Date: Wed, 02 Jan 2002 20:56:30 -0500 From: Tom Cup <tom_cup@hotmail.com> Subject: Terms Of Living - Chapter 2 Gay/Bi - A/Y Copyright 2001 by the Paratwa Partnership: A Colorado Corporation. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, except in the case of reviews, without written permission from the Paratwa Partnership, Inc, 354 Plateau Drive, Florissant, CO 80816 This is a fictional story involving youth/youth or adult/youth sexual relationships. If this type of material offends you, please do not read any further. This material is intended for mature adult audiences. Names, 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. ************************************************************************ This story is part of the Tom Cup Library For a list of the stories featured in the Tom Cup Library visit our website at http://tomcup.iscool.net and follow the Visitors link to the Members Preview page. ************************************************************************ Terms of Living By Tom Cup Chapter 2 A Season of Learning It is instinctive for recognition to blossom as new roots take hold in our lives. Like children vying for the attention given to the birthday child, they leap up and down, eager for us to view them. Buy a new car, of a certain make and model, and instantly, there they are, thousands of them under your nose. You just never noticed them before. So it was with beautiful, attractive, boys. They were everywhere. On the television, in the stores I shopped, walking down the sidewalks. I noticed the figures of androgynous males and females as they wafted past in this new unisex culture. Even my Connie had a boyish charm. She never was larger than a size 6. Her hair was cut short, even before it was popular. Depending on what she was wearing, when we were beginning life together, she could have been mistaken for a teenaged boy. And so, I awakened, and realized that my passions were not new. They had always been in the shallows, just below the surface -- so obvious was my reflection on the water that it was nearly transparent. Why did I ever wonder how those closest to me had known my heart for Andrew? Andrew, I realized, had taken on many of Connie's characteristics. He tilted his head when he smiled, and his inflections were more Connie's than his mother's. He was unashamed to be girlish -- there was no self-consciousness in his attitude or actions. I loved this about the boy. I came home to find the flower boxes tended and fresh cut flowers on the tables. He took care of the little things that I had forgotten that Connie handled. All my senses were alive. I noticed the fragrances drifting in the air, the colors of the changing seasons, the morning and evening bird songs, the caress of the breeze at sunset, the warmth of Andrew's hands as they folded comfort into my body. "I love you," he whispered "I know Andrew." His voice. How do you explain that tenor-alto of boys that tickles your spine, racing up and down, massaging you in musical tones? I cannot, but to say that, I could listen to him speak -- never hearing a word -- only hearing the rhythm and melody of his voice. His sounds moved me to tears. He teased me, lovingly. Knowing I could not yet accept his gift of love. I wanted too, feeling his warmth as he sat on my lap, arms around my neck, kissing my cheek, like a foolish schoolgirl in love. I did not want those moments to end though my pretence was that I did. "No," he said in Connie's voice, "It feels good and you know it." I did know it. How does one argue against truth? With a lie? Ha! No, I simply gave him all that I could. We would nestle together hours on end. Sighing the comfort we received from one another. Hoping, yes we both hoped, for the day that my inhibitions would fail me. "What's it like?" "You need to be specific with your questions Andrew." He rolled his eyes. "OK. What's it like to fuck?" He displayed that half smile that said, "that's what you get for being a smug, aristocratic asshole." I had to chuckle and he laughed with me. "Oh, Andrew. Why are you doing this to me?" "Because Connie isn't here to do it and because I really love you." "I don't want to talk about this." "I do." Boys this age can be both exciting and frustrating. Say the wrong thing and they shut down. If they want to talk about something, nothing can shut them up. They can be both focused and flighty as if there were no difference. They can be refreshingly honest and agonizingly obscure. Put them in front of a computer game and their attention is unconditional. Talk about homework and their eyes glaze over. "Well?" "Well what?" "Well I want to know about sex." "Andrew." "John." "I can't tell you what I don't know." "You never had sex with Connie." "Of course we did." "Well?" I closed my eyes and sighed. He was in that computer game mode. Nothing would distract him. "It's warm. You melt into each other. You don't know where one person ends and the other begins. Your heart races. You feel like you're going to die and yet you feel more alive than you have ever been. And for one brief moment, time stops and you dwell in eternity." I opened my eyes and he was staring into me, not at me -- into me. His eyes pierced my soul and touched my heart. He kissed me gently on the lips and laid his head on my shoulder. "I want to feel like that," he whispered, "I really want to feel like that." ***** Andrew continued to teach me new lessons of things familiar. Like the prophet that is not recognized in his own country, or the genius in the midst of his fellows; scents, familiar phases, and habits that once were annoying are forgotten with time. They become a tattered bathrobe that refuses to be thrown away -- they are simply too comfortable to receive special notoriety. That is until they are gone. And then they are missed deeply. He cocked his head and smiled when remembering Einstein's words I muttered, "Few are those who see with their own eyes and feel with their own hearts." "Why'd you say that?" "I don't know. It just came to mind." "I know why you said it." "OK, why?" "Because you're in love with me and you don't want to admit it!" He thought this was a wise and clever answer. He laughed. I pouted, and wanted to cry, because he was right. I missed the days of my ignorance and his innocence. I would have rather been deceived than to see the truth. Deception is easier for the soul to bear than truth. Why else did I fight the urge to take him to my bed as he requested? Was it because I loathed his touch? Did I despise his presence? Was I noble in spirit, aspiring to preserve some manner of order and decency in the social fabric? No. I was frightened. I was frightened of the waters of passion pressing against the weakening walls of my self-control. I wanted to believe, needed to believe, that I could rise above the crumbling dam and escape to higher ground. His hands melted into my flesh, his breath hot against my neck, he whispered, "I'm sorry John." I sat catatonic, my eye burning, and heart pounding. Don't move. If you move you'll grab him and take him to your bed. You will fall on him like an avalanche, smothering him. "Go home Andrew." "Please..." "Go home now!" He froze for a moment, and then walked to the door. My lust for him was barely contained. He didn't turn as he spoke. He didn't have too. His words tore away my remaining resistance. "I know you're not mad at me." Again, he was right. I wasn't mad at him. I was mad at myself. I was mad at my inability to control my emotions. I was mad that social norms forbade us to be together. I was mad that he clearly knew what he wanted and still we would have to hide our love for one another. I was mad because finally I was ready to admit the truth and it didn't matter. "I love you," he said. The door closed and I let the tears fall from my eyes. *********************************************************************** Send comments to: tom_cup@hotmail.com To support this and other stories by Tom Cup, join the Tom Cup Library at: http://tomcup.iscool.net. ***********************************************************************