the edge was under his
stomach.  As his legs naturally dropped towards the floor, he felt them
savagely kicked wide apart.  For an instant the Master fondled his muscular
buttocks, muttering, "Right pretty!"  Then, without warming, what seemed to
be a telephone pole was rammed up his butt until it bottomed out somewhere
up in the middle of his torso.  His eyes actually bugged out with the shock
and the pressure.  For a minute or so, the pain was intense, until, that
is, the Master began moving that pole and rearranging his guts.  As waves
of passion coursed through his body, Shane knew well that his itch was
being scratched...by a Master.  When their orgasms came, quite close
together, the lad felt that about two feet of his inner body became as
stiff as a steel beam and then exploded into flashes of light.  As their
roars reverberated against the old stone walls of the basement, Shane
blacked out.

He came to lying flat on the floor on his back, feeling that he was under
water and drowning.  As he tossed his head from side to side, he was able
to see the giant standing above and urinating on him.  "You did say
'Everything', didn't you, Gutterrat?"  "Yes, Master, Everything," Shane
responded submissively.  With that, the giant grabbed one arm and the
opposite leg, smoothly lifted him into the air, and slammed him back down
on the table.  For the better part of an hour, warning him not to cum, he
simply played with the youngster's body, especially his nipples, genitals,
perineum, and anus.  Nearly out of his mind with sexual tension, the
redhead could do nothing but groan, thrash around, and occasionally arch
his muscular body up off the table.  Finally, the Master had enough of his
fun, strapped ringed wrist and ankle cuffs on the lad, jammed him into a
tiny cage in the center of the room, and scattered bits of something on the
floor around the cage.  Smelled like cheese... He then blew out the
candles, slammed the door, bolted it from the outside, and left Shane in
the dark.  It was then that Shane understood the reason for the cheese.
Indeed, all night long there were sounds of scurrying in the room,
interspersed with an occasional wild outburst of squealing as a
particularly choice morsel was contested.  Naturally, he was never able to
see the animals, but he sensed that they were large and aggressive.  In
addition to being unable to move, the lad was so terrified that he was
scarcely able to breathe.  His eyes remained wide open in fear the whole
night through.  He HATED rats!

It must have been morning when Shane heard the door rattle.  The Master
entered, yawning and scratching himself.  Seemingly half-asleep, he stood
in front of the boy's cage and urinated on him through the bars.  When
finished, he dragged the nearly unconscious youth out of the cage,
growling, "You must be all stiff.  Let's see what we can do to stretch you
out."  With that, he hooked the rings on Shane's wrist cuffs to chains
descending from the beamed ceiling.  After the chains had been ratcheted up
so that the teenager had to stand on his toes, he fastened his ankle cuffs
to heavy bolts in the floor.  The result was that his legs were held
sufficiently far apart that his imposing genitals could drop straight down
between them.  With that, he stood in back of the youth, firmly gripped
Shane's hips, and entered him with one vigorous thrust.  After he had taken
his morning pleasure, he left the room, promising that he would return as
soon as he had enjoyed his bacon, eggs, and coffee.  In the darkness, the
lad hung heavily in his chains, the faintest of grins upon his face.

In time, the Master returned to the back room, lighted the tapers, and
inspected his subject.  After throwing several bucketfuls of warm salty
water over him, he sat for awhile on a stool in front of the lad.  Holding
his long scrotum in a giant hand, he slowly plucked each and every red hair
from its surface with tweezers, as well as the few hairs that wreathed his
long cock.  "Looks better, Gutterrat," he chortled, as he strapped a
three-inch leather ball stretcher around the now hairless sack and attached
heavy weights.  "Come to think of it, maybe you could use a little more
decoration!"  Humming a tuneless melody, the Master tightly fastened a
studded slave collar around the youth's neck and attached cruelly serrated
tit clamps to nipples that he already knew were ultra-sensitive.
Delighting in the lad's cries as he tugged on the chain that connected the
nipple clamps, he completed the job by attaching short, serrated clamps to
Shane's foreskin and those parts of his scrotum that were visible above and
below the ball stretcher.  Standing back, he surveyed the results of his
labor with pride.  The boy met his gaze submissively, his dry lips - now
beginning to crack from the salt - moving painfully to form the words,
"Thank you, Master."

The redhead didn't know how long he hung - heavily and in increasing pain
that he knew he so deserved - before the giant returned to the room.  First
removing the ankle chains and then the chains that held his arms to the
ceiling, he allowed the groggy boy to drop heavily onto the cement floor.
Kneeling beside him, he helped him to lift his head and swallow a glassful
of a tepid, bittersweet, slightly viscous liquid.  As soon as he saw the
youth beginning to revive, however, the Master continued his program.
Kneeling over the boy, his rancid smell in the youth's nostrils, the Master
positioned his now rock-hard dong at Shane's lips.  Willingly, the boy
received the immense pole, tonguing it vigorously before drawing it deeply
into his throat.  As the muscles of the lad's throat flexed on his weapon,
he came with a fierce cry, pumping additional liquid directly into the
boy's stomach.

Probably only moments later, the Master helped the thoroughly disoriented
teen to his feet.  His head was whirling, and his body felt heavy.
Vaguely, he realized that there must have been something in that drink.
Slowly, even gently, he assisted the boy to climb back onto the table.
Gradually, he got the lad to rise up unsteadily on his knees, widely
separating his heavy thighs and cradling his head in his forearms that
rested on the table.  "I have a special present for you this time,
Gutterrat, something that I finished only last night."  Though his vision
was blurred and he couldn't quite bring the object into focus, Shane beheld
a giant dildo in the Master's hands.  Carved of wood, it was so smooth and
polished that it might have been made of marble.  Dear God, is HAD to be a
good foot and a half long and nearly seven inches around!  Albeit hazily,
Shane could make out the prominent mushroom-shaped corona, the piss slit,
the hard rim, the frenulum, and every swollen vein and tendon. Before his
eyes, the giant dramatically coated the heavy object in a thick white
lubricant.  Though his senses seemed curiously deadened, the redhead was
also aware that he worked an enormous glob of the lubricant deep into his
still obscenely open anus.  Slowly, the great wooden cock began to worm its
way into his bowels.  Shane remembered letting out one shrill cry, but it
continued its merciless, inward journey until only its solid handle
remained in the Master's grasp.  The fucking that followed was something
that the lad would never forget.  As if in a great fog, he felt as if he
were climbing a towering mountain.  The path was steep; the passage over
great boulders and glaciers was torturous and he sometimes stumbled, but he
persevered.  However light-headed, he knew that he was approaching the
summit. Suddenly, for just an instant, he stood poised on the very top of
the earth - before his proud young body exploded into ecstasy!

When he returned to consciousness, Shane lay crumpled on the table.
Unbelievably, his head was clear, his body felt...regenerated and, for the
moment, the demons had departed his soul.  The "decorations" had been
removed; his body had been roughly wiped down; his ragged clothes lay
beside him, as did a roughly printed sign that simply read, "Dress and come
out."  When he limped into the room beyond the basement in which he had
spent nearly a day of his life, the Master sat in an immense, overstuffed
chair, holding what Shane assumed to be his house pet.  Appreciating its
lustrous brown coat and the affectionate way in which it cuddled up to the
giant, the boy hoarsely whispered, "Nice cat, Master."  Hearing those
words, the animal raised its head and looked directly at Shane, its beady
eyes gleaming intelligently in the light.  It was probably the largest rat
that he had ever seen!  "Go home, Gutterrat," the Master rumbled and
pointed towards the unblocked door.

(Coming Home)

As Shane, again dressed in his warm clothes, stumbled back into the
St. Pat's compound and headed for the Youth Center, he ran smack-dab into
Fr. Tom.  "Shane!  My Son...my dear boy...  are you alright?  Where have
you been?  We've been out of our minds worrying about you!"  "Oh, Father
Tom," the exhausted boy sobbed, "I'm so glad to be home."  For a few
moments, the two young men held each other, tears of relief running down
both their faces.  Finally, Father Tom said, "We've got to talk, you know."
"Yes, I know, Father," Shane answered.  Knowing that it was not the time,
the priest made a face and lightly suggested that the boy had better head
for the showers. "You smell like a dead rat," he grunted.  About ready to
collapse with inner laughter...black and acidic, the youngster sighed with
relief, repeated his intention to talk, and limped quickly off towards the
showers.

At Sunday Mass the next morning, Sister Superior paused in her prayers and
looked directly across the aisle.  Though on his knees, Shane was not
praying.  Rather, he was looking directly at Father Tom with such confusion
and physical longing in his eyes that it cut her like a knife.  "Oh, Sacred
Heart of Jesus," she murmured silently.  "The boy is homosexual.  Why
didn't I see it before?"  (Sister Superior had worked with adolescents all
her adult life; had four brothers and, generally, was one smart lady.  As
we know, she also deeply loved the redhead who, she had noticed, did not
take Communion that morning.)  On the way back to the Convent from Mass,
she spied Shane, again sitting in the cold on his bench in the little
garden.  "May I join you, just for a minute?" she asked with a smile.  "Oh,
yes, Sister Paul.  Please," the confused lad replied, rising.  Sitting down
on the bench and resting her hand on his, she said quietly, "You know, dear
Shane, one may be the greatest knight in Christendom, a young man with the
promise of God on his forehead, and a dear soul whom everyone loves.
Nevertheless, there comes a time when each of us must seek the help of
those among us whom God has designated to provide His help.  It is time for
you to speak with Father Tom.  He is a good man, he loves you dearly, and
he holds the forgiveness and grace of God in his hands.  I shall pray every
day...every minute...that you will do so."  Tears in his eyes, placing his
other hand on top of Sister Superior's, Shane thanked the nun and solemnly
promised to speak with Fr. Tom.  She quickly rose, smiled at him
affectionately, and promised herself that she would not speak with the
priest unless the boy failed to act.

In fact, in addition to having given his promise to his two great friends,
the boy desperately WANTED to unburden his soul.  True, he was still having
trouble getting over the idea that Father probably "hated him" due to their
sexual encounter - and he suffered from the deep embarrassment felt by any
adolescent when he contemplated talking to an adult about...sex.  In
particular, he was thoroughly confused about how he could possibly serve at
the altar with his hero after his experiences with Lee.  Nevertheless, he
determined that he would "take a chance."  Unfortunately, he would be
delayed by several days due to the fast approaching New Year.

(New Year's Eve at St. Pat's)

By eight o'clock on New Year's Eve, parishioners, dressed in their Sunday
best, were pouring into the Church Hall.  In Sherburne, it had always been
the party of the year.  Basically, the parish only tried to break even;
thus the cost of the tickets was always nominal.  This year, with the
coming of the popular new priest, spirits were higher than they had been in
two decades.  As the participants came down the stairs from the church
above, they found attractively covered tables set up in every side alcove,
as well as on much of the floor.  (Obviously, there was going to be a
crowd!)  Each table, designed for eight, held an assortment of "set-ups" -
mixers, seltzer, glasses, and ice - as well as party hats and noise makers.
Extra ice and mixers were available at the kitchen where one could also buy
soft drinks (not that many wanted them!) and beer by the pitcher.  A long
table near the kitchen also held a wide array of donated cold cut platters,
salads, a few hot dishes, and hard rolls, as well as cakes and pastries.
"Clancy Haynes and His Melodians," a popular band from the Storrs area,
were already belting out a variety of hot and smooth tunes from the stage,
below which an area of the floor had been reserved for dancing.  Behind
them, a blue curtain had been drawn to which was attached four enormous
gilded numerals..."1952".  It was a truly festive scene!

Father Tom was never more in his element.  He could not have been prouder
that this was "HIS" parish, and that "his" people were clearly overjoyed he
was with them.  He was a man in constant motion, greeting newcomers,
stopping by a table to schmooze for a moment, making sure that everything
was going smoothly, encouraging the timid to PARTY!  He even stopped by the
big table occupied by the Gang, joked with them for a few minutes, and
accepted a short beer from Shane.  Actually, there weren't too many other
adolescents in the crowd. (Sister Superior noticed and told several of the
nuns that a dance for the eighth graders, the Gang, and their friends
needed to be planned in the very near future.)  In fact, beyond a decent
turnout of those in their very late teens and early twenties, the bulk of
the partygoers were in their late twenties, thirties, and forties.  From
there, the numbers tailed off until one observed only a smattering of
"gray-hairs" and an occasional old grandmother, usually in black, who had
to be helped to her seat.  The nuns were out in full force, of course,
ostensibly to ride herd on the Gang and the handful of other adolescents -
though everyone knew that they were there chiefly to relax and enjoy
themselves.  God knows they had earned it!

As one might guess, the level of noise and hilarity gradually rose
throughout the evening, especially as the Canadian Club & Canada Dry, the
"7&7s," and the pitchers of beer worked their magic.  (Nobody got really
drunk - after all, it was a Church party! - but everyone was clearly
getting...comfortable.)  When the band took breaks, Fr. Tom pitched the
"50/50 drawing," as he did as he moved around the hall.  (For those of you
who come from other traditions, the "50/50" was the old standby of parish
parties wherein the guests purchased tickets for $1.00 or so.  A winning
ticket was drawn at the end - in this case after the New Year had dawned -
with the parish keeping half of the proceeds and the winner receiving the
other half.  It really kept people around, for you had to be present at the
drawing to collect your winnings!)  Every so often, members of the Gang
circulated through the crowd and sold tickets.  Shane's grin was almost
splitting his face as he told Father that the tickets were selling like hot
cakes!  In fact, many in the crowd were buying multiple tickets!  He also
proudly allowed that the Gang had itself pooled its dimes and nickels and
purchased two tickets.

The tables and the dance floor were packed, and nobody really got out of
line.  They were just there to let off a little steam, to escape the
drudgery that dominated so many of their lives, and to have some fun!  Oh,
sure, there were occasional problems.  Mel, for instance, just about had to
carry Paddy into the Youth Center bathroom.  Having gotten away with one
too many beers, rumor had it that he had upchucked his toenails!  (When
Sister Superior observed Brandon inviting a young lady into the Center for
a "guided tour," however, the bars came down...fast!  The Center was closed
for the evening!  If anyone absolutely HAD to get into the dorm, he could
see Sister Bernice, offer his explanation and, maybe, borrow the key.
Otherwise, the boys could use the Men's Rest Room behind the stage, just
like everyone else!)  Shane also had a minor problem when Tim got a little
high and made a couple of slightly "campy" jokes at the table.
Fortunately, so much was going on that only Shane really noticed.  As
unobtrusively as possible, the redhead got Tim off to the side, shoved him
a couple of times, and said that if he ever did that again, they would no
longer be friends.  Tim, a good kid, got the message and caused no trouble
during the rest of the evening.

In truth, the Gang was a little lonely as the evening progressed, for there
weren't that many middle adolescents at the Party.  Big Mel - whom the
girls (and even a few of the younger women) found "cute," especially given
the way that he had helped Paddy - did a little better.  So did the
somewhat more mature Brandon and Gordon, one of the newer members of the
Gang.  At least, they got their fair share of dances.  When they weren't
selling tickets, however, he rest of the boys generally had to sit at their
table, drool, and whisper...lecherously...what THEY would do if THEY were
on the dance floor.  Hasn't that always been the fate of teenagers?

Shane also did a bit better.  When in the Men's john, he stood next to a
really nice looking twenty year-old who suggested that he should stop by
his table - that he might enjoy some of his friends.  In desperation, the
redhead did just that.  It seems that Dave had gone to the regional public
high school where he had received a full scholarship to the University of
Connecticut at Storrs.  The young men and women at his table had either
gone to high school with him and/or were also at Storrs.  During the
breaks, they were usually joined by two younger members of the "Melodians."
The handsome young redhead, intelligent, mature, the obvious leader of the
younger set, was welcomed warmly by all.  Shane delighted in the relaxed
conversation.  Indeed, after gladly accepting the offer of a couple drinks,
he began to take full part.  Sandwiched between Dave and Ryan (one of the
Melodians), however, he suddenly stiffened as he felt Dave's hand on his
thigh and looked at him in some alarm.  "Relax, Shane," the young man
whispered.  "Everybody here is a friend; we all understand."  Colleen who
was sitting on the other wide of Dave (next to her friend, Darci) actually
grinned and offered him another drink.  As the boy gulped and tried to
relax, he felt the hand gradually move up his thigh.  "Oh, hell," he
thought and moved his legs a little further apart.  As Ryan got up to
return to the band, another of Dave's friends moved over closer to him,
placing his hand on Shane's other trembling thigh.  Under the table cover -
and under the cover of the kids at the table - Dave's fingers moved up onto
the increasingly prominent bulge in the redhead's trousers and began
sensually to explore its contents.  As the lad began to sweat and moan
lightly, the conversation at the table picked up as if by unspoken
agreement.  Indeed, one of the girls on the other side of the table
actually shrieked in laughter over something said by one of her friends and
the rest joined loudly in the merriment.

Unfortunately, at that very minute, the band burst into a loud fanfare,
Father Tom ran up onto the stage, and announced that the New Year was fast
approaching.  "Pour another drink, for it's time for the countdown!" he
advised.  (Pause.)  10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1...HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
Suddenly the old blue 1952 curtain was closed and replaced by a red curtain
that held the glittering numerals, 1953!  Quickly, Dave tucked a large
white napkin into Shane's belt and helped him to stand.  As the strains of
"Auld Lang Syne" - and the pop and rattle of noisemakers - filled the air,
everyone in the hall threw their arms around their neighbors' shoulders or
waists and rocked back and forth in welcome to the New Year!  An exultant
Shane grinned joyfully, lifted his glass, and wished his table companions
the very best.

After two or three minutes, Fr. Tom resumed control of the microphone and
said, "Before I let you get back to your dancing and fun-making, we have
one more thing to do!  (Laughter and shouts of "Yeah!"  "Get lucky!" "Do
the right thing, Father!" burst out all around the Hall.)  "Sister
Superior, if you will come up on the stage.  (Pause.)  Sister Superior,
will you please reach into this glass bowl and select the winning number!"
Hurriedly offering his apologies, Shane rushed back to the Gang's table
where the boys tensely studied the ticket stubs bearing their two numbers,
278, and 456.  "I'm happy to tell you," Fr. Tom continued, "that 640
tickets were sold - an all-time record at our New Year's Eve Party!
Therefore, the winning ticket is worth three hundred twenty dollars!"
(Cheers burst out, as well as shouts of "Choose!  Choose!  Choose!")  A
blindfolded Sister Superior turned the tickets over and over in the great
glass bowl, before finally plucking one out and holding it up for Father.
"The number of the winning ticket," he intoned, is 4 ("Yeah!" the Gang,
murmured.)...5 ("YEAH!" twelve kids shouted and held their breath.)...5!"
"Oh-h-h-h..."  (In truth, they didn't feel QUITE as bad when they learned
momentarily that the prize had been won by the wife of a worker in town
whose husband was locked in a life-and-death struggle with cancer.)  "Have
fun," Fr. Tom, shouted after the ecstatic woman had claimed her thick
manilla envelope, "and HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

As the dance music resumed, Dave came over to the Gang's table where the
boys huddled dejectedly.  Looking at the "456" ticket (and at Shane), he
murmured consolingly, "Wow...how close can you come?"  Shane introduced the
handsome collegian to his friends who greeted him warmly.  "Shane," he
exclaimed, "if you would like to work on that project with my friends and
me at the University, I REALLY hope that you will look me up."  Before
departing, ostensibly because there were several "hot women" waiting to
dance with him, he grinned at the redhead and said, "Here are my dorm and
home phone numbers." Pressing a slip of paper into Shane's hand, he
reiterated, "Hope to hear from you!"  The boys all looked at Shane with
even greater respect as the sharply dressed college man returned to his
table, extended his hand to the beautiful Colleen, and led her out onto the
dance floor.  Wow...some guys have all the luck!


(To Be Continued)