Date: Mon, 30 Mar 2015 19:44:38 -0400
From: Cole Devonshire <cole321gc@gmail.com>
Subject: the simple moments

            My first glance at you is walking lazily along the pavement on
the side of the middle school, heading towards the front door. A myriad of
boring chores has led me all over the city, delivering this, mailing that
and buying the other thing, and because CVS was enlightened enough to cease
selling cigarettes in an attempt to get America healthy, I've been forced
to pick up my roommate's Newport Reds at Walgreens. This has had the side
effect, not altogether unpleasant, of making the path across the middle
school the easiest and most convenient way home, and has thus brought you
to my attention.

           At two hundred feet distant, I can't really make out the nuances
of your features. I can't tell what color eyes you are, nor can I see into
them to discern whether you're one of the special ones, the intelligent and
self-aware youngsters to whom adult conversation - and other adult concepts
- would be well received. Your red-brimmed baseball cap makes it impossible
to see your hair, though for some reason I suspect it's a light brown.
Maybe it's the way you're dressed - a light grey hoodie sweatshirt with an
indistinguishable logo on it and a pair of dark grey jeans. Just seems like
light brown hair would go best with that. Short, well cut hair, the way
every middle school boy was required to wear it in your grandfather's day.
My father's day.

           Of course, it's not just what's under your hat that I'm
wondering about. My first conscious thought is about what I might find
under all of those clothes you're wearing. Why? Who knows. Like I said, I
can't see your features. But I do have a few small glimpses into your
personality. The way you carry yourself is all boy - you swing slightly on
the balls of your feet with every step, and your hands are shoved into your
jeans pockets in that casual way, like I imagine they'd be if you were
leaning against the side of the building instead of walking around it. It
says to me, "I'm chill. I'm relaxed, easygoing, in my element." And because
that element  is a school, it makes me think of you as a bit of an
intellectual. Possibly a misnomer, since school let out an hour ago -
you're obviously here for some kind of after school activity, which opens
up the possibility that you're just a sports jock of some kind. But I'd
rather think of you as a smart boy. Smart boys turn me on.

            I'm conscious of none of this, at least not in the moment. All
I know is that I see you and I want you, the way you might look at a rare
Pokémon card or an XBox One. Well, hopefully not an XBox, my loyalty is to
the PlayStation and I'd like to think we have that in common. I see you and
I can't help but think about what life must be like in that building,
surrounded by hormonal boys just like yourself, a schmorgasbord of the
numerous, various states of puberty. A unique place for that, a middle
school is. One boy may be nearly done with puberty already while the boy
next to him hasn't even sprouted his first pube. How far along are you, I
wonder? It never occurs to me to doubt that you're at least far enough
along to have developed a sexual urge. I'm already imagining how great it
would be if you were against the inside wall of your locker room, those
dark grey jeans down to your knees, your hands gently pushing against the
back of my head as I suck you towards that ever-important release that can
make everything right in the world, at least for a brief moment. It
wouldn't matter to me whether I got a sweet reward of nectar for my
troubles or not. Just feeling your body tremble in throes of orgasm, and
knowing that I was your tour guide on the Journey of Pleasure, would be
more than enough reward for me.

             All of this fantasy plays out in my head in the time it takes
you to move but a few steps towards the building's edge. Soon you'll round
the corner, and if I ever do see you again, somewhere around the city,
you'll be wearing different clothes and you'll be in a different
environment, so I'll have little hope of knowing you're the boy that I'm
currently fantasizing about. Seems wrong to have such intimate thoughts
about a stranger. What would you think of it all, I wonder? What if some
angel whispered in your ear tonight, as you lay back in your bed and take
your small, hairless erection in your hand to engage in that strange
nightly ritual you've just discovered, "Remember that man across the street
this afternoon, carrying the grocery bags? He was thinking about sucking
your cock the entire time you were in his field of vision." Would you be
disgusted? Perhaps. I am nearly three times your age, after all, and my
adult metabolism hasn't held up very well against the child's diet of
pastries and chocolate milk which I never outgrew. Would you be intrigued?
Flattered? Maybe even, dare I imagine, mildly excited at the possibility of
turning fantasy into reality? Statistically speaking, it's certainly not
impossible. I dare say one in every four boys is so hormonally charged that
he'd stick his cock in just about anything if the promised sensations were
pleasant enough.

             There you go, around the corner. For a moment there while I
was wondering how you'd feel about my thoughts, you darted back a few steps
in my direction, and I had the crazy thought that I had somehow obtained
your attention somehow. But no, it was just a quick glance back - then you
disappeared. Already you've become nothing more than memory. I still have a
few blocks to go before reaching home, though, so your memory is welcome
company. I play back the entire ten seconds of mental footage, focusing on
the juicy details - your skinny frame, the way your skin still managed to
look like smooth silk despite the distance and my horrible eyesight, the
tightness of your jeans. I'm sure that last bit wasn't meant to be
provocative - likely you've just grown faster than your poor family can
keep up, and they haven't had the opportunity to fit you for new ones. Ahh,
how lovely it would be to be in the dressing room with you for THAT event,
to see how your underwear frames your delicious little package as you try
on pair after pair. I wonder if you're self-conscious about them. I hope
they don't make you feel bad, because you look GREAT in them. Trust me,
boy, the stares you're getting aren't mockery at your being unable to
afford new ones.

              Putting myself in your head again makes my mind wander to the
more philosophical grounds, especially as I nod politely to a young woman
entering her house across the street. What would she think about my
feelings for you? She might very well call me a predator. To be fair to
her, some of my behavior to this point would certainly seem predatory
enough. I did gaze at you like a hungry lion would gaze at a juicy gazelle
at the edge of the herd. But that's where the resemblence ends, because
I've yet to meet a gazelle that would politely, nervously walk up to a
gazelle and ask if he'd mind so terribly being eaten. A predator takes,
without regard to it's prey. Whatever I am, I don't take, nor do I act
without regard for you, or others like you. If we were friends, I'd simply
make it obvious that I was more than willing to do whatever you asked. I'd
leave the actual asking to you. Partly to make sure it was something you
were interested in, and partly because, to be honest, I love the idea of
you being in charge. In my fantasies, you're the one ordering me to
unbuckle your belt, lower your zipper, free your prepubescent young penis
from it's confines. You're the one telling me to watch my teeth, to lick
your balls. I might even enjoy it if you went a little too rough, fucking
my face. Of course, a good servant deserves a reward, and if you'd want to
return the favor, I certainly wouldn't object. But I don't care. Taking
care of you is enough. In fact, I'd probably get so excited with your dick
in my mouth that I'd cum before you did.

               I wonder, not for the first time, whether I was ever in your
shoes when I was a kid. Did any adult ever secretly lust after me? How
would I have reacted, if they'd ever approached me? Depends on the day, I
suppose. At ten, I'd have been a completely blank slate, new to the
concept. At eleven, I would have eagerly accepted, because I was already
sucking my friend Brian's dick on a regular basis and I loved every part of
it. At thirteen, I would have declined; at that point in my life, I was
renewing my faith, and I believed sex belonged in committed relationships
only. Never would the age of the adult have bothered me much. Then, as now,
I didn't really see age all that much. I was taught to ignore race, ignore
gender, ignore religion (or lack thereof), so why not ignore age too?
Doesn't the American Declaration declare all men as CREATED equal? Haven't
people of all ages contributed to society throughout history? Such thinking
led me to accept adults as my equals when I was a child; such thinking
continues to help me see children as my equals now that I've become an
adult. It was children who defended ancient greece as soldiers, alongside
their adult counterparts. It was children who gave orders to men in the
civil war through the beating of their drums, and served as midshipmen on
vessels of war. It was children who led some cells in the French resistance
during World War II. It was children who died in the camps for their
beliefs.

              Such thoughts only serve to get me riled up, and I'm almost
home, where I can enjoy a nice session of my own, lying on my back and
thinking about you. The point is, I know that my younger self was sexually
aware. You seemed about twelve, by my guess, so theoretically maybe you're
not a virgin either. Perhaps one of your little friends has already been
kind enough to slide his tongue along your litttle love pole, bringing
quivers all over that beautiful little boy body of yours. Perhaps you've
even developed a crush on a nice boy, ey? Probably not. Statistically
speaking, it's likely that you're a typical straight boy, just having those
first strange feelings about some blond Cindy Lou in your class. Of course,
that doesn't mean you're not trading blowjobs with your best buddy Derek,
imagining Cindy Lou the entire time he's bobbing up and down on your
preteen rod. It's all good. I'm not my younger self; I still believe in the
value of being selective about sharing sex, but I'm not so naieve as to
think it's all about that rare miracle of true love. The miracle of a
sexually expressed friendship ("friends with benefits" is the colloquial
term, I believe) and how a true, worthy friend can share those things with
you is a conclusion I came to when I was seventeen. If you'd somehow read
my mind and offered to let me suck you off today, principle would have
demanded that I say no. But if we ever came to be close friends, and you
wanted to dream about Cindy Lou while depositing those sweet little
dribbles of boy cum down my throat, I'd be fine with that. You could even
watch straight porn if you want, if it helps you keep the mood. It's not
like I have to see it; my eyes will be focused exclusively on that smooth,
hairless pubic mound above the base of your cock moving towards and away
from me as I pleasure you, when I'm not looking up at you for signs of
approval. And my hair may not be as long as a middle school girl's, but I'm
sure it'll feel just as smooth in your fingers.

              Well, alas. Such things aren't to be. At least not in this
time and place. But I like to think that some day, when we leave this life
and the veil of perspective is pulled away, that we become aware of all the
little secrets that circumstance keeps from us. Perhaps one day, in another
place and time, my soul and yours will get together over a celestial cup of
mocha and discuss this brief little convergence of our paths. Then maybe
we'll manifest physical bodies and roleplay what it would have been like if
you HAD read my mind today.

              After all, what good's Heaven without the little pleasures?