Date: Sun, 02 Jan 2005 08:44:52 -0500
From: Jon Kent <jonkent@post.com>
Subject: STILL LIFE WATER COLOURS

DISCLAIMER

If reading erotic material is illegal where you live, read no further.
If you are under-age for this type of erotic material, read no further.
If you are determined to read more anyway, remember that in real life
you've always got a choice. Never put yourself in dangerous or risky
situations. Remember you always have the right to say 'No thank you'.


INTRODUCTION

The theme of this piece is 'First Time' sexual encounters, especially
those involving young people.

Sooner or later, these encounters are bound to happen.
Only hypocrites will deny that reality.

Consider this.

At what age does the young male realise that he wants to experience sex?
In the modern developed world that realisation seems to be emerging
at a younger and younger age. Puberty itself seems to be occuring at younger
and younger ages. At the same time, youngsters are bombarded with sexual
imagery, sexual invitations, sexual temptation. And some of these young people
are going to become sexually engaged with older people. This is simply
a description of what happens.

At what age does the youngster become an 'older' person himself?
Does he go to sleep an 'innocent' the night before his birthday,
and wake up a 16-year-old predator?

Sex between an adult and a 'minor' is illegal.
Each society determines its own age of consent.
Members of a society should accept the consequences of their own actions.

But we should be aware that such relationships will happen.
This is not so suggest we should condone them.
It is to suggest that we should try to understand them.

To what extent are the stories here fictional?
For the record, they are entirely fiction; they never happened;
for in a sense ALL stories are fictional.
Even the purest autiobiography is fictional in the sense that
events, people, incidents, situations are selected, remembered,
reconstructed, reimagined.

Nothing ever is as it was.

Read and remember your first time.

JON KENT




STILL LIFE WATER COLOURS

It's a warm afternoon in June. The sun still streaks the lawns but the
fierce heat has ebbed away. A gentle breeze ruffles the lake. You hang out
your second floor window drinking in the scents of summer. Voices carry on
the breeze to tell you that last bus is pulling out of the school
grounds. Only the boarders remain and even they've retreated to the indoor
swimming pool. The boarding house is yours and yours alone.

Not quite.

Finger nails drum at your door. You sigh and call, "Come in."

The door swings open. It is Toby. Still in his cricket whites. You'd
forgotten the Under-13 cricket practice was on. You're no cricketer. Tennis
is your love; tennis and boys.

"Waiting for mum, sir," says Toby with a confidence showing how comfortable
he is to be here with you. "May I wait here, sir?"

Toby doesn't feel the need to give you further explanation. He has the
self-assurance that beauty brings. Besides, he knows you like him; after
all, Toby is the top pupil in your English class. Certain for a
scholarship. Confident but never arrogant. For all the certainty that
beauty, sporting prowess and academic ability bring, Toby is rather
lonely. Lonely because he has no father; a mother and two sisters, but no
father.

"Make us some lemonade. There's a good lad," you smile. "I need to get out
of these whites."

Toby makes for the refrigerator. He knows where the lemonade us, knows
where the ice is, knows where the glasses are. All the boys do, boarders
and non-boarders. You are known for your open-house; you are strict when
you have to be, but otherwise you are open, easy-going, friendly. After
all, there's no reason for you not to be. You are in paradise and you know
it.

Ninety-nine boys. Ages, 8 to 13. Two floors. Average: 6 boys to a dorm. And
you are the Deputy Housemaster. You live in. The Matron lives in. But
you're the man of the house; the boys are in your charge, under your
orders. It is you who gets them up in the morning, watches them shuffle
sleepy-eyed to the showers, watches them as they strip and hang their
pyjamas on the brass hooks, watches them as they stumble like blind baby
mice under the spitting shower heads, gasping until the cold water turns to
a warm embrace that enfolds their naked vulnerable bodies, the water
coursing...

"A splash of gin, sir?"

"Excuse me?"

You're standing in tight white underpants and white socks, your tennis
shirt and shorts carelessly discarded. Toby does not bat his lovely
eyelashes; you are all men and boys together. You reach for track-suit
bottoms and a fresh T-shirt.

"Gin, sir. In your lemonade, sir? In MY lemonade, sir?" The emphasis on the
'my' makes Toby's request half comic, half serious.

"Neither," you reply. "Do you want to get us both into trouble?"

"But there's nobody here, sir, just me and you. We can do whatever we
want."

"Well, getting you drunk isn't something I want to do, young man. Lemonade
will do. Now park your arse over there while I get dressed."

It almost slipped out. "Park your 'lovely' arse," almost slipped out. The
quicker you are into clothes the better.

Toby settles down on the three-seater couch, buttermilk with thin brown
stripes. The boys love it. Four can share it, sprawl across it, fight for
possession, and treat it and the room as if it were their own homes, their
own rooms.

You settle down on the carpet in front of the boy. You are comfortable, he
is comfortable. Outside all is stillness, even the singbirds drowsed by the
late afternoon sun.

The conversation is fitful, desultory, haphazard as if being together were
enough. Toby finishes his lemonade, lays it aside and picks up your new
calculator.

"What's this?"

You lay aside your drink and reply, "It's my new calculator. But it's also
a dictionary, a thesaurus, and a translator. It translates English into
French, German and Spanish."

"Cool," smiles Toby and begins to explore the possibilities.

You are sitting directly in front of him. He is tall for his age, maybe
5'6" or 5'7", and slim, the kind of slimness that is elegant. Toby is
elegant. Longish face. Wide-set blue-green eyes. Eyebrows are brown slashes
counterpointed by the rosy pink slash of his lips. His skin is flawless,
creamy porcelain kissed by the sun. His skin is translucent. His cricket
shirt is open to the third button and you notice how translucent the skin
is; you can almost see the blue veins beat in his neck. His long legs,
white flanelled, are crossed at the ankles.

You reach forward and idly draw his knees together and apart, together and
apart, together and apart. You watch the creases of the fabric in his
crotch and you wonder about the skin below; how pale, translucent and
fragile it must be. You realise what you're doing and stop.

"Don't stop... that's nice."

You look up. Toby's eyes are fixed on the small screen of the calculator.

"It's nice... I like that... don't stop."

Together, apart, together, apart... you recommence the rhythm.

The white fabric across Toby's crotch has tented, or are you only hoping
that it has? Lazily, with a sigh, you run your thumbs along the inside of
each thigh, moving towards the tent. Toby widens his legs and keeps them
open.

"You have beautiful skin," you hear yourself whisper.

There is no reply, but the boy shifts along the couch as if making room for
you. You slide from the carpet to the couch. You sit alongside the boy. You
lean your head on his shoulder as if to share the calculator. You drink in
his smells: sweat and milk, that's what you're reminded of, sweat and
milk. You reach across and push the slash of straight brown hair from the
boy's eyes.

You reach down and slip open the fourth button on his white shirt, then the
fifth. You tug the shirt gently open on both sides. Toby shifts to make it
easier for you. You are fascinated by the translucency, the fragility of
the boy's skin. Creamy ivory. His nipples are tiny pink starfish reminding
you this boy is barely into puberty. You run your fingertips over his
nipples; they are hard little nubs; your fingertips pass over the skin of
his chest, his tummy, the stretch of white skin above the belt of his
cricket flannels. A bead of sweat is hidden in his tummy button. You
retrieve it, bring the moisture to your lips, and lick it away.

You want to explore further, but your erection is uncomfortable. You need
to straighten it. You rise for a moment, and...

And Toby reaches out and traces the length of your erect penis between the
thumb and first two fingers of his right hand. You look down at him. You
blush. You're about to push his hand away when he pushes his face hard
against your erection. He moves his face side to side; his nose fences with
your hard-on. You hear a whispered, "Please, sir, please."

Half in terror, half in desire, you place your hand on the top of Toby's
head, run your fingers through his thick straight lustrous brown hair. Toby
has one hand on your buttock, pulling you towards him; the other hand is
measuring your erection in tiny squeezes. You can feel your hips begin
reflexively to push your groin into the boy's face. He is making tiny
whines, moans and grunts.

It is becoming more and more difficult to think.

Then Toby's hands and fingers are on either side of your waist, edging down
the track suit bottoms, and again comes the whispered, "Please, sir,
please."

The track suit bottoms have built-in underpants. They are coming down,
too. In a few moments you will be naked, exposed, your arousal impossible
to deny.

Toby is kissing your pubic hair. Running his lips side to side along the
hair, all the time sliding down the bottoms inexorably. The head of your
stiff penis bobs up as if for air; you can feel the hot flesh against the
cool of the boy's cheek. Then as more and more of you is exposed, you can
feel the shaft pressed the length of one side of the boy's face.

A sudden jerk and the track suit bottoms are below your knees.

You want to step away. You want to kneel and pull the boy's trousers and
underpants down to his knees. You want him to be equal, to share
equally. You know that this elegant boy will have an elegant penis, that it
will be as hard as a boardmarker, hot, hard and tasting of heaven.

Toby is tasting you. Licking the length of your erection while one set of
long cool fingers gently kneads your scrotum. How can this boy, so young,
know so much?

Now the boy is taking you in, sliding the length of you deep into his
mouth, towards his throat. You are not hugely endowed. You are a
respectable 7 and something inches, but your penis is thick and you worry
Toby may injure himself. But the boy settles for half your penis and begins
to bob happily up and down on the shaft. You feel his warm saliva running
along its length. You look down and see the boy is squeezing the tent in
his crotch. You should be doing that for him but he refuses to allow you to
manoeuvre; Toby is in charge; you are there for the ride; go with it.

You won't be able to go with it for long. The boy's mouth is warm and wet,
his lips tight on your shaft as they slide its length again. You can feel
the pleasure across your entire groin.

Suddenly, almost without warning, your hips begin to buck; they are beyond
your control even if you wanted to exercise control. And the boy below you
is bucking, too. You squirt and spurt uncontrollably. You haven't cum like
this for a long time; your body and brain are making the most of it.

It's all too sensitive. You pull back. Frantically try to control your
senses. You look down. Two lines of semen drip from Toby's lips and
chin. Another two are splatted across his chest. A large gob of semen
obliterates his left nipple.

The boy's eyes are glazed.

He's licking the semen from his lips.

With his fingers, he rubs the semen on his chest into his skin.

You look down.

The tent is gone, but there are stains across his groin. Wet stains from
within the fabric rather from without.

Toby is grinning.

"Shit," he half-whispers. "I didn't know it could be as good at that."

He looks at you. You look down at yourself. Your dripping semi-tumescent
cock is hanging over your track suit bottoms. Damn, you wanted to wear them
for tennis later.

Toby stands up.

"Sir, sir, could you do me a favour? I'd better take my cricket stuff off
here. Change here, I mean. Can you throw it in the school laundry, please?
Mum's not dumb. She'll know what this stuff is." He points to the stains on
his shirt, his trousers. "Sir, sir, are you listening, sir?" The boy is
stripping already. "You, too, sir, you, too."

You pull yourself together.

"Yes, you're right. When's your mother picking you up?"

"Five thirty. About half an hour. Hey, maybe we should take a shower,
sir. Together, sir."

By now, you're both naked. You were right. The boy's penis and balls are
beautiful. He is beautiful. Every square inch of his body and soul is
beautiful.

You join his laughter.

"A shower, yes. Together, no. We don't want people to think we're a couple
of perverts."

"I'm too young to be a pervert," he laughs. You smack his bare ass as you
head for the showers.

In the showers, separate showers, you can't resist asking: "Toby, have you
ever done anything like this before?"

"Oh, no, sir. I've seen stuff in magazines, and Ben had a porno movie, but
I've never actually done stuff. Well, not with another person, I mean."

You can't resist asking the obvious: "But why me, Toby, why me?"

A prolonged silence. You begin to doubt if the boy can put it into words,
but he tries.

"I'm not sure. But I knew it would be okay with you. I mean, if you wanted
to, it would be great. But if you didn't want to, you wouldn't go all 'tut
tut teachery' on me. You don't think I'm... weird or queer or anything like
that, sir, do you?"

You step from your showers to his. You take the boy in your arms. He looks
up into your eyes. You recognise the question. You pull him into you and
lower your lips to his. He kisses you hungrily, almost desperately,
open-mouthed, seeking to devour and be devoured.

The following day is genuinely hot

At lunchtime you seek the shade of your sitting room and stretch out on the
buttermilk couch with its thin brown stripes. You close your eyes and play
back what took place with Toby. You saw the boy this morning; he smiled
shyly as he passed; you nodded and returned the smile. But this is not
exceptional; you smile at everyone, and most everyone smiles at you. You
hum happily to yourself and stroll on to your next class.

You lie back, close your eyes, and remember the touch of Toby's skin on
your lips. Ah, those butterfly kisses.

Rapping at the door. Brief but insistent. The door flies open. In bursts
Ben. As always Ben is in a hurry. As always Ben is on fire.

"Wimbledon, sir. On the radio. HE's playing! Oh, do let's listen,
sir. Where's the radio, sir?"

"Ben. Calm down." You swing yourself reluctantly from the couch. "Sit
down. Shut up. I'll get the radio. It's in my... the other room."

You almost say 'bedroom'. Every boy in the House knows it's your
bedroom. But there's a silent agreement, an understanding, a conspiracy
that no one shall call it by that name, so your bedroom is 'your other
room'.

"No time, sir. HE's playing NOW!"

And Ben is out of the sitting room, across the corridor, and through the
other door. You follow. You aren't worried. The cleaners have come and
gone. It's Matron's day off. The place will stand empty, drinking in the
odour of lavendar polish, until ninety-nine boys come crashing through the
double doors at 3.30.

You follow Ben into the other room. He is stretched full length on your
bed, face down, head resting on his arms, your small radio on the pillow by
his cheek. You notice he is in his tennis shorts, shirt and socks. He's
already kicked off his trainers; how considerate, how thoughtful. You
remember the U-13s have a match this afternoon, a match against
St. .....'s. You remember that you are umpiring two of the doubles
matches. How could you have forgotten? Must be the heat, or Toby, or both.

"Sit down, sir, sit down," urges Ben patting the space he has left for you
at his side.

If Toby is exotic, Ben is pure English peaches and cream - though he, too,
has been kissed by the summer sun, and his freckles are more pronounced
than ever. His high forehead is fringed by thick corn-coloured hair with a
central parting that varies from day to day. His skin is blemished by
nothing but freckles. His genuinely blue eyes are wide set and
generous. His lips pinkly inviting. Ben is a well-built boy, not heavy set,
but with the upper shoulders of a weight lifter and the waspish waist of
the first class swimmer he is. He is also a bundle of pure energy.

You pull your attention away from the sheer physicality of the boy and
comment, "That's not Wimbledon. That's Radio 1."

"Yes, sir, I know, sir. Wimbledon's not on till 1 o'clock, but I got bored,
and anyway I've got a bit of a crick in my back, sir, low down, sir."

"Then see Matron," you advise.

"Matron's day off, sir. Thought you could help, sir."

Do you detect a slight giggle, a note of triumph? Hard to say since Ben's
right cheek is pressed into the pillow, his voice muffled. There is a
pause. Then...

"And you helped Toby yesterday, sir. After cricket, sir. You helped him
lots."

Despite the heat, a cold shiver runs through you.

Toby and Ben are best friends. Their mothers share the school run. They
live in the same part of town, neighbouring streets if memory serves you
well.

"It's my back, sir. Be a sport, sir."

Radio 1 is playing Queen. "Another one bites the dust..." You can't
remember the name of the song; you don't think much of Queen, but Ben is
humming along happily.

"Be a sport, sir. Just a little massage. I'm playing in the first match
this afternoon."

Behind you the door is closed. The House stands empty, listening only to
the memories of the hundreds, perhaps thousands of boys who have graced its
Spartan dorms.

You run your right hand under Ben's tennis shirt. His skin is warm and
moist to the touch. Your fingers trace patterns in the moisture. You need
and squeeze the flesh across his shoulders, his upper back. Your fingers
run the length of his spine. You try to be business like but the flesh is
warm, moist, and so alive. You can hear your own gentle breathing and Ben's
occasional sighs. You could sit here like this, doing this, forever.

"It's lower, sir. Lower, sir. Please, sir."

You let your hand slide down to the boy's slim waist. You can almost span
his waist with one hand. The edge of your hand comes into contact with the
boy's tight white tennis shorts. The shorts are filled, stretched by two
spheres of living flesh that make you ache just to look at them.

"I'll help you, sir. Let me help you, sir."

And Ben raises his bottom from the bed, raises his hips, slides his hands
beneath, slips open the buttons, pushes the shorts to his knees, and
collapses into the quilt again. Those spheres of living flesh lie below a
millimetre of pure white cotton that leaves little to the imagination. But
the imagination is enough to make your cock harden and lengthen until it
begins to ache.

You run the fingers of both hands along either side of the elastic band
that keeps the boy's underpants in such a tight and loving embrace. Ben
raises his hips from the bed. There's nothing for it. Slowly you ease the
boy's underpants up and over his buttocks, then tug them down to join his
shorts around his knees. You begin to knead those beautiful buttocks,
marvelling at the warm flesh in your hands, flesh that becomes even warmer
as your fingers part his buttocks to expose his most secret, his most
intimate place.

"That's it," whispers Ben. "Around there. That's the place."

Absorbed, you part his buttocks, your fingers pressed against the inner
flesh of each one. You expose the tiny hole at the centre of his being. You
remember what another man in another time in another place did to you, and
you wonder if it will give the same pleasure to Ben.

Your part his buttocks again and again, slightly wider each time; each time
letting the length of your thumbs slide down until they feel the heat at
the centre of the boy's being. At last your thumbs are parting Ben's anus
ever so slightly; you wonder what Ben is thinking, what he is feeling. You
know what you want to do. The small pucker is ravishingly beautiful;
there's no reason why it should be when you consider its function; it
simply is. You adore it. You want to lower your lips and kiss the flesh
around it; you want to smother it with kisses, tiny butterfly kisses. But
now now. You have no idea what Ben is thinking or feeling, and the last
thing you want him to feel is disgust.

Suddenly Ben's giggles and turns himself, throws himself over. His tennis
shirt has ridden up his body. He is exposed. He is fully erect. He is
uncircumsized but the head of his young dick is hard and purple, thrusting
its way out of the hood of flesh that normally conceals it.

"Shit, sir. I can't play tennis like this, can I?" A smile lights up his
face. "It's your fault. You got me like this. You've got to do something
about it."

You are surprised by the size of Ben's cock. It must be around 4 inches
long and at least 2 inches round. There is a straggle of fine blond hair at
the base and sizeable patch in the pubic area. The boy's balls are the size
of walnuts, the sac itself marked with the lines of late puberty. The shaft
is pale though the head itself is purple with engorgement. Two blue veins
circle the length of the shaft, entwine and fade into the scrotum. The heat
from the boy's penis is palpable, and you imagine you can feel the faint
beating of a pulse beneath your fingertips.

You stroke the boy's cock, bringing the fleshy hood over the head again and
again. The little eye opens on the downstroke, closes on the upstroke. You
can feel him harden and lengthen beneath your touch. You feel how the
muscles in his groin push and contract in time with your stroking. You look
at the boy's face. His head is thrown back on the pillow, matted hair
across his forehead, eyes closed but fluttering beneath the lids, face
flushed, lips slightly open.

You lower your face to the boy's straining shaft, circle the head with your
lips and apply gentle but insistent pressure. Little moans escape the
13-year-old. Your tongue probes at the weeping eye and you taste the boy's
early seminal fluids. Sweet, nothing salty. You suck and work the
shaft. The boy's legs, one straight, one drawn up in a half circle, open
wider as if in invitation. You slip your free hand between his legs,
beneath his sac, along the crack of his buttocks until you find his anus,
and with the flat of your middle finger you rub back and forth across the
little lips. You are suprised by the heat and slickness of the area, and,
as the boy begins to writhe on the bed, your press your fingertip against
the opening and let half your finger slide in.

You begin to fuck the boy with your middle finger as you speed the rhythm
on his cock. You take in the full four inches, feeling the head touch the
back of your throat, feeling your lips against his pubic hair, feeling the
slickness of your own saliva and the pre-cum run down the shaft.

Ben is no longer in control of himself. He is pushing hard off the bed,
raising his hips to push his cock deep into your throat, then lowering
himself to drive your middle finger into him as deeply as possible.

With a sudden convulsive thrust, he raises himself, drives deeply into your
mouth and throat, and holds himself there, as he spurts again and again
inside you. Five, six, seven little jerks. Then he falls back onto the bed,
his face buried in the pillow as if ashamed at his own uncontrollable
pleasure.

You hold him steady in your mouth for a full minute as he slackens and
softens. You let him slip out. His penis remains semi-tumescent. Gently you
lick the head, squeeze gently and lick again. It wouldn't do to have his
tennis whites stained during the match.

You edge up the bed and place your head on the pillow. You are worried. How
will the boy feel now that the drive of desire has been satisfied? How will
he feel about himself, about you?

Ben's eyes flutter open. They are glassy. Then he raises his trademark left
eyebrow and grins.

"Thanks, sir. I think I'll play really well this afternoon... now that
I'm... now that I feel so... relaxed."

Your faces are inches apart. You want to kiss Ben but something tells you
that Ben is not a kisser, not a romantic like Toby. Ben wanted sex and came
where he thought he could get it.

"Ben," you begin. "You mentioned Toby..." You're not sure how to continue.

"Oh, don't worry, sir. Toby and I've never done anything, together, I mean,
but you can bet we are going to, now." The boy's grin widens.

That afternoon Ben wins both his singles. Toby arrives in time to see him
close out his second match. After tea, the two friends stroll off
together. You are slightly rueful, slightly lonely, but happy for them, and
you feel that whatever happens, things aren't going to be the same.

You wander by the lake as the light fades. You ask yourself what you think
you're doing, once again risking everything. You try to face the fact that
you seduced Toby and Ben, but seduction doesn't seem to fit the facts. You
recall your own seduction, but how could it have been seduction when you
chose to stay, you chose to let it happen?

You didn't say no; you didn't protest; you didn't jump from the car even
when it was stopped, even when he parked below the great oak tree, even
when he laid his hand on your knee, even when he said you were "such a
handsome boy". You were scared, yes, but you were also thrilled that this
man, this grown-up man wanted you as much as you wanted him. It was you
who'd gone walking in the park, on your own, towards the spot where 'the
queers all meet up'. That was well known at school; that was a standing
joke; softer boys were teased about 'going up the park for a bit'. You were
never quite sure what 'a bit' was, but whatever it was, you wanted some of
it.

So when the car pulled up beside you, and he leaned out, and he asked for
directions, asked if you'd show him the way, you got in, you let him pull
away, you let him park under the great oak tree. Don't say you didn't
know. His eyes undressed you, his hand brushed your thigh, his fingertips
carressed your thigh - "such a handsome boy". Only an idiot wouldn't guess
what he wanted; and you wanted it, too. You'd wanted it for such a long
time, but only now could you put a name to it. You wanted 'him'.

Oh, you could have messed around with other boys at the school. It was,
after all, an all-boys' school. Older boys, boys your own age, even younger
boys had 'made a pass at you', but they weren't what you wanted. You wanted
him; you wanted a man; you wanted a grown-up man. You didn't want to be a
queer, you didn't want to be a poof, but you did want a man; you wanted him
to hold you, hold you tight, crush you to his chest, drink in his smell,
feel the brush of his unshaven chin against your cheek, feel his smokey
tongue force its way into your mouth, feel his hands...

So when he parked the car, under the old oak tree, the warmth of summer
seeping from the leather, when he ran his fingers across your thigh, your
knee, your crotch, you couldn't help it, you blurted it out, like the boy
you were you blurted it out:

"You can play with it if you want to..."

The words make you smile now.

The words take you back to another 'now'.

The 'now' of Dean.

Dean, you shatteringly honest little muthafucka, where are you now. Married
with a mortgage and four, no, five kids, and as happily honest as you were
back then.

It's mid-afternoon. It's also mid-winter. Snow mixed with sleet starts to
fall. Dean and you come running in from the sports field. Dean is the goal
keeper in the school soccer team. A different school, an international
school, far removed from the Toby's and Ben's protected world. You're the
team coach. You've been giving Dean some extra practice, taking pot shots
at goal while Dean swan-dived into the sleety mud.

Dean is fourteen, not an instinctive goalkeeper, but dedicated, committed,
brave, fearless, demented as most goalkeepers are. And, yes, he is
good-looking. Thick dirty blond hair. Hazel eyes. Strong eyebrows. Slightly
oval face. Shortish but beautifully built.

"Come on, Dean, let's get inside."

"Just another ten minutes, sir. Just another..."

"No, I'm freezing my..."

"bollocks"

"off."

Dean and you have become something of a double act since September. You
like each other's company. You find it easy to talk to each other. You have
a shared passion for David Bowie. You've spent several afternoons,
especially boring Sunday afternoons, in your room listening to Bowie at
full blast. You will always think of this as the 'Year of the Diamond Dogs'
and of Dean as your 'Jean Genie'.

The school is a small international residential community slap-bang in the
middle of nowhere. It is owned and run by two middle-aged bachelors. Rumour
has it they share more than the top flat in the main administrative and
dining room building. They certainly share bottles of sherry by the half
dozen. But they are good-humoured, relaxed and tolerant. They gave you the
senior boys' dormitory to look after - "Just don't let them get too pissed"
and "Make sure they don't frighten the help." They toddle off into the
dark, arm in arm.

Dean is one year to young for the Senior Block, but he comes and goes as he
pleases. No one seems to mind. The senior boys have hidden their cannabis
and whisky out on the roof. You know where it is. You steer clear of them
on a Saturday night before the disco; they appreciate the gesture and never
comment on your 'guests' or how long they stay.

You head towards the Senior Block.

Here you should part company with Dean, but...

"Sir, can I shower in the Block? They'll have used all the hot water in JD
(Junior Dorm). I'll be like this till 8 o'clock. Please, sir, please."

Those Bette Davis eyes - they do it every time.

"Well, if the seniors don't mind, I don't. But ask first. And don't bend
over for the soap."

You almost kick yourself for that remark, but Dean just grins and is off
and running.

By the time you get to the Block, Dean is in the shower. You know because
Bryan, a senior, tells you have way up the stair: "Wilson's in the shower,
sir. Said you'd said okay, if we said okay, and we say okay. Okay?"

"Okay, thanks, Bryan."

You get into your flat, slip off your track suit, and the et ceteras, bang
on some Bowie, and turn on the shower full blast. It's Friday, film
evening, and you're not on duty. Hot needles ping off your skin. You give
your dick a few friendly pulls; it perks up with anticipation, but you give
it a slap and warn it to behave. Soaped, showered, towelled, you pull on a
pair of shorts and a fresh t-shirt. The room is warm, almost hot; they've
fixed the CH. A whisky over crushed ice with just a splash of mineral water
is in order.

The door bursts open.

It's Dean Wilson.

You hear the crack of skin on skin. Highland (Bryan) has slapped the boy's
bare arse. Dean yelps, pulls the towel around himself, and jumps into your
room, shouting "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" (Last Friday's film was 'The
Hunchback of Notre Dame' - Laughton's Quasimodo. The 'Bachelors' are big on
the classics; they are also cheap to rent.)

The door open again.

Dean's clothes, including his boots, come flying in after him.

The door closes.

Dean Wilson is breath-takingly beautiful. He stands there, half-naked, hair
still damp, beads of water slide down his chest, face flushed by the heat
of the shower, the heat of the chase. Without the slighest trace of
self-consciousness, he begins to towel his hair, leaving himself naked to
your gaze. Broad shoulders, a waist less than waspish, a convex tummy,
strong legs, big feet, and a heavy swinging penis. Puberty has come and
gone; this is a young adolescent awash with his own beauty. Dean's entire
body is honey-coloured, bar a tiny bikini strip across his crotch. Dean
spends summers with his family; they are based on the island of Bahrain in
the Persian Gulf; even an English winter cannot rob him of his splendour.

Bowie begins to sing 'The Man Who Sold the World'. Dean joins in and begins
to sway his body, his hips in time to the music - "Who knows? Not me. I
never lost control. Your face to place with the man who sold the world."
The music is wonderfully sleazy, wonderfully suggestive, and Dean's body
responds to it. You gulp down some whisky and almost expect him to begin a
dance of the seven veils using his heavy blue bath towel. YOUR heavy blue
bath towel! How the Hell did he get his hands on that?

Dean does a goalkeeper's swallow dive and lands on your spare bed. Not
'your' bed, but one of the school's narrow iron beds antique enough,
original enough, aesthetic enough to keep in your sitting room, draped with
an 'Aztec' throw-over. He lies back, head on the backboard, towel modestly
positioned, and grins up at you.

"Hair's still damp," he announces. "Can't go out like this. I'll catch my
death." You still find it difficult to get used to the American twang most
international students develop. "Maybe I can stay here for tea. You're not
on duty today."

"Like Hell you can."

You grab a hot handtowel from a radiator, bounce onto the bed, grab his
head, those thick dirty blond locks, and begin towelling vigorously - just
like your dear old mum used to do.

No protest from Dean.

Your fingers rub against the skin of his shoulders. The smells of soap, hot
water, perspiration and 'pure boy' drift up to me. Your cock begins to
swell, lengthen, stiffen. Traitor! And damn these fuckin' shorts. Your
erection can run but it can't hide.

Your erection is not alone.

You chuck the towel away, ready to hound Dean homewards. You look down. The
blue towel is gone. The boy's penis is lying across his thigh, thickening,
stiffening, supported by a scrotum that looks stuff with a pair of ping
pong balls.

"You can play with it if you want," he whispers.

You look at his erecting penis, his balls, the thick patch of dirty blond
hair. You look into his eyes. There isn't a trace of shame or fear there,
just a naked, hungry desire that mirrors your own.

"I'm not sure what we do," he falters, "but I want to do it with you." His
hand reaches to grasp your own erection. "And I know you want to do it,
too. Please, please."

There's those damn words again.

"Please please me like I please you," runs through my head, but that
certainly isn't Bowie.

You surrender and pull the boy towards you. He resists. You're not sure
why. Then you realise he is tugging up your T-shirt, tugging down your
shorts. "Skin to skin," he whispers, and you're flattered by his indrawn
breath as he strips you of your shorts.

You inspect each other minutely. That's the only way to describe the next
fifteen minutes. Instinctively you refrain from too much contact. You both
know you are on the edge of cumming, of exploding, of squirting and
spurting, and you both want to save that for later, to keep the electricity
between you as fully charged as you can for as long as you can.

With your hands, you signal to Dean that you want him to turn over.

Halfway over, he turns his head to look at you and whispers, "Are you going
to fuck me? I've heard it hurts. Does it hurt bad?"

You smile.

"No, I am NOT going to fuck you. I..."

"You can if you want," he says with the solemnity of a child, "but if it
hurts too much, can I....?"

You kiss his forehead in assurance.

"No, sweetheart, I am NOT going to fuck you. I'm going to go on looking at
you. I love looking at you, every single little bit of you."

"Oh, is that all?" Dean sighs. "Go on then. Help yourself. I could do with
a kip."

You turn Dean over. He rests his golden head in the crook of an elbow. You
see for the first time what a powerful young man he is becoming. The sweep
of his back, the breadth of the shoulders, the muscles in his arms, the
power in his legs. And the beauty of his backside, his buttocks, those
globes on which you could rest your entire world.

You're fascinated by a boy's buttocks. You have no idea why. Maybe one day
you can analyse it, work it out, why this fascination for this particular
part of the body. You lean forward and kiss Dean Wilson's bum, both
cheeks. There's a little giggle from above. You can't help blushing. You
part his cheeks. There are a few minor pimples scattered around; they only
serve to make the boy that more vulnerable. Even beauty such as his is at
the mercy of nature. You touch them with the tip of your tongue. Dean opens
his legs wide, letting one hang from the side of the bed. You marvel at his
lack of shame, his openness, his trust.

The eye of his anus is pinkish brown set against the dirty ivory of the
surrounding skin. It is unutterly beautiful. Lust vincit omnia. You
separate the cheeks, lower your face into the boy's crack, and fasten your
lips, as much as you can, to the small puckered lips that smile back at
you.

You've read about rimming, of course. You've seen it in porno pics, and on
grainy cinema screens in Soho. But nothing has prepared you for this, for
the sheer erotic thrill than runs through you, that makes your penis ache,
and your tongue stiffen like a second erection.

Why? Why? Why?

Is this the ultimate giving, the ultimate surrender or male to male, this
sheer naked vulnerability that says I trust, and, above all, I trust you? I
can give you this part of me, this most intimate part of me, and know that
you will love it, adore it, as you love, adore and respect all of me.

Mystery of mysteries, all is mystery.

Dean rolls over and pulls you down to him, onto him. Who is master now, and
who is pupil? It really doesn't matter. Lips to lips, chest to chest, belly
to belly, knees to knees, you begin a strange kind of horizontal
dance. Dean is open-mouthed. His tongue forces its way into your
mouth. Nose against nose, mouth against mouth, you can hardly breath. You
seem to breathe through your bellies, each branded by the hot hard erection
of the other.

You can feel Dean's knuckles grind into your back. You hear him whimper. Or
is that you? He begins to buck? Or is that you? He is cumming and cumming
hard. No, that's you. That's him. Both spurting together. You raise your
hips slightly and feel his squirts against your belly; you know you are
squirting against his. You shudder against each other
uncontrollably. Dean's hand is across your mouth. Why? You realise you
started to call out: "Fuck, fuck, fuck..." and that certainly would alarm
the hired help.

You collapse onto each other. You feel the squelch between you. You raise
your belly: squelch. You lower it: squelch.

Simultaneously you begin to laugh. Simultaneously you hear the Bowie song:
'Under Pressure' --- "give love one more chance..." leading to a fit of
giggles.

"Sir, sir..."

"Yes?"

"I've got tea in 20 minutes. I'd better be there. I'd better get
dressed. But can I come back later, during the film, I mean? I'll say I'm
helping you choose the disco music for tomorrow. Please, sir, say yes,
sir."

Yes - yes - yes.

"Oooof... Ah..."

"Hey, take it slow. You'll hurt yourself and you'll hurt me too."

Dean grins down at you, flicks the hair from his eyes, and presses your
shoulders down into the bed. He sits still for a moment, stradding your
groin, a knee on either side, then eases himself down a millimetre more. A
millimetre more of your rock-hard shaft penetrates his sphincter muscle,
the head of your cock pops into his anus.

"Ah, ah, that's better," the boy gasps.

You continue you to manipulate the boy's erection moving the foreskin back
and forward across the swollen head. You expected the boy to lose his
erection because of the pain of his arse hole but it remains as hard as
your own. Ah, the libido of the fourteen-year-old.

"I'm fine, but take it slow. You could easily tear my foreskin before you
get deeper in."

Dean laughs.

"Not with the amount of Nivea I put on you and up my bum. I must've used
the whole jar."

And he did. Lathering huge swathes of cream around your erection,
fascinated by its shape, texture and the heat it gave off. "Shit, it's a
big one, sir. Do you really think I can get that inside me? Mind you, I've
done shits as big as this, so it should be okay." Ah, the delicacy of the
fourteen-year-old. "And you did a good job on my hole before you even
started with the cream," he adds, "but don't think I'm gonna lick you back
there, you dirty bugger. Ooops, sorry, sir."

This time you laugh along with Dean who eases himself down another half
inch or so. He leans forward with his elbows on your chest, wiggling his
bottom to keep the movement going. He brushes the tip of your nose with
his.

"Does this make me a homo-sex-shual, sir?" He makes the word 'homosexual'
into a joke. "Play with my balls, sir, please, sir."

"No, actually, I don't think it does."

"Explain."

The movements of the boy's bottom, the friction on your shaft, the heat of
his rectum combine to keep you almost painfully hard.

"Well, because you've never shown any interest in any of other boys at this
school, or from anywhere else for that matter. Usually when you're horny,
and I've learned to spot when you're horny, you talk about girls, about
women. In fact, this whole thing's come as a bit of a surpise to me."

"Then why am I doing this?" As he asks the question, he grunts, twists his
bottom downwards and grunts again.

"You're doing this because... well, because you can. Because you're 14,
your hormones are going crazy, and because, well, because... I'm
available."

"There's more to it than that." Dean pushes down hard; it's almost an act
of punishment. "Lots of the boys in JD are doing it. They're not actually
fucking each other, but wanking and sucking, there's lots of that. In our
dorm we've got a competition; it's called 'Last One's a Wanker'. That means
the last one to cum, to shoot his stuff before lights out is a wanker. And
if you take a shit after lights out, you can sometimes hear a couple of
guys in one of the cubicles, and they ain't taking a shit together." Dean
pushes down again.

"Hey, I'm sitting on you. You're all the way in. I can feel your hair."

"Sit still for a few minutes. Let your rectum get used to it. How does it
feel?"

"It feels like I've got a huge log up my arse. But it's a nice full
feeling. Wonder how far up inside me you are. Must be nearly eight
inches. Work on my cock a bit more, sir."

Dean begins to rise and fall, levering himself up on his knees, then
sinking back down again. He is sweating, beads of perspiration dot his
shoulders, hang from strands of hair. Open-mouthed, he throws his head back
and shakes it from side to side. The friction on your shaft is
wonderful. As Dean rises, you push up and into him.

Higher he rises, and slips down again, higher and down again. You know his
arse-hole is splayed open. You can both hear the cream and other juices
squelch and fart between you. Higher he rises, and falls, again and again,
faster and faster, until he is sliding almost the full length of your
shaft, keeping only the head locked inside his stretched and stretching
anus. There are no words now; just deep concentration; deep ecstasy. You
match his movements with a faster rhythm on his distended cock; you are
jerking him off ruthlessly now; matching his ecstasy to your own. You're
glad the music is loud, glad the house is empty, the boys off to the disco,
or hidden in the upper attic with their whisky and cannabis.

You force your eyes open. Dean is lost to you now; rising and falling,
forcing you in deeper and deeper. He is going to cum soon; you know because
of the speed he is working your shaft; control is gone; you surrender
yourself to the ecstacy. You should stay silent but you can't; you grunt,
you moan, you mutter obscenities; you mouth Dean's name:
Dean... Dean... Fuck... Dean...

You're spurting now. Deep inside the boy you're spurting. Dean's spurting,
too. His semen fires and arcs its way to land on your nose, your lips, your
chin. "Come together, right now, over me." And that's what you're doing,
both of you, as you hang onto each other, riders of the storm, into a new
world born.

How long has Dean been lying across you, slumped, almost unconscious? For a
moment you are worried. Then his eyes flutter open.

"Fuckin' hell. This is a lot better than the disco. Can we do it again?"

Like a virgin, fucked for the very first time.

And you do it again. But not then, not that night. Half of winter remains,
all of Spring, and half of Summer. And you were right about Dean. Dean
doesn't want to fuck you; Dean wants to be fucked. Dean doesn't want to
suck you; Dean wants to be sucked. But that doesn't matter; that really
doesn't matter at all; because you've learned - take happiness where you
can find it... that's what the young do, that's what makes them happy.

Preserve your memories; you have their photographs.

You take out a photo album. Turn the pages.

There is Karim. His thick brown hair spread against the pillow. Smiling up
at you. He's been in bed for three weeks. Broken leg. Skiing. On your
skiis. He'd never been skiiing before; he'd never seen real snow
before. You bring his meals from the school kitchen. You help him do the
toilet in the portable potty. His initial embarrassment doesn't last long.
You bathe him while he is reading. Thick penis, circumcised. Big balls.
Thick brown pubic pair. He grows long and hard at your touch. You kiss the
beautiful skin between his belly button and the hair. "Mmmmm..."  You lean
forward and take him in your mouth. "Mmmmm..." He doesn't last long. His
balls rise in his tightening scrotum. He spurts into the back of your
throat.

"Hey, listen to this," he says. He reads a particularly horrific passage
from his book; it seems to be about cunts and crucifixes. You wipe your
lips and wonder if a 14-year-old boy should be reading 'The Exorcist'.

Here's Nicky in his Playboy T-shirt. Nicky with a smile as permanent as his
Lebanese tan. Nicky stretched out on your narrow bed. You turn and see the
T-shirt is gone and that the top of his tiny shorts are open. You take him
round the world and he asks, "What else can we do?" And later Nicky finally
takes a set from you. There he is in the photograph, racquet held high
above his head in triumph; there he is dancing back in triumph across the
sports field. And later that night, your last night together, you open the
door of his room and find him snuggled down in an armchair with a very
pretty girl. Her blouse is open. His flies are open. Nicky grins up at you;
you smile back and gently close the door behind you.

This is Matteo. Of the huge brown eyes. Matteo, whose classic Italian looks
turn the heads of people in the street. Matteo who says, "I learn the more
English with you than tutti lessons in the classes." Matteo who is
exuberantly experimental. Who wants to try it this way, and that way; who
tells you he's been able to suck his own dick since he was 11 years
old. And shows you that he can still do it.

Ah, the Italians. There's little Luigi. He's only 9. In the streets people
can't help smiling at Luigi, golden hair, blue eyes, baggy jeans always
slipping down his bum. You draw the line at Luigi and kick him out of your
bedroom. That night Luigi goes missing. You find him in Matteo's bed, under
the summer sheet, at the bottom of Matteo's bed, between Matteo's legs. You
can't understand the Italian but you can understand the giggling.

You turn the pages of the photograph album, and you realise what they have
in common. No, it's not their beauty though all of them are beautiful:
cute, handsome, pretty. All of them are individuals. All of them have
strong personalities. All of them have minds of their own. But that's not
it. What they have in common breathes from the page: they are ALL
happy. They are all secure in their own happiness. They will all go on and
be happy whether they knew you or not, but, with a little luck, they may
just be that bit happier for having known you.

Is this a justification? No.

You can't justify why you stepped into that car for your first time. You
can give a hundred reasons why you shouldn't have stepped into the car. You
were only 12, but you knew the dangers, the risks, the sheer stupidity of
what you were doing. But what was the real choice? To lie in bed night
after night knowing what you wanted, knowing where you could get it, but
doing nothing. You took a chance and you were lucky. You'd advise any boy
not to do something so utterly stupid, but that's easy for you to say -
now.

There are hands on your shoulders, they squeeze the tense muscles at the
back of your neck, they knead the tension in your upper back. A kiss on the
back of your neck. You don't have to turn round; you know those hands, you
know that kiss so well.

"Close that fucking computer. Come to bed. Let's celebrate. Let's make
love."

It's January 1st, 2005.

It's almost 9 a.m.

It's Robert.

Robert is 21. You've known Robert for 8 years. You've been together for 5
years. Robert will graduate this year and go on to become 'something in the
City'. Robert intends to get rich; you know Robert; you know he will;
Robert gets what he wants. And a long time ago Robert made it clear he
wanted you.

So you close down the computer and wonder if you'll send this story, these
stories, on to Nifty. You want to share them. Like Nifty, you want to show
that there are many ways of loving and being loved. Perhaps one day you'll
put them all together. Perhaps one day you'll even write a book and get it
published. Unlikely, but you can dream. But Robert is calling, and Robert
is reality.