Date: Wed, 02 Jan 2002 20:51:12 -0500
From: Tom Cup <tom_cup@hotmail.com>
Subject: Terms Of Living - Chapter 1 Gay/Bi - A/Y - correction

Copyright 2001 by the Paratwa Partnership: A Colorado Corporation. All
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This is a fictional story involving youth/youth or adult/youth sexual
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characters, locations and incidents are either the product of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or
locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Terms of Living
Chapter 1
The Naked Truth


How did it begin?  That is always the question. Isn't it? My wife,
Constance, and I began working for the Major household in 1988.  Craig Major
was fortunate enough to land a job at Microsoft.  He is a brilliant man and
the stock options made him a wealthy man.  Sheryl, his wife, was expectant
with their first child and it was decided that they would hire a household
manager for their new home.  I was more than pleased when they choose me for
the job, and since the baby was to arrive within forty-five days, they
happily agreed to add my wife to the staff as nanny.

We lived in a small cottage in the rear of the main house.  It was a dream
come true for Constance and I.  Not only did we have a comfortable place to
live, but also, a generous salary and people for whom it was a pleasure to
work. Over the years, we grew to be more part of the family than employees.

I was forty-five when Andrew was born.  Constance and I had no children so I
did not realize the effect that the event would have on me.  He was a lovely
boy from birth and through the years, as I watched him grow, we developed a
familiar relationship of our own.

"Don't you get bored cleaning up after us all the time?" he asked some time
after his sixth birthday.

"Not at all," I answered, "I don't think of it in those terms."

"How do you think of it John?" he quizzed with those sparkling blues eyes
dancing.

I blushed slightly.  I was fifty-one and had a parent's pride in his father
and mother. They in turn had given Constance and I more than we could have
ever hoped for.  Within those six years, we were in the position where we
could retire -- but retirement was out of the question.  As Constance said,
"We've found where we belong."

I thought of Andrew as my grandson.  I loved the time we spent together.  I
loved watching him learn of the world around him.  Sheryl once lectured me
about spending my off time with him, fishing, playing chess, reading or just
chatting.  For a brief time I sent him away during my times off but
Constance remarked how both Andrew and I were miserable during those days;
Sheryl never again forbade him from visiting me freely.

"Well, to me," I answered honestly, "You are my family.  I love taking care
of my family so it's not a chore at all."

"You think of us as your family?" he asked in a kind of shocked pleasure.

"Yes," I answered shyly.

Andrew smiled and embraced me.  "I think of you in the same way," he sang.

I was surprised shortly after that conversation with a new title: Papa John.
  It nearly took my breath away.  Craig and Sheryl assured me that it was
not offensive to them and that Andrew had spoken to them at length about the
matter.  They explained to him that he needed to take my feelings into
consideration.  They were afraid that I would be somehow offended by the use
of the term.  I maintained my dignity only long enough to finish the
evening's duties and return to the cottage.

In September of 2000, we noticed that Constance's energy was diminished.
After several visits to doctors and specialists, it was discovered that she
had a radical form of cancer.  It was a terrible time in my life.  I drew my
strength from the support of Craig, Sheryl and Andrew.  They stayed with us
through the entire ordeal. We were all there to say good-bye the night my
beloved Constance closed her eyes for the last time.  She was fifty-one.

I, of course, was not myself.  The Majors gave me a month leave of absence
(with pay), "to mourn the lost of your soul mate and to celebrate the time
you had together." -- as Sheryl put it.  I also spent that time thanking God
for bringing Craig and Sheryl into my life.  It was also, during this time,
that Andrew taught me that my life was just beginning.

*****


"Papa John," I heard his voice pleading, "Papa John, please can I come in?
I brought you some soup."

"It's may I," I corrected.

"May I," he repeated, "Please, Papa John.

I was tired, drained from mourning, but what was I to say? I loved the boy.
I forced myself to rise and answer the door.  I let him enter. He held a
kettle of steaming soup: far too much for one person, let alone a man who
had no appetite.  Nevertheless at Andrew's insistence, and under his
watchful eye, I ate the horrid brand name canned slop.  In truth, it did
make me feel better knowing the boy cared enough for me to mix the condensed
mixture of salt and unknown matter with water, and make me eat it.

As I ate, I noticed for the first time how beautiful Andrew was.  I mean --
of course I noticed before but not in the way I realized at that moment.  He
was beautiful and confident. We watched each other, he knowing the effect he
was having on me and me realizing for the first time how I was feeling.  I
was embarrassed; he was flattered.  How had I missed these feelings: both
his and mine? It seemed so obvious that I wondered if Constance knew; and
then I laughed knowing that she must have. It was why she intervened to
break the self-imposed band initiated by Sheryl's concerns that Andrew was
taking up to much of my free time. I shook my head and laughed.  Andrew
tilted his head, smiling, as he looked into my eyes.

"What?" he asked

"Oh, I was just thinking of Constance," I replied.

"Oh," he said, "You just figured out how much I really love you."

Was it really that obvious?  I wondered now if Craig and Sheryl suspected.
Suspected?  My god! I thought.  Am I suspect?  The thought chilled me to the
bone.  My head began spinning. I felt sick to my stomach. I needed to sit
down.  I could not fathom that Andrew really understood what I was thinking.
  I couldn't quite fathom it myself.  Constance and I were married for
twenty-three years and in all that time I never thought of having sex with
anyone else.  Truthfully.  She was dead for less than a month and I was
entertaining ideas of having sex with a twelve year old boy.  I felt more
confused than aroused.

"It's OK, Papa John," Andrew was saying -- when had he sat down beside me? --
with his hand on my back, nestling closer to me, "I've known for a long time
that I've loved you and how much you love me. Even mom and dad know how I
feel about you."

Now I was mortified.  I couldn't understand why if everyone knew this about
me, why no one said anything?  Why did I have to gain this knowledge while I
was feeling so vulnerable and alone, alone with the revelation of my
affection?  May be it was because they knew I was a man of integrity; that I
would never act on my feelings.  But that was exactly what I was thinking of
doing. I felt powerless.  I heard the words spoken, and understood what they
once meant, but I couldn't understand what they meant when they came from
Andrew's mouth. What did he mean when he said that Craig and Sheryl knew how
he felt about me?

"I mean," he answered, "They know that I love you.  Connie knew it too.  I
think you were the only one that didn't get it. Until just now I mean.  I
promised Connie the day she died I'd take care of you.  Remember?"

I did remember. It sounded like one of the things dying people say to
someone who is close.  I didn't think anything of it.  We were all gathered
around the bed saying good-bye - It was clear it would not be long -- Andrew
was holding Connie's hand.  "I'm going to miss you," he said.  Connie
smiled, kissed his forehead and said, "Take care of John for me." Andrew
promised he would.  They kissed and hugged each other.  We were all moved to
tears.  My beloved Connie -- she knew before I did and prepared the way -- she
had given us her blessing.  In a sense, Andrew and I were married that day.
The only person in the room that hadn't affirmed the union was me.

"I don't know," I whispered, "I just don't know.  Why, this is all so new
and happening so fast."

"It doesn't mean you're gay or nothing," Andrew began.

"Anything," I corrected, "You mean, `It doesn't mean you're gay or anything.
If you say, `It doesn't mean you're gay or nothing' it means `you are gay or
something.'"

"Can I ask you something," Andrew posed staring in my eyes in the very way I
loved.

"Of course," I answered hoarsely.

"If you understand what I say when it's first said, why do you feel the need
to correct the way it was said?" he questioned.

"Because," I answered, "Other people may not understand what you mean. I
just want to make sure you're understood."

"There's no one else here John," his voice came as a soft caressing whisper.
It was true.  We were alone.  We could say what we wanted to one another.
The thought washed over me like anointing oil.  I suddenly felt naked and
unashamed -- like Adam and Eve when nakedness was a sign of innocence and
that everything was `very good' -- I felt as if light shone into a room
loved, sealed off, and suddenly opened.  I laughed and Andrew laughed with
me. It was a new world for me and I needed to understand the new terms of
living.

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