Date: Fri, 21 Jun 2002 19:16:47 -0700 (PDT)
From: 13greengrass <13greengrass@ziplip.com>
Subject: Therapy for James

This story is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual people or
events is purely coincidental. I wrote this for the enjoyment of men who
love boys. I thank all the readers who, in the past, have written me to
tell me that they enjoy my stories. It is particularly for you that this is
written.

I enjoy and appreciate the serious feedback of my readers and try to answer
each one. Please check out my other stories on Nifty:

"Summer Camp Romance"
"Five Sessions With Francisco"
"Sitting for Jason"
"No More Bananas"

THERAPY FOR JAMES


	"Cole Innis said you'd be expecting me," I said.
	Jack Jennings grabbed my hand and smiled desperately.
	"Elliot!" He was shaking my hand and pulling me into his office in
the same movement. "Thanks for coming! Come in!"
	I was suddenly standing in the middle of a glassed-in office with a
crowd of people. They were all smiling at me. I recognized no one.
	"This is Elliot Drake!" Jack announced to them, guiding me toward a
chair. They all reached for me at the same time to shake my hand.
	I shook hands with Mr. Spiller, a principal, a probation officer
named Francis something-or-other, a social worker whose name I didn't
catch, and a counselor named Connie. Jack was the director of the
neighborhood center where the meeting was taking place. This was his
office.
	Cole had gotten me into something deep, I could tell. These people
wanted something and they wanted it bad. Cole was an old friend. We'd
worked in a psychiatric ward for children for three years before I left to
become a full-time writer. He went into social work and volunteered some at
the neighborhood center. He had called me to tell me that the center needed
someone to help with a kid, James, who was in need of some tutoring. Cole
was evasive throughout the conversation, which should have tipped me
off. He abbreviated every sentence and capitalized on the element of
surprise.
	"They're meetin' tomorrow. Four o'clock at the center. Can you make
it?"
	"Well...I don't know, I..."
	"Elliot!" he chuckled. "My man, they need ya!"
	"Who...?"
	"Can I tell 'em you'll be there?"
	"But..."
	"Just say yes," he said. "A boy needs your help!"
	"Yes," I said, then cursed myself and opened my mouth to take it
back but Cole cooed at me.
	"You're the bomb, dude. Jack Jennings will be expecting you. I'm
late for a meeting. Gotta go," and he hung up the phone.
	Now I sat in the office feeling like a mouse in a cathouse.
	"Would you like something to drink?" the counselor asked, reaching
for a pitcher of water.
	"What did Cole tell you about James?" asked the principal.
	"Nothing," I said.
	They all went silent. All I could hear was the sound of water
flowing into the glass. They were all exchanging nervous glances. I knew I
was trouble. I'd been railroaded, hoodwinked, goddamn Cole.
	"Well," Jack said, settling into his chair, smiling
weakly. "There's a lot to tell you. Cole told me that you have a real way
with difficult kids."
	"Difficult?"
	"Difficult." The social worker patted a thick file on Jack's
desk. He had a bushy mustache that he apparently played with when he got
nervous. He smoothed it with his finger and thumb. "This is James Oliver
we're talking about."
	"You make it sound like I should have heard of him." I smiled.
	Several laughed politely. "Unless we get his behavior under
control, he'll eventually be on the evening news," said the probation
officer. She was a stout woman packed into a tight sweater.
	"Behavior?"
	"Well..." She looked at her pudgy haands, searching for the right
words. "There are a lot of behaviors, really..."
	"Like what?"
	Jack leaned in. "Cole didn't tell you anything?"
	I looked around the room and wished I were anywhere but there. I
wanted to get up, walk out, find Cole and kill him. I didn't want to hear
any more. "Look," I said, becoming impatient. "Why don't you just come out
and tell me what Cole was too scared to tell me?"
	The buck got passed around the room and landed in the social
worker's lap. He laughed nervously and cleared his throat, tugged at his
mustache. "I wish you had been briefed," he said, and off he went.
	James Oliver, as it turned out, was a twelve year-old boy who began
having problems about a year and a half ago when complaints of him
propositioning boys at school were lodged with the principal. James had
allegedly offered oral sex to the neighbor's boy, whose mother promptly
banned him from the house. At school, James got into a lot of fights,
busted up property, and cut classes. He once tried to "touch a teacher" and
got suspended for three days.  He tried it again with another teacher after
being back for a week or two and got suspended again. His therapist thinks
it's just him "trying to get a reaction".
	"Sounds like it worked," I said, looking around the room.
	"He's been kicked out of school so much that he's way behind in his
studies. There are only five more weeks of school left," the principal
added. "He's very aggressive. Teachers and administrators at the school are
expressing a lot of reluctance to continuing working with him. They don't
have any experience with this sort of behavior."
	"Any history of sexual abuse?" I asked.
	"No abuse reported," the probation officer said curtly. "But he's
been picked up for soliciting once, about six months ago. Went to juvie for
the night. It was conditional upon his release that he attend the after
school program here at the center or get a tutor."
	"Any recent incidents?" I asked. Everyone looked uncomfortable.
	"Last week," the social worker said reluctantly. "A teacher at the
school said James propositioned him. James said he didn't but..." She
shrugged. "He has a history..."
	The probation officer piped in, reading from her own notes. "No
known history of sexual abuse but pronounced sexual acting out at school
and in the community," she read woodenly. "Fourteen fights so far this
school year, missed more than three weeks of school with unexcused
absences. Disruptive in class...when he's there."
	"What does James say about it?" I asked.
	The silence in the room bewildered me. Surely someone had thought
to ask him. The social worker wouldn't leave his mustache alone. "He
doesn't talk about it," he said. "He denies he did anything. After the
police got involved on the solicitation charge, we saw his aggression
increase considerably. He's watched much more closely now."
	"So why do you need me?"
	Jack jumped in, leaning forward in his chair like he was about to
deliver a sales pitch. He crossed his fat fingers on the desk in front of
him.
	"We're hoping you'll tutor him," he said, eyes twinkling. "A little
bit of the big brother sort of thing, ya know? Weekdays after school. He
needs a firm hand and a friend."
	"He's very distrustful," said the probation officer.
	"If, at the end of the school year, he doesn't make some
substantial progress, academically and behaviorally," said the principal.
"I'm recommending the work camp option."
	"Work camp?"
	The social worker tugged at his mustache. "It'll take some time to
gain his trust."
	Jack looked at me. "You've got five weeks."
	"Work camp?" I asked again.
	The room was silent and the social worker combed his mustache with
his fingernails. "I'm concerned that James needs a higher level of care,"
he said. "There are no vacancies at any of the local residential facilities
at this point and we can't expect anything to open up for a month or two at
the earliest."
	The probation officer crossed her fat arms on her chest. "That
leaves work camp," she said officiously.
	The room fell silent for a moment as if everyone was waiting for me
to say something. I was still uncertain. They all seemed to be keeping a
lot of secrets from James and vice versa.
	I resolved to killing Cole slowly, maybe stretch it out over a few
days. On the other hand, he didn't know I was a boylover. If he had, he
probably wouldn't have recommended I tutor a horny twelve year-old boy.
Everyone was waiting for my response.
	"I'll do it on one condition," I said. "I need five minutes alone
with him. I'll know then if I can work with him."
	"Five minutes?" the social worker asked, and he shook his head.
	"That's all?" Jack looked uncertain. The principal shrugged and
whispered something to the probation officer.
	"You can watch through the windows," I said. "But the conversation
needs to be private."
	"I don't see why not," Jack said. He looked over at the social
worker, who shrugged and nodded and yanked furiously on his mustache.
	"He's out playing pool right now," Jack said. He nodded toward the
door, then looked at the counselor. "Could you call him in?"
	Everyone left the office, still murmuring to each other and eyeing
me strangely. They collected outside and tried to look as though they were
talking to each other and not watching me.
	Shortly thereafter, a handsome black boy entered the office,
shuffling his feet, looking down at the floor. He glanced around the room,
then back at his shoes. He was thin and wiry with a light cocoa-brown skin
and large dark eyes. He was dressed in a large tee shirt and blue jean
shorts that sagged low on his hips. On his feet, he wore new black high-top
Nikes with trim so white it seemed to glow. Jack came in behind.
	"James," he said, presenting me with a wave of his hand. "This is
Mr. Drake."
	"Elliot," I said. "Nice to meet you."
	I nodded and extended my hand. He shook it without looking at me
then sat down on the edge of the desk.
	"He'd like to talk to you," Jack said to James.
	The boy looked very suspicious and he eyed Jack and me. "Why?"
	"Do you mind?" I asked.
	James thought a moment, shrugged and looked as if he didn't care
about anything. Jack backed out of the room and closed the door. We were
alone.
	I plopped down into a chair and looked at him. I indicated the
crowd of people standing outside the office. Only Jack was brazen enough to
watch us outright. "So they've filled me in on what's been going on," I
said.
	James shrugged and chewed on a cuticle, rolled his eyes and looked
away. Down again at his sneakers.
	"They want you and me to spend some time together after school a
couple days doing your homework and hangin' out," I went on. "For some
reason, they think I'll be a good influence." I chuckled. James' expression
didn't change. "So what do you think?"
	James assessed me critically. He scowled and rubbed his chin. "You
a white dude," he sneered.
	"Observant," I deadpanned. "So what do you think?"
	He snickered and shook his head. "I think you're a fag, dude."
	What an interesting grenade to lob into the conversation, I
thought. I was amazed that he brought it up.
	"You have a problem with fags?" I asked pointedly, and he looked up
at me and blushed a bit. "I wouldn't have thought that would bother you."
	He drew himself up with a cool disregard. "You don't know jack
'bout me."
	"It's just that you brought up fags in the first minute of meeting
me," I mused. "I didn't mention them. You just brought them up, and I was
thinkin'..."
	"Look, whatchoo want?" he broke in. He looked suddenly angry.
	I sighed deeply and shrugged. "I don't want anything," I said.
"They asked me if I'd tutor you and I..."
	"Hang out witchoo?" he scoffed. "White boy, why would I want to
hang out witchoo?"
	I sighed more heavily. "We already covered that. Remember? Work
camp?"
	He smirked and looked down at his shoes. His shoes again, I
thought. The little dude digs those new shoes. "Awright, awright," he
sniffed, chuckling into his hand. "If we hang out, can I drink my forty?"
	"No," I said definitely.
	"Can I smoke crack and fuck bitches?"
	"No," I replied confidently.
	"Can I rob your fuckin' ass?"
	"Not without gettin' your ass kicked."
	He paused. His eyes twinkled. "Can I watch my porno?"
	I paused. My smile shone. "Only if it's homework."
	He laughed. "Can I cuss?"
	"All you want."
	"Can I eat all the mother-fuckin' food in your mother-fuckin'
fridge?"
	"Only if you mother-fuckin' buy it."
	He stopped to think further. He was enjoying the banter, testing
the waters. I was kind of liking him already. There was a way the
intelligence glimmered in his eyes.
	"Can I bring my homies wit me?" he asked.
	"Absolutely not," I said flatly. "Just you, no one else."
	"What if I want to bring my girl over and...?" He smiled
naughtily. "...ya know..."
	"No," I said. "Not your girl, not your boy, just you."
	He looked at me darkly. He was wondering if I was teasing him,
referring again to his history. I was. I smiled at him to make sure he
knew. "It's all good," I shrugged. "Different strokes..."
	He studied me closely. Our five minutes wasn't nearly up but I
already knew I could work with this one. He wasn't looking as
enthusiastic. He glared at me for a while, then looked down at his shoes
and shook his head.
	"Nah, man..."
	"Okay," I said.
	"...can't make me go see you."
	I stood up. "I have no desire to make you do anything," I said.
	"Whatever..."
	"Really," I insisted. "It would be a waste of my time if you were
made to come." I headed toward the door.
	He was looking cocky suddenly, swaying his shoulders. "Ain't nobody
makin' me do nothin'," he said.
	"And that's the way it should be, kid," I said. "Good luck. Stay
clear of work camp." I pulled open the door.
	"I will!" James barked, standing up.
	Jack was there to stop me from leaving, looking hopeful, hands up
in front of him as if he were trying to keep me there, desperate smile
painted across his face. He looked at me, then James. The boy had crossed
his arms on his chest and was looking defiantly at him.
	"Somethin' wrong?" Jack asked, but he looked like he didn't want to
hear the answer.
	"No," I said. "James doesn't want to do it. It's cool."
	"But..." Jack was looking panicked. "James?"
	"No way, man," James huffed, then muttered, "...fuckin' white
dude..."
	"James," Jack said, beginning to sound impatient already. "Don't
talk like that."
	"Jack," I said. They both looked at me. The crowd outside the
office looked at me, although they wouldn't have been able to hear me
through the glass. "He has a mind of his own," I said. "He seems smart. Let
him pick the guy he's gonna hang out with."
	Jack looked like the thought had never occurred to him, and indeed
it probably hadn't. The people outside the glass could tell by the looks of
things that it wasn't going well. The social worker was pulling at his
mustache and the husky probation officer looked like she might tackle me if
I tried to leave.
	I looked over at James--mouth hanging open, curious frown. He was
watching me with his eyes wide. I looked down at his shoes, then into his
eyes with a warm smile.
	"Nice sneakers," I said.
	I turned and left. I didn't look back. I just walked out of the
office, through the center, and out the front door.


	It was two days later and I was at my house, vacuuming my living
room. It was a delicious summer day and I had all the doors and windows
open, fresh breeze blowing, music from the stereo playing Steely Dan. Being
a writer, I made my own work hours. I preferred writing at long stretches
into the night so that I could enjoy just these kinds of afternoons. I'd
been out all morning and early afternoon to the beach and returned with
sand in my shoes, which is why I was now vacuuming.
	Jack had called me after the meeting and apologized for James'
behavior. Wouldn't I give it some more thought?
	"Did James ask you to say that?" I asked.
	"No."
	"Then never mind." I was fine with the idea that I wouldn't be
saddled with a pissed-off twelve year-old hoodlum who hated being with me.
I had gratefully accepted this fate and moved on. "He didn't offend me," I
said. "I rather liked him for his straight-forwardness."
	"So you'll reconsider?"
	"Absolutely not."
	So imagine my surprise when I heard a loud steady thumping at my
door, so loud I could hear it over the vacuum. Thump, thump, thump. I
turned off the machine and listened. Thump, thump, thump. I found James
standing on my porch. He had a backpack slung over his shoulder. He wore a
large green tee shirt, immaculately pressed, and baggy shorts that hung to
his shins. And of course, there were those gleaming sneakers. He was
bouncing a basketball on the wooden porch in lieu of knocking. He looked
charmingly bashful, almost embarrassed, when I stepped up to the screen
door. Thump, thump, thump went the basketball.  He nodded a silent hello.
	"What are you doin' here?" I asked, not snidely but certainly
bluntly.
	He shrugged. Thump, thump, thump.
	"You don't know why you're here?" I asked.
	He swallowed nervously but smiled coolly. "I liked what you said to
Jennings, man," he said. "That was cool."
	Thump, thump, thump.
	"I'm glad you liked it," I said, then cocked my head. "What did I
say?"
	He chuckled. "Ya know, about lettin' me pick the guy I hang out
with."
	"Ah, yes." I stood looking at him. He bounced the basketball
between his legs, up to the other hand, back down between and up again. Two
more times and he caught the ball on his fingertips, held up like an
upside-down spider. Showing off. How cute.
	"So that's why you're here?" I asked. "To tell me that?"
	He shrugged and resumed dribbling. "No, I figured I might pick
you."
	"Now that you don't have to?"
	He chuckled. "Yeah." Thump, thump, thump.
	"I'm a fuckin' white dude," I reminded him. He laughed and covered
his mouth.
	"Sorry, dude," he said. His smile was spectacular.
	"It's all right."
	Thump, thump, thump.
	"Did you ever think to ask me if I wanted to do this?" I asked.
	For a moment, he looked worried, embarrassed. His dark brown eyes
shifted toward me, then back to his basketball. He had accidentally put
himself out there, vulnerable, looking needy. He shrugged. "Whatever."
	"So ask me."
	I was teasing him again and he caught on quickly, smirking.
	Thump, thump, thump.
	"Do ya?"
	"Do I what?"
	He gave me a boyish chuckle, husky and breathy. "Do you wanna?"
	"Do I wanna what?"
	He laughed out loud. "Do you wanna do it?"
	"Yes," I said.
	He threw back his head and laughed loudly, looking embarrassed.  It
came out wrong. Thump, thump, thump. The ball hit his foot and shot off the
porch into the bushes.Stripped of his ball, defenses down, he stood there
looking at me, laughing still, but thoughtful. "I mean do you wanna be my
tutor?"
	"Yeah."
	He smiled shyly. "Cool."


	He looked delicious sitting on my couch, hips slumped forward so
his feet would reach the floor. Lovely brown skin, smooth and silken, curly
eyelashes fluttering around those deep almond eyes. I sat across from him
in my chair. It was an awkward silence. He looked around the place, taking
all in, turning his head around to look into the bedroom, back the other
way to peer into the kitchen. It wasn't just my house he was getting to
know. After a while, he looked straight into my eyes.
	"So what now?" he asked.
	I snorted. "I don't know. Guess we get to know each other."
	More silence. He looked doubtful. "If dis is gettin' to know each
other, it's fuckin' boring," he said. "Ain't you s'posed to take me places
and shit?"
	"You're thinkin' of Big Brothers." I crossed my ankles on the
coffee table in front of me. "I'm supposed to be helping you with your
homework."
	"Fuck that."
	"What sort of thing do you like?"
	James looked like he was going to cut up-he smirked and covered his
mouth, long fingers fluttering on his full lips. "Blunts and Forties,
baby." He laughed like he expected me to join in. When I didn't, he gave me
a teasing grin. "Why you so serious?" he asked, and he chuckled. "Looks
like someone done shot your dog, man."
	"Let's get to the homework."
	"I'm s'posed to smoke a blunt and drink a forty and write a report
on it," he cackled. He stomped his foot and looked bothered that I didn't
smile. "You too serious, dude."
	I was just thinking that he wasn't serious enough. He was flunking
out of the seventh grade and a heartbeat away from work camp. He had
alienated all of the people who were once willing to work with him. He was
a scared little twelve year-old boy whose feet wouldn't touch the floor if
he sat up straight.
	"You're here to do homework," I reminded him.
	He shrugged like he didn't care. Maybe he didn't.
	He stalled when I told him to pull out his books. "Can I get
somethin' to drink first?"
	I stood up, pointing at his backpack. "You get out your books and
I'll get you a soda."
	He started to get up. "Let me see what you got, dawg."
	"You get the books," I said. "All I got is Sprite."
	"No beer?" He chuckled.
	"The books," I insisted, pointing at the bag again, heading toward
the kitchen.
	"Yo, I thought we was gonna get to know each other first."
	"If there's something you want to know, ask," I said, reaching into
the fridge and grabbing a can. " Otherwise, let's get to the books."
	"Awright," he said. "Are you really gay?" He was snickering softly.
I tossed the can to him and he caught it. "I never said I was gay."
	"Yes you did."
	"You said I was gay," I said. I plopped back down in the chair.  He
hadn't even opened his backpack. "I said that I didn't think fags would
bother you."
	He frowned at me. "What was that supposed to mean anyway?"
	"You know what I meant," I said. "I told you they told me about
you."
	He looked at me darkly. "Ain't nobody's business..."
	"I thought we were getting to know each other first."
	"...That's my business."
	"Don't want to talk about it?"
	"No."
	"Then let's hit the books," I said. I reached for the backpack and
he snatched it away. He scowled at me silently for a moment.
	"Ain't nobody's business," he repeated.
	"Fine," I shrugged. "Let's get to the homework."
	It was our first parry. We sparred and I got the better of him, and
he looked a bit resentful. He could always walk out, but he never did.
Something kept him there. Maybe he was desperate to avoid work camp. I got
a whiff of something else, like there was much more to him than met the
eye.
	He came over three times in the first week. Each time he sat like
he was afraid to move, hiding in that cool boy slouch on the couch,
sneakers tapping on the floor. I would thrust his homework at him and he
would do it only if he could groan about it, as if he were a dog I was
pilling, complying but not committed. He seemed endlessly distracted.
	On the third day, I read aloud his Social Studies homework, written
by his teacher, Mrs. Evans. "Write two pages about a place outside the
United States."
	"Up yo stinky asshole, Mrs. Evans," he said. "There gotta be two
pages of funk up in there!" He laughed into his hand and looked at me.
	I sighed, straight-faced, and he frowned at me.
	"What?"
	"Her asshole is inside the United States," I said. "Get serious."
	"I don't know." He was defensive now. He looked away and crossed
his arms on his chest.
	"Pick a place, any place."
	He shrugged, looked about to say something, then shook his head.
	"I don't know. Hawaii."
	"That's a state," I said.
	"I don't know!" He looked embarrassed.
	"It's outside the mainland, but I think she means..."
 	"Fuck you, I said I don't know."
	He sat back and glowered at me, then said, "Tibet."
	Tibet? Where the hell did that come from? "Okay."
	"That's outside the fuckin' United States," he sneered.
	"Yes, it is..."
	"It's where the Dali fuckin' Lama used to live before he was kicked
the fuck out."
	"How do you know that?"
	"Discovery Channel."
	I laughed. He held onto his frown for only a moment, then cackled
and wrinkled his nose in a smile. "Tibet it is," I said.


	By the second week, he was coming over every day after school,
sitting on the couch next to me, leaning against me, his elbow on my
knee. He showed me his report card like he was sharing a joke. Two C's,
three D's and an F in Algebra. He laughed and did a bad imitation of
embarrassed.
	"You got a C in gym?" I asked. I was serious but he laughed about
it.
	"Yeah, dude," he said. "I hates gym! And Jim hates me!" He nearly
fell off the couch laughing.
	"It's not funny, James," I said, opening up a book. "Get serious.
How did you get a C in gym?"
	He shrugged, still smiling. I read the note next to the grade-the
place for comments. Words were scribbled there and I could barely make them
out. "Doesn't bring gym clothes." I looked at him. "You got gym clothes?"
	He nodded and looked desperate to change the subject. "Gotta
Sprite?"
	"James, you have gym clothes?"
	"Yeah." He looked ashamed but he tried to look uninterested. "Can I
have a Sprite?"
	"Why don't you dress for gym?"
	He stood up and walked to the kitchen. I could hear him rambling on
about the stupid shit they do in gym class, how the class if full of
assholes, the gym teacher, Mr. Marks, is a prick. I only half listened,
rummaging through my own ideas, and by the time he came back with his soda
and plopped next to me on the couch, I thought I'd figured it out.
	"You get hard lookin' at the other boys, don't ya?"
	He nearly choked on a sip of soda. "No!"
	I gave him my best "I think you're lying" look.
	"I'm not lying." He put the can down and rested his chin on his
knuckles. "I'm not lying."
	I studied him until he smirked at me. "What?" he asked.
	"Just tell me."
	"Tell you what?"
	"What's the real story?"
	"I ain't gotta tell you!" He flared up suddenly. His body tensed
and he looked like he was going to get up and leave. "Shit! Why you care?
Gettin' all up in my business!"
	I rolled my eyes and sighed. "I thought you wanted to stay out of
work camp."
	He waved a finger at me and gave me a knowing look. "Oh, I see how
you is. Gonna send me to work camp if I don't tell ya?" He growled at
me. "Fuck you."
	I handed the report card back to him. "Grades like these are gonna
send you to work camp." I shrugged and spoke softly. "I'm tryin' to help
you get your grades up."
	His eyes searched me, looked into me. He wanted to trust me but he
wasn't used to trusting anyone. He spoke to his shoes.
	"You be tellin' fat Francie."
	"Who?
	"My P.O."
	I remembered the probation officer. Fat Francie. "That's stupid," I
said dismissively. "I'm tryin' like hell to earn your trust. Why the fuck
would I do that? Why would I tell anyone anything you said if I'm tryin' to
get you to trust me?"
	Theoretically, this was specious reasoning, but the boy seemed to
think it made sound sense. He pondered it a moment.
	"Tell me." I said.
	Then, for the first time, he confided in me. He shrugged, opened
his mouth to speak, shook his head and swallowed, looked down at his
feet. "They told you 'bout me," he said, as if nothing more need be told.
	"Your business?" I asked. "Yeah."
	"Messin' with other dudes',"-he indicated his crotch-"you know
whats."
	"I know what."
	He closed his eyes and shook his head. He suddenly looked so soft.
"Man, I got it bad." He took a deep breath and released it with a big puff.
"I don't wanna like 'em, but...they all hangin' out and shit. I just
wanna..." He looked ready to tell me what he wanted to do with them, then
he looked embarrassed. "I read somewhere that boys sometimes feel it and
then outgrow it, but..." I admired his bravery.
	"Do you wanna outgrow it?" I asked.
	He nodded. "Yeah," he said unconvincingly. He sat upright, pulling
himself together quickly, then laughed miserably. "Other guys be noticin'
me starin' at 'em sometimes."
	It was very quiet. I didn't say anything. I knew he was far from
done.
	"I just wanna fuck around, ya know?" he shrugged. "It don't mean
I'm gay or nothin'. That's what I read somewhere." He was trying to
convince one of us. "It's just that...right now in my life...I can't think
of anything else! I be gettin' hard all the time 'cause I can't think of
nothin' else but..."  He couldn't say the word. It would sound too much
like a confession.
	"Dick," I said flatly.
	He winced slightly when I spoke the word. He drummed his fingers on
the Algebra book in front of him. He wouldn't look at me but at the same
time, couldn't resist checking out my expression, wondering how I was
handling this. He peeked at my face, then peeked again, then scowled and
looked away. The silence played on until he couldn't take it anymore and he
looked me in the eye, eyebrows arched like question marks. "What?"
	I shook my head. "So you like dick," I said plainly. "No big deal.
A 'C' in gym class makes perfect sense to me." I tapped the book with a
pen. "Now, back to Algebra."


	Once James had made this confession and had seen my accepting
response, he became more and more comfortable with me and with talking
about it. We decided that he wouldn't shower after gym class. It was his
last class of the day anyway. He came up with the idea of showering at my
house. He showed up the next day sweaty and hot, navy blue shorts and
yellow tee shirt with "Coolidge Junior High" on the chest. Thump, thump,
thump. He was smiling and panting as though he had run the whole way.
	"Should I shower first?" he asked eagerly.
	"Yeah, I won't want to sit near you if you don't."
	That was a lie, of course, for I would have gladly cuddled him if
he were covered in manure. In fact, he didn't smell bad at all. Boy sweat
lacks the stink of puberty. He smelled salty and sweet as he moved by me
toward the bathroom.
	I could hear him in the shower, singing a rap song and joking to
himself with little melodic giggles. Afterwards, he would come out dressed
in his street clothes, water droplets on his soft neck, short-cropped hair
twinkling with droplets of water. And always, the sneakers. I began to
think he slept in them. He looked like an angel, freshly scrubbed. He'd
throw himself down next to me on the couch, into the nook of my arm,
smiling and talking about school. He never spoke of any friends except a
girl named Gigi who, he worried, liked him for more than a friend. Once, he
told me a story about getting angry with his Algebra teacher, Mrs. Turner,
who had reprimanded him for talking in class.
	"I told her to suck my dick," he said, laughing, wanting to shock
me.
	I frowned at him reproachfully and he shrugged. "She was tryin' to
make me look like a punk!"
	"And so you beat her to it?" I snapped. "Don't tell me these stupid
fuckin' stories unless you feel sorry about them."
	He withdrew, defensive. "Whatever."
	"'Suck my dick' should be used as a compliment," I said. "It's what
you say to someone you care about and trust."
	The boy was speechless. I had counted and it took me exactly three
and a half weeks to leave the boy speechless. He looked at me as if he
thought I was joking, a half smile on his lovely lips, white teeth barely
showing between. He looked embarrassed, then amused, then nodded in a sort
of agreement.


	The following week, I received a phone call from Jack Jennings. We
exchanged pleasantries. I could tell something was up.
	"Elliot," he said. The heavy sigh said that he was getting to the
point. "James' probation officer knows about the two of you. She followed
him over to your house yesterday."
	My heart leapt into my throat. James and I hadn't done anything
yet, I reminded myself. "I'm not sure what you're talking about, Jack."
	"James has been meeting with you after school," he said. "The
P.O. knows."
	"Of course she knows," I said. "She was there at the meeting."
	There was a confused silence before Jack spoke. "You said you
weren't interested in working with James at that meeting."
	"Right."
	"But you are."
	"Right," I said. "Because James changed his mind."
	"Well he didn't tell anyone else about it," Jack said.
	More confused silence.
	"What?"
	"We've been looking for someone else to mentor him," Jack said.
	"We didn't know he was seeing you."
	Now that I thought about it, I hadn't talked to anyone from the
neighborhood center since I started seeing James and James never talked
about it. "He didn't tell you?"
	"No, you didn't know that we didn't know?"
	"No."
	Jack whistled through his teeth. "Holy shit, Elliot."
	"He just showed up on my doorstep saying he was ready to work with
me," I said. "I assumed you knew."
	"We had no idea," he said. "The school called the P.O. because his
Algebra teacher said that he had cussed her out in class."
	"Mrs. Turner."
	"How did you know?"
	"He told me about it."
	"He did?"
	"Algebra's his hardest subject. He's doin' better," I heard myself
saying in James' defense. "I don't think the teacher likes him."
	"She thinks he cheated on a test."
	"He passed the test?"
	"Got a B," Jack said.
	"Yes!" I exploded. I was prouder than I had ever been. "That's my
boy!"
	"I can't believe he's been seeing you on the sly!"
	"Four weeks now," I said, chuckling. My boy was a clever one.
	"His gym teacher..."
	"Mr. Marks..."
	"Right," Jack said. "He said that James is dressing every day for
gym class now."
	"Yeah, I know."
	After further discussion, Jack thought we shouldn't tell James that
everyone was on to him. "He'll just rebel if he finds out the rest of us
are involved."
	"You're not involved, are you?" I said. "I mean, he came to me and
asked for help. It's between James and me."
	Jack was silent, breathing into the phone. "Oh," he said. "I don't
know, Elliot. I'm glad you're helping him but I don't think that Francie
Crawford will be able to keep her nose out of this."
	Fat Francie.
	"If she wants to help him, she will. I'm not telling her the things
he tells me in confidence."
	"He's telling you things in confidence?"
	I thought a moment. "I can't tell you that."
	"She's not gonna like this."
	"She knows where she can find us," I said boldly. "He's here every
day at three thirty."


	After such a bold ultimatum, I wished I'd been more diplomatic. I
worried about losing my time with James, which had become a real pleasure
to me. There was a sexual energy between us, to be sure, but there seemed a
great deal of other business to get out of the way first. Sex now, I
thought, would muck up the works, and James was making remarkable
progress. Nevertheless, the relationship had slowly become quite intimate.
My heart would race when I heard him at the door-thump, thump, thump-and he
would bound in the door like a puppy upon seeing me, throwing his face into
my chest, his slender arms around my waist. He'd disappear into the
bathroom for his shower, then come tumbling over the back of the couch,
smelling of soap and laughing while I tickled his ribs and pulled him like
a small ball into my arms.
	He lounged against my chest while we worked on the parts of speech
and he cuddled up with his head on my shoulder when we took turns reading
"Treasure Island" for his literature class. I had become addicted to the
boy. He still had his rough edges, but they were softening as they rubbed
up against me, as he sought refuge against my chest, as I enveloped him in
my arms. There were times when we were sitting together on the couch,
hunched over a book, that I would notice him staring down at my crotch,
just staring mindlessly. I'd nudge him and he'd awaken from his reverie and
ask me what I'd just said.
	Jack called me back later that same day. "Francie has been in touch
with the school," he said. "James has been doing better in all of his
classes."
	"Great!"
	"They say his attitude still stinks," he went on. "Very
oppositional and rude. Cusses at the teachers. Told the gym teacher to blow
goats. What the hell does that mean?"
	"I can guess..."
	"His History teacher..."
	"Mr. Galaraga."
	"Whatever. He claims that James implied that he'd give him oral
sex." Jack sounded frustrated. "James said he misunderstood."
	"Okay, he's not perfect."
	"He's a pain in the ass," Jack stated. "But the social worker and
P.O. agreed to wait and see how things progressed. They agreed to keep
their distance and leave us alone. Then today happened."
	"What?"
	"James got into a fight at school today with a fourteen year-old,"
Jack explained. "Got beat up pretty bad."
	"Shit."
	"Some words in the locker room.  I'm still not clear what
happened."
	"Shit."
	"Francie is furious," Jack went on. "She just called me to tell me
that she's thinking it might be time to move on the work camp plan. She
wanted my opinion and I told her I'd talk to you."
	"Thanks, Jack."
	For the first time I recognized that Jack Jennings was my ally and,
consequently, James' ally. He was the part of the system that stuck out and
didn't fit.
	"Ask the P.O. for one last chance." I said it quickly, like I was
trying to sneak it by him.
	"Elliot..."
	"Just one, Jack, please," I was aware that I sounded desperate.
	"One more chance. If he has another major incident at school, I'll
drive him to the work camp myself."
	"She doesn't need your permission, Elliot."
	"Look at the progress we've made! That should count for something!"
I grasped at straws. "I'll take full responsibility. I'll get a report
every day from his principal, telling me how he does. If there are any
problems, I'll deal with it."
	"You can't take responsibility for him."
	"The only reason he came over here to start with is because I
haven't been assigned to him," I explained. "He chose me. Not the social
worker, not the P.O. or anyone else. He did. That should count for
something!"
	"Well it doesn't," Jack said abruptly. "At least not to Francie.
She just sees it as more of his rebellion."
	We were quiet for a moment. I could tell that Jack was thinking of
an angle. He was the middleman who had to interface with the P.O. and the
social worker. "Let me see what I can do," he said finally, not sounding
terribly optimistic.
	"Thanks Jack," I said. "Let me know."
	I hung up the phone and cursed. I needed a radical plan if I was
going to rehabilitate James. I paced the house, running the most
far-fetched and dangerous strategy through my head, thinking it wouldn't
work, thinking it would backfire, thinking it could be the only medicine
for what ailed the boy.
	Thump, thump, thump.
	I looked at the clock. It was three thirty. Thump, thump, thump.
	No time to think about it any further. I moved to the door, closer
to the rhythmic call. Thump, thump, thump. There he stood, scowling like a
thunderstorm, bouncing the ball with an extra punch that shook the whole
porch. The swollen eye and split lip on his handsome face tugged at my
heart. I looked at him through the screen door, hurting for him. He jerked
his head, a silent hello, uncertain how I would respond.
	"You look awful," I said.
	Thump, thump, thump.
	I pushed open the door. "Come on in," I said. "Tell me what
happened."
	He chucked the ball under his arm and sauntered in. "Ain't
nothin'," he shrugged. "Some punk."
	"What was it about?"
	He didn't answer. He dropped his ball on the living room rug and
headed toward the bathroom.
	"James," I said softly.
	He stopped in the doorway and looked at me. I took a step closer to
him and I could see a tear leak out of one eye. He quickly swiped it away.
By the time I reached him, he was, crying and pressing his face against my
chest.


He told me the whole story. There was a boy named Tyrone on the freshman
wrestling team. The team was showering at the same time as James' gym
class. Of course James wasn't showering, but Tyrone accused him of staring
at him. "He called me a faggot," James said. He sat there silently like
that could have been the end of the story.

"And?"

"And I punched the mother fucker." James sneered toughly and puffed up his
chest, all bravado.

"And then he proceeded to just beat the living shit out of you?"

I felt it was important to point that out, hoping he might make some
connection to the two events. He shrugged but he looked a little sad. I
nodded silently for a long time, looking at the floor. It sounded
believable.

"So...were you staring?"

James turned slowly and scowled at me and I knew the answer. He drummed his
fingers on his bare kneecap. "Fat Francie is gonna fuckin' flip."

"She already has."

He looked at me curiously.

"They all know," I said. "Fat Francie, your social worker,
Mr. Jennings... You didn't tell me they didn't know you were comin' over
here."

"You didn't ask."

	"And Mr. Galaraga," I went on. He rolled his eyes. "Says you came
on to him today."

	"Whatever," he sighed, but he smiled a bit.

	"Whatever," I mocked him. "Did you?"

	He frowned and looked like he would deny it outright, but he just
made a goofy "whatever" face and shook his head. "That dude's trippin'."

	I smiled knowingly. "You did, then."

	"That dude's trippin', is what I said."

I sat back in my chair and looked at him. He looked a mess. "I've asked
Mr. Jennings for one last chance for you," I said. "He's agreed to talk to
Fat Fran...your P.O. and see if she'll hold off on the work camp just one
more time. I'm waitin' for his call."

"How you gonna do dat?" he asked.

I gave myself one last chance to back out. It was a short pause wherein I
studied him carefully. He was watching me with a quizzical look, silent and
waiting for me to speak. "I've been thinkin'," I started. "Most of these
problems you've been having have to do with...well, your hormones. They're
raging a little early for you, but not too early, just too much."

He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "I heard this talk before, dude."

"I don't think so," I said. "Let me finish." I was suddenly very nervous
and I stood up and began to walk around the room. He sat on the couch,
watching me. "See, you're so busy thinkin' about and chasin' after dick,
that you can't get anything else done. It's like you need it and everything
else is on hold until you get it. If you had it on a regular basis you'd
have enough energy and time to do other things, like your homework for
example."

He was starting to look uncomfortable, as if he thought I was teasing
him. He was openly frowning at me, a mix of a lot of curiosity and a little
defensiveness. He didn't like to hear that he "needed" cock, but he
certainly wasn't jumping up to deny it.

"In fact, you could probably start showering again after gym class," I went
on. "All those dicks hangin' out wouldn't bother you at all..." I stepped
in front of him, nervous as hell, excited, looking gently down into his
battered face. "...because you would know that everyday after school, you
had a dick to play with and suck on." I stepped very close now, my crotch
in his face. His eyes were suddenly glued to it. He had stopped breathing.
"And you'd know it was yours, every day, if you were a good boy at school."

It's hard to imagine that there would be any question what I was
suggesting, but he looked up at me with his eyes wide, his mouth hanging
open slightly, as if he didn't quite believe it. I touched his head softly
and smirked at him. "Good idea, huh?"

He smirked back and I knew it was all good. His nose was inches from
touching the fly on my corduroy shorts. I gently urged his head forward,
hand at the nape of his neck, and he allowed me to press his face against
me. He closed his eyes and sighed like this was too much, overwhelming. He
pressed in harder. My cock stirred and bumped against his little nose. He
breathed in the smell of me and slowly reached up and placed his hand
there, groping gently, looking up into my face.

"Why are you doin' this?" he asked me, tugging at my dick through the
fabric, eyes soft and wondering.

"My pleasure," I said. "Your pleasure."

Both his hands were on my crotch. He closed his eyes again and rubbed his
face into me. My dick was throbbing stiff, banging against my barn door
like it was desperate to get out. He took hold of the belt buckle and
pulled it loose, undid the snap at the top, then reached for the zipper. I
stayed his hands gently with my own, holding them there at the gate to his
paradise. He looked up at me, frowning, annoyed at my interference.

"Do we have an agreement?" I asked.

"Yes," he whispered.

"You have a good day at school and do your homework..."

"Yes."

"...and you can have my dick."

"Okay." He looked ready to agree to anything that would let his hands loose
on that zipper.

"No more fights, no more bein' rude to teachers..."

"Okay."

"...grades up, studying hard..."

"Uh-huh."

"...no more skippin' school, no more attitude with Fat Francie..."

He nodded.

"And definitely no more propositioning other guys," I said emphatically.
"You want dick, now you know where to come for it. Right?"

He nodded. He just wanted me to shut the fuck up and let him continue. I
held out my right hand to him. "Deal?"

He grabbed my hand and shook it, three quick yanks. "Deal," he murmured,
and he pulled the zipper down. My white boxer-briefs tented out toward
him. He absent-mindedly yanked the corduroy shorts down over my hips and
even before they hit the floor, he was pressing his face and fingers into
the white cotton, sniffing, breathing it in. He was too young to go
slow. He clawed at my underwear, peeling them down until my cock popped
out, hitting him in the face, bumping his bruised eye. I groaned at the
feel of his warm breath on me. He took it in both hands, looking at it
closely, rubbing it under his nose, against his split lips. With his eyes
closed, he looked like he was praying, hands clasped together around my
prick. He kissed it, soft lips, wet and warm, on the underside, on the
head, on the tip. He eased himself from the couch onto his knees, making
small purring noises, low hums in his throat, vibrating against my
shaft. He pulled my underwear down to expose my balls and he took them in
both hands, fondling them like precious stones, sighing audibly.

I reached down and took my cock at the root, bent over slightly, and nudged
his lips with the tip of it. He glanced up at me uncertainly at first, then
opened his mouth and let the head slide in. I groaned at the first touch of
his tongue, withdrew, then pushed in again. It slid in farther, smoothly,
deeper into his young mouth. He knew to keep it clear of his teeth, knew to
swirl his tongue around it and bob his head so that it slid, sleek and wet,
in and out of his mouth. It made slurping and popping noises. He cradled my
balls in his hands and guided my cock, lips squeezing, mouth sucking me in
deeper. He dropped one hand and reached down into the front of his gym
shorts, busying his hand there, pumping in rhythm with his bobbing head. He
moaned and gurgled, reaching around to my ass and pulling me toward him,
picking up the pace, eyes half open but not seeing. I grunted and moaned
and he pulled my boxers down until they bunched at my ankles. He breathed
heavily through his nose.

I took a gentle hold on his ears and began fucking his face. He tickled my
balls. My cock slid out all the way to the tip, then plunged back into that
handsome young face, then back out to the tip. It slipped out and bounced
against his nose and, mouth gaping, he thrust his face toward it to capture
it. He was riding it pretty well but I could tell he was having a rough
time breathing. He took it in his hand and pulled it out, licking the tip,
sucking on the head, fluttering his tongue along the underside. My balls
were starting to boil. His gym shorts were jumping around with his hand
inside. I took hold of his ears again and sunk my cock into his mouth. All
the nerves in my crotch tingled like they all wanted to leap down the
little boy's throat. I began to fuck his face again and he surrendered,
giving me his head. He practically hung suspended from his ears, bouncing
on my cock, eyes closed, hand flailing between his legs. I was getting
close and so was he.

After a few more thrusts, I pulled my cock out and it exploded onto his
forehead, spurting onto his nose, dripping onto his lips and chin. He threw
his head back throughout, mouth open. His shoulders jerked. His hips bucked
and he shouted out, "Oh, oh, oh!" and I knew that he was spunking in his
gym shorts, how much I couldn't tell. His body racked uncontrollably and
finally, he slumped forward, panting for air, licking at his lips.

Here was that awkward moment that would set the tone from here on. If the
aftermaths of these interactions were unpleasant, with guilt or
embarrassment, our deal wouldn't work. I knelt down in front of him and
lifted his face gently upward. The sperm was running down his cheeks and
dripping off his nose and chin. He looked uncertainly at me and I kissed
him tenderly on the forehead, tasting a bit of my own sperm. "Good job," I
said emphatically. "Now go get your shower. We have a History quiz to study
for."

I stood up straight, pulling my underwear and shorts up, and walked toward
the kitchen, snapping, zipping, and buckling on the way.

"You want a Sprite?" I called over my shoulder.

It took him a moment to answer. "Yeah."

"How did your spelling test go?"

I was determined to get back to normal, to plow through the uneasiness and
awkwardness. Normalize the experience, as much as possible, make it a part
of the day, and don't let it change the rapport I had worked so hard to
establish with him.

"Good I think," he replied. He was already sounding more comfortable. When
I returned to him with his soda, he was standing there with bulge and a
very small wet spot on the front of his shorts. Apparently he didn't
produce enough yet to cause an uncomfortable mess. He had wiped his face
with his shirt and gobs of cum clung to it. I handed him the soda and the
phone rang.

"I'll bet that's Mr. Jennings," I said, starting toward it. I pointed at
his shirt and shorts. "Toss those out when you take them off and I'll wash
them for you. Hurry up and shower and I'll tell you what he says."

It was Jack on the phone. He asked if I could talk and I said yes. James
had disappeared into the bathroom and I could already hear the shower
running.



When he came out of the shower, he was business as usual, dressed in his
baggy shorts and sleeveless tee, except he was barefoot. His feet were
sleek and beautiful with long slender toes. He jumped over the back of the
couch and landed in a crouch beside me, looking very seriously at
me. "Well?"

I was smiling. "Your P.O. is p.o.'d." I said, and he smiled.

"What'd she say?"

"I didn't talk to her," I said. "But Mr. Jennings said she agreed to one
more chance. You can come here at three thirty as long as you're home by
five thirty for dinner."

He squeezed my arm and grinned broadly. "Awright!"

"They're all happy with the improvements you've made in your studies," I
said, "But now we have to work on your nasty-ass attitude."

"Fuck that."

"That's the one." I nudged him. "Your principal will give me a report at
the end of every day. Any bad-mouthing, any problems, any attitude, and
I'll double your homework."

He shook his head and glowered. "No fuckin' way!"

"Fuckin' way."

"Why you bein' such a hater?"

"You're fuckin' up," I said. "And you're gonna have to shape up or you'll
end up at work camp." He opened his mouth to complain, but I broke him
off. "And I'm not about to lose you now that I've found you."

He looked smug. He waved me away and laughed, but he leaned closer into me,
smiling up into my face. "C'mon, dude!" He was pretending to object, but he
wasn't serious now. He was he trying to hide away his secret smile.

"He also told me that you have finals on Monday." I said this as if it were
loaded with meaning. He looked oblivious.

"When were you gonna tell me this?" I finally asked.

"Um...never."

"James..."

"Algebra's gonna kick my ass, dude!" He was already whining.

"So you'll have to study."

He looked as if he didn't regard that as an option.

"Look," I said. "If you have problems at school-sassing teachers, gettin'
into fights, not studying-I'll be hard on you." I smiled then. "If you do
well, I'll be hard in you."

He laughed at that, husky and melodic. "You're my new P.O.," he teased me.

"I'll make Fat Francie look like a pussycat."

He knew I was serious. He could tell that I was making a stand. It was his
last chance and he knew it. I thought he would feel resentful, like he was
backed into a corner, but he smiled wryly at me.

"Awright," he said finally.

"Awright," I echoed. We bumped fists in agreement. I picked up his
Literature book. "Now, to Shakespeare!"



 	The phone on my desk rang at a little after three the following
afternoon. I was expecting it and wasn't surprised to hear the principal's
voice.

"Mr. Drake?"

"Hello, Mr. Spiller," I said. "How'd the boy do?"

"Pretty good morning," Mr. Spiller said. "But in the afternoon, he had an
altercation with his Algebra teacher and walked out of class."

"Mrs. Turner," I mumbled.

"We almost called the cops but we found him in the library. I assume that
Fran..."

"In the library?" I had to stop him. "What was he doing in the library?"

"He was just sitting there, reading," Mr. Spiller said. "Mr. Drake, I hope
that Francie has talked to you about..."

"He was reading a book?" I asked. The boy was reading a book. Apparently I
was the only one to see any significance in that. "What was he reading?"

"I don't know, I didn't..."

"You didn't ask?"

The principal and I were not getting off on a good foot. The sudden silence
said he was getting that too.

"He was out of his assigned area." Spiller sounded like he was reading that
from a placard on his desk. I wasn't going to pursue this. I had to choose
my battles carefully and one this early was a bad idea.

"I'll take care of it," I said politely. "Thanks for calling me and thanks
for not calling the cops."

"I'll talk to you tomorrow, Mr. Drake."

By the time I heard the thump, thump, thump of James on the porch, I was
crawling out of my skin with curiosity. He walked in without me opening the
door, twirling his basketball on his fingertip.

"Hi," I said handing him a Sprite. He had certain routines now when he came
over and Sprite was the start of it, right after the hug.

He smiled, stepping into me like a hand into a pocket. My arms encircled
him. It was as intimate as a kiss. He smelled of the gym, but sweet and
strong. He had a way of hugging that was all at once intense, then just as
suddenly not when he released me.

"What'd he tell you?" he asked me, popping open the can.

"You walked out of Algebra class and went to the library."

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. "That's 'bout right."

"What were you reading?" I had to know. He gave me a curious look.

"Why?"

"I wanna know."

"Whyzit matter?"

"Just tell me."

"I was lookin' at gory pictures in a book about Vietnam." He took a swig
and wiped his chin with his forearm. "Why?"

"Just curious."

The boy was incorrigible. I was hoping he had been engrossed in Hesse or
Kafka. Still, his open-faced smile was so sincere. He could have lied.

"That teacher don't like me, dude."

"Why?"

"She's a bitch."

The boy was six feet inside my house and he was already testing my
patience. He tossed his ball and backpack on the floor beside the dining
room table.

"Double the homework," I said.

He sat down at the table and gave me a hard look. He didn't move. In fact,
he seemed to be sitting so still that it served to be a statement of
protest. He didn't even sip from his soda. Surely he knew that he had no
choice. If he walked out of here he might as well get right on the bus and
go straight to the work camp. He clearly wanted to say something but had no
idea how to go about it. I made it easy for him.

"And no cock today," I said firmly. "That was the deal."

There was no way to know which of us was more disappointed, but James did a
poorer job of hiding it. His lovely jaw tightened and his dark eyes turned
stormy. He was scowling so hard that he probably couldn't even see the
books that he was yanking out of his bag and slamming down on the
table. When he spoke I could tell he was gritting his teeth.

"Ain't fair."

"It's the deal."

"That teacher hates me."

"Well, you're gonna have to learn to deal with her."

"I hate the ole bitch!"

"Well, you better learn how to get along with the ole bitch."

"You can't tell me what to do!"

He was snarling at me. I smirked at him.

"Get to your homework."

"I ain't perfect!"

"That's for sure," I said. "But there are thousands of school boys in this
city that didn't disrespect and walk out on a teacher today. Those are the
ones who aren't being considered for work camp."

James was playing the same old rebellion game he always played, but now the
rules had changed. As smart as he was, I expected him to pick up on that
sooner than he did, but he was a stubborn boy. The next day, he walked in
with that warm little smile, which he pressed up against my chest, and I
doubled his homework because he had cussed out Mr. Marks. He spent the rest
of the time writing an essay about the importance of appropriate
problem-solving, angrily grinding his pencil through jagged scrawls across
his paper. He had to sharpen his pencil every five minutes. The whole time
he growled and cursed under his breath and eyed me furiously.

After he was finished, he looked tired and spent. He was sitting with his
elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. I was standing next to him,
proofreading the essay I'd given him. His command of the language wasn't
bad but his punctuation was ghastly. I felt his fingers gently touch my
cock through my pants. When I looked down, he was peering softly up at me,
pleading. I slapped his hand gently away.

"Try again tomorrow," I said. I dropped the essay down in front of
him. "Have the second draft to me by tomorrow too." I walked into the
living room, speaking over my shoulder. "Get your shower now and go home."

He showered silently. He came out of the bathroom, fully dressed, sneakers
on, reaching for his backpack. He was pouting and glowering at me as he
skulked out the door without a word.



My balls were getting blue and this kid wasn't getting it. When I got the
call the next day I didn't want to hear the report. I was already starting
to cringe at the sound of Mr. Spiller's voice.

"Great day!" he said brightly. "No complaints all day!"

"Yes!" I exploded. Mr. Spiller had no idea why but he thought he did.

"It's just one day," he said. "But it takes just one day to start a great
streak of days, and then a great streak of weeks, and then..."

I was only half listening to him. I was too busy marveling at the sensation
of my cock, slowly rising against my shorts, threatening to tear them at
the seams and rise above the kitchen like a hungry beast. I wanted to sing
but Mr. Spiller was trying to temper my enthusiasm.

"I'm so proud of him," I finally said. "You can expect better days in the
future, Mr. Spiller."

He sighed pessimistically. "I hope so," he said. "Have a good weekend,
Mr. Drake."



James skipped the thump, thump, thump altogether and came bounding in the
door at three-twenty, eyes sparkling, smile wrinkling his whole face. He
ran so hard into my chest that he knocked me backwards and onto the
floor. We fell with a wicked thud that rattled my whole body. He was
looking down at me like Tigger.

"I had a great day!"

"I heard!" I was beaming proud. "Congratulations!"

He was sitting astride me and it took me a moment to notice that he was
grinding his crotch against my belly. I don't think he fully realized he
was doing it. He was busy rattling on about how he passed his History quiz
and got a B+ on his Algebra homework. I'd never seen him so happy and
open-a regular little boy. His handsome face hovered above me as he talked
and I reached up and touched his cheek.

"I'm proud of you." I said.

He glowed and stood up, reaching down and offering me a hand.

We agreed on an hour and a fifteen minutes of studying for his final
exams. He settled right in, skipping the Sprite and shower. He was opening
his book and kicking off his shoes and socks at the same time, wiggling his
little toes in the fresh air. I was floating around the house, busying
myself with anything that would make the time go by faster while I waited
for four forty five to arrive. I dusted the living room, did the dishes,
took out the trash, scoured the shower and answered the occasional question
that he had. He was more focused than I'd ever seen him, brow furrowed,
tongue out slightly, lovely brown legs dangling from the chair. Every so
often, he would look up at me and smile. More often than I caught him, I'm
sure. I was achingly erect for one full hour that felt like three. He was
mad-dashing it through his Algebra.

"You want a Sprite?" I asked him.

He didn't answer. He was calculating on his worksheet. He tapped his temple
with the end of his pencil and clicked his tongue, then set off to work
again, jotting all down. I reorganized my CDs for the second time. I
plopped on the couch and looked at my watch. Four forty three.

"I'm done." He sounded strangely serious suddenly. "You wanna read the
final draft of the essay? I finished it last night before bed."

No, I thought.

"Yes," I said.

He walked over to me and handed me the essay, handwritten blue on notebook
paper. I read the first paragraph and was impressed with his revisions. The
punctuation had been cleaned up and the flow was more articulate. "Nice
work," I said. I looked up to smile at him and I saw that he had taken off
his shirt. His cocoa brown chest, smooth and well muscled, was dotted with
two dark brown nipples that were hard and swollen.  His gym shorts were
swollen too, his little cock leaving a small wet spot. I wiggled the essay
in my fingers. "This looks good," I said over the loud thump, thump,
thumping of my heart. I was delirious with the vision of him.

His eyes were dreamy, like he was falling asleep, sinking down onto his
knees between my legs, falling into my lap. I looked back at the essay but
was only aware of his fingers, handling my belt buckle, handling me,
tugging at me through my shorts. He reached a hand up into the leg of my
shorts, searching and finding my root. His soft hand released a groan from
my throat.

The essay fell from my hand, gliding through the air, skidding to a stop on
the floor. James was pressing his face into my crotch. He grasped my shorts
at the sides and pulled. I hadn't even been aware that he had unsnapped and
unzipped me. The shorts slid off me effortlessly and my legs fell open,
splayed, my cock rising up, throbbing, thump, thump, thump.

His hands were on it all at once, nuzzling it with his lips and nose,
kissing it, holding my nuts in his fingers. He licked along the underside
and I felt like I was melting into the couch. Breath from his nose and
mouth curled around my crotch. I couldn't believe I was close to coming
already.

I sat up and reached behind him, sliding my hand down his back, shaped like
a small vee to his slender waist, down inside those sweaty gym shorts,
beneath the boxers. His buns were smooth and round and he moaned his
approval of my hand there. My finger fell into his crack, gliding along,
crash landing into his anus. I poked and he grunted and took my cock into
his mouth, suddenly aggressive, sinking deep onto it until it hit the back
of his throat. He choked and pulled back. I poked again at his behind and
he poked the back of his throat again with my cock head. He didn't choke
this time, but established a rhythmic plunging stroke, lips wrapped tightly
around, hands greedily pulling it in deeper.

I pushed his shorts and underwear down to expose his butt and he rose on
his knees so I could push them down farther. His head still bobbed on my
cock but his butt was wiggling, knees maneuvering, so that he could pull
his shorts and underwear completely off with his other hand.

Naked, he was somehow even more stunning than I had imagined. I ran my
hands up and down, from his shoulders to his hips, cupping his small buns,
squeezing softly. I spat on my fingers and rubbed his asshole, letting one
finger slip inside. He squeaked low in his throat and stopped sucking, my
cock buried deep in his mouth. He seemed to be concentrating on my finger,
which slid in further with little resistance, out, then in again, deeper
still. I wiggled my finger and he pulled off of my cock, letting out a loud
moan from deep within him. He dropped his head down on my thigh and I
pushed in another finger.

His voice came high and very child-like. "Oh, oh my god!"

He was hanging onto my wet cock with his hand, too stunned by what was
happening in his backyard to focus on it. I redirected his face to it,
rubbing the dripping tip on his cheek, sliding it over his wet face,
slithering it between his dripping lips, slipping it back into his warm
mouth. He was back to work on it suddenly. One hand on my balls, the other
clenched on the root of my cock, he bobbed and slurped. The whole time, I
was slipping my wet fingers in and out of his ass. He panted and huffed. I
could feel my orgasm like a train in the distance-loud, mighty, and coming
fast, bearing down on me, here before I even knew it.

"I'm coming!" I grunted suddenly, and my cock blew into his mouth. It was
mighty indeed, spurt after spurt of it, coating his mouth, leaking out
through his beautiful lips, down onto his chin. He rubbed his face against
it and still it spurted, up onto his forehead, dripping down the ridge of
his nose. It seemed to last forever, and long after I stopped spurting, the
spasms shook my body and doubled me over, my nose touching his back, my
fingers still planted up his bottom.

I was aware of him panting. His sphincter was squeezing my fingers. I sat
up and pulled him up. He fell against my chest, lying sideways, nose
against my neck. I reached down and grabbed his little cock with my left
hand, between my thumb and forefinger. He groaned and hissed at the
sensation. The fingers of my right hand wiggled in his butt and he grunted
and laughed, embarrassed, crumbling into passion, abandoning his shell,
burying his face into my neck. Again came that child-like voice.

"Oh, Jesus Christ!"

He was biting his lip when I looked down into his face, eyes closed,
tumbling toward his own climax. Both of my hands made busy, each to their
own delicacy, and James snaked his arms around my neck, pulling himself
higher so that my fingers could plunge deeper. He spread his legs, lifting
one knee in the air to allow better access.

His nose was against my cheek, his arms tight around my neck, hurting
slightly. His limbs shook with violent, desperate spasms. Our noses
bumped. I could smell his breath. He was grunting in rhythm to my hand,
flying up and down on his dick. I heard my fingers sloppily sliding in and
out of him. His whole body shook. Our lips touched. I kissed him,
tentatively at first, then more deeply. He pressed his lips back, tongue
flashing out, meeting with mine. He shouted deep in his throat, tipped his
head back and yelled.

"Oh! Oh! Oh, God!"

I felt the warm goo on my hand, his little twig throbbing in my fingers. He
was yelling again, nonsense syllables, noises and utterances. He looked me
square in the eye as the last spasms shook him, then he slumped with his
forehead on mine, noses touching.

"Fuck," he panted.

"Next time," I whispered back, and I wiggled my fingers.

He moaned like he might be ready for another round already. I withdrew from
his behind and released his dripping dong, which was still hard. I cradled
him in my arms, kissing his forehead, pulling him into me. He surrendered,
sweetly curling up against my chest, his arms and hands between us, long
fingers curled beneath his chin. He looked like a cherub, resting
innocently. He looked content, eyes closed as if he might sink into
sleep. My fingers traversed down his back, over his jutted hipbone, lovely
and sleek, down his smooth thigh, muscular and shining like ebony.

"Finals on Monday," I said. He didn't respond, wanting to shut out that
business for the pleasure in the time being.

My chest muffled his voice. "It's hard."

"I know," I said. "You'll have to study all weekend."

He groaned, not out of pleasure, and rose up on his elbows. He looked into
my eyes and I spontaneously kissed him on the nose. He smiled, surprised.

"Can I study over here?" he asked.

I laughed. "No, I've got things to do this weekend." He looked
disappointed. "But," I went on. "If you do well on your finals, I'll give
you a special reward." I ran my hand down his back and fingered his moist
hole purposefully. "This..." I said, and I stopped. He wriggled under the
poking and smiled.

"What?"

"This," I repeated. "This needs to be properly taken care of." I winked at
him and smirked.

He took my half-hard cock in his hand and smiled up at me. "With this?" he
asked.

I nodded and we laughed out loud. "If you do well on your finals."

His fingers were causing me to get hard again but he had twenty minutes to
get his shower and get home for dinner. No time for another round. Just as
well. I wanted to keep him hungry, at least until after finals.

"What makes you think I wanna..." he eyed my dick and cocked his head back
toward his bottom. He was smiling, trying to play with me. I rubbed my
finger across his hole and he held his breath, biting his lip.

"Ain't hard to tell," I whispered.

I slapped him on the rump suddenly. "Get in the shower," I said. "You're
gonna be late gettin' home."

I stood up abruptly and his hand fell from my cock. He knew he had to go
but I could tell he wanted a lot more of what I wanted.



I worked through the weekend at long stretches. I was behind schedule with
the book I was writing and needed to have a draft to present to my editor
by Monday morning. Without James around, I was amazed at my powers of
concentration. Six hours of writing alone was nothing compared to one hour
of trying to write with James' god-like body in the room. He called me
several times in the day, ostensibly to ask questions about his studying,
but the questions were either ones I couldn't answer or too easy to believe
he didn't know better.

"Whatcha doin'?" he asked for the third time on Saturday.

"Writing," I answered for the third time. "What do you need?"

"I'm havin' problems with my Algebra," he said. "But you got to see it to
understand the question. Can I come over?"

"No." I knew he was struggling with Algebra. I knew that it was his
toughest subject. I also knew that if he came over, he'd be less than five
minutes in the house and his fingers would be wandering up my shorts. "Just
keep practicing the proofs."

"But..."

"There's no new information on the exam, James," I pointed out.

"It's all just practice now."

I heard him huffing on the other end of the phone, breathing angrily
through his nose. "Fuck you, man."

I hung up the phone. It rang ten seconds later.

"I'm sorry, dude." He sounded strangely cheerful. "Can I come over,
please?"

I hung up the phone again. When it rang again, I didn't answer.

The machine picked it up and I heard his voice.

"Elliot, pick up."

I was back to the book, fingers deftly flying over the keys.

"Elliot!" he shouted. "Pick up the fuckin' phone!"

I could hear the heavy, pissed-off breathing again. I kept at my work. I'd
been at it for nearly seven hours now and was winding up a chapter.

"Fuckin' bastard!" he hissed through his teeth, and he slammed the phone
down.

Sunday was much of the same except that I didn't pick up the phone at
all. His handsome, husky voice ranged between pleading and innocent to
enraged and aggressive. He eventually stopped calling and I was afraid he'd
show up at my front door, but he didn't. I caught up on my work and
finished the chapters due by early Sunday evening. I emailed the chapters
to my editor and spent the evening watching TV.



Thump, thump, thump.

Three thirty on Monday and he stood pouting on the porch, lips pursed, jaw
set tight, eyes smoldering. He didn't respond when I said "hello".

"What's eatin' you?"

"Why didn't you answer my calls yesterday?"

"I was working. I told you that all day Saturday." I was handing him a
Sprite. He took it without taking his eyes off mine. "You had your work to
do, I had mine." I smiled. "How did the finals go?"

He shrugged. "I don't know." At closer inspection, he looked more sad than
mad. I saw it in the way he carried his body to the couch and plopped down
into it.

I sat down beside him, letting my arm fall casually on the back of the
couch behind him. "You must have some idea how you did."

"I find out tomorrow."

He was silent, looking down at his shoes, which were looking more worn than
on that first day I met him, cocky and aloof at he neighborhood center. It
was five weeks ago. I was amazed at the amount of tenderness I had acquired
for this little boy over such a short amount of time.

I gently rubbed the nape of his neck. "Mr. Spiller said you had some words
with him today."

He didn't say anything. He shrugged and nodded and stared silently at his
feet, tapping his toes on the coffee table with a soft, steady beat. Thump,
thump, thump.

"He said you were running down the hallway and when he told you to go back
and walk, you told him to kiss your ass."

He shook his head. "I told him to kiss his own ass."

"What were you thinking?"

He didn't respond at all-no shrug, no shake of the head-as if he hadn't
heard me.

"James," I said, so softly it was nearly a whisper. "What's wrong?"

He turned and looked at me with an odd mix of reproach and pleading. "Why
didn't ya answer the phone?"

This is when "tough love" is truly tough-tough on him, tough on me. He was
expressing feelings of abandonment and neglect. I understood that if I had
spent the weekend on the phone with him, he wouldn't have studied and I
would be thinking up an excuse to give to my editor as to why the chapters
weren't finished. I understood that he was now under the influence of
passion, desire, need-that it drove his thoughts and effected his body the
way lack of food might.

"We're talking about what happened today," I said, redirecting him. "You
knew Spiller would be talking to me today as usual."

"Fuck, Spiller," he grumbled. "And fuck you."

I was silent, thinking for a moment. Maybe he had told me what he was
thinking. The boy was a frustrating mix of brilliance and self-destructive
expressions of anger. I sighed heavily and answered his question.

"James, just the sound of your voice," I said softly. "Makes it impossible
to concentrate. Don't you think I wanted to call you over and spend the
weekend with you?"

"No," he said quickly, spitefully. He pouted. He didn't mean it really, but
he thought it would feel good if he said it.

"Boy, you step into this house and you're all I think about," I went on,
running my hand across his shoulders, feeling the muscles beneath his tee
shirt. "I can't concentrate on anything else."

He looked at me suddenly as if trying to read me, discerning my
sincerity. He smirked, looked away, then looked back into my face. "Me
too," he said, embarrassed. "I whacked off four times yesterday."We both
laughed. He settled back into the nook of my arm, lettinghis head come to
rest on my shoulder. There was brief beat of silence.

"Spiller be tellin' me to go all the way back to the end of the hall and
walk, like I needed the fuckin' practice. What fool needs practice walkin'
down a hall?" He shook his head. "I ain't no fool."

"But you knew he'd tell me..."

"I couldn't help it!" He spoke suddenly. "In my head I told myself to shut
up, go back and walk, but...he just kept lecturin' me about bein' unsafe in
the hallway and shit. He just wouldn't shut the fuck up."

This was progress. For the first time, he had screwed up and taken
responsibility for it. For the first time he had acknowledged that he
expected more of himself, that he aspired to improve, that he knew what was
the right thing to do. His voice even sounded remorseful. I was proud of
him.

"So what do you want your essay to be about?" I expected another fit, but
he sat quietly, resting his chin on the heel of his hand.

"Why I shouldn't run down the hallway?"

"That wasn't the real mistake you made," I said. "Try again."

He sighed. "Why I shouldn't tell the principal to kiss his own ass?"

"Gettin' warmer."

"Why I should be respectful to others?" His eyebrows arched and he looked
at me, this open-faced boy, trusting and sincere. I nodded.

"That'll work," I said. "And a letter of apology to Mr. Spiller."

He gave me a hard look but he didn't argue.

He knocked out the essay and we finished revisions in an hour. He showed me
the letter of apology he had written for Mr. Spiller with a serious face.

"Dear Mr. Spiller," I read aloud. "I'm sorry you're a moron. I know you
can't help it. Signed, James Oliver." I looked over at him and he
smirked. "Try again," I said, crumpling the paper in my hand and throwing
it into the wastebasket.

He laughed and went back to work.

He knew that he hadn't earned his reward for the day, but it didn't stop

him from trying. In the last fifteen minutes before he had to leave, we sat
on the couch and watched some TV, him in the nook of my arm, me running my
fingers over his wiry, close-cropped hair. We laughed and joked around. He
placed his hand meaningfully on my thigh and squeezed, then inched it up
toward my crotch until I slapped him playfully on the back of the head.

"Not today, junior," I said.

"Dude..."

"No."

His whole demeanor changed suddenly. He scowled at me, then he jumped to
his feet, mumbling under his breath, grabbing his backpack. Everything was
done with exaggerated movement, eyes like daggers toward me, and he stomped
toward the door, slamming it behind him without so much as a "goodbye". I
sat watching the TV until I couldn't hear his footsteps anymore, then I
shook my head and laughed to myself. He'd made so much progress, but he
still had a ways to go.



	Mr. Spiller called the following afternoon at three fifteen, later
than usual. "I wanted to collect the results of all of his finals for you
and that took some time," he explained.

	"That's alright." I was suddenly nervous. "How'd he do?"

	I could hear the smile in Mr. Spiller's voice. "Exceptionally!"

He read the good news with great ceremony. "Literature...A!

History...A! Gym...A! Social Studies...A! Science...B! English...A!"

	Algebra, I wondered. That was the critical one.

	"Algebra...B!"

	I hooted unabashedly. "Yeah!" I shouted to the empty kitchen.

"That's my boy! That's my boy!"

	Thump, thump, thump.

I turned to see him standing on the porch, bouncing his ball, smiling
broadly through the screen, watching me. We stared at each other while
Mr. Spiller went on.

	"We're all so proud of him," he was saying. "I even heard
Mrs. Turner bragging about him in the teacher's lounge. You've done some
great work with him, Mr. Drake."

	"He did it all." I was talking more to James.

	He grinned back at me. Thump, thump, thump.

	"I'll call Francie and let her know. She'll be thrilled,"

Mr. Spiller said. "You reward that boy for a job well done!"

	"I will indeed," I said. "Thanks for calling."

	I hung up the phone and turned to see James bursting through the
screen door, basketball bouncing and rolling away into the living room,
back pack falling with a heavy thud on the floor behind him. He threw his
arms around me, squeezing tightly, pressing his whole body against me as if
he were trying to climb inside me. My arms enveloped him. I kissed him on
the top of the head.

	"Congratulations!" I said. "I'm so proud of you."

	"Thanks." He murmured into my chest. He kissed me on the
collarbone, then on the neck, stretching his head back and up to kiss me
behind my ear. His breath pushed buttons that roused my cock. I could feel
that he was already hard, poking at my thigh through his shorts. He was in
his street clothes.

	"No gym today?" I asked, hoisting him up into my arms. He wrapped
his legs around my waist.

	"No." He kissed me on the cheek.

	"You smell good." I nuzzled his neck and breathed him in. It was
just the smell of James, which I had become rather addicted to. I walked
through the living room, into my bedroom, our lips touching lightly at
first, then pressed tightly, panting through our noses. Heat rose from his
body.

	I settled him onto the bed, leaning over him, smiling down into his
face. He looked drunk with desire, mouth open, lips moving like he was
trying to speak but couldn't. I stood up and lifted one of his feet,
untying one sneaker, then the other, pulling them off, then the socks. I
reached to pull off his shirt. He raised his arms to make it easy-one
sweeping pull and those sexy nipples were staring at me, pointed and
excited. I reached down to the waistband of his shorts and pulled them
down, underwear and all, over his smooth, silken thighs, over his muscled
calves, over his strong, arched feet. He let his legs fall open, bent at
the knees, his small stiff sex bobbing above his smooth little balls. He
was breathing heavily already and I'd barely touched him.

	I surveyed his body, dark brown and beautiful, skin smooth and
shining in the sunlight from the window. Each curve and angle, every part
of him, was simply perfect. He tweaked his own nipples and spread his legs
even wider. I leaned down and nuzzled his cocklet with my nose. At first
contact, he flinched and groaned. I kissed and nibbled him, inside his
thighs, the silky, wrinkled ball sac, the flat little belly button. I
flicked my tongue over a nipple.

	"Oh!" he exclaimed, and he laughed.

	I ran my tongue up his chest and down into his hairless armpit.

He raised his arm to allow it, giggling lustfully, pushing and pulling my
head at the same time. I kissed my way up his neck, down his jaw line, up
to his earlobe. I sucked on it and he wrapped his arms around my neck,
pulling me closer. I toyed with his cock, tracing my fingers down the
underside, down beneath his balls, the size of marbles. I poked down
further between his legs, finding his hungry little hole, rubbing a
fingertip over it. He lifted his legs and grunted. I covered his lips with
mine.

	I felt his hands up inside my shirt,, running his fingers
throughthe hair, tweaking my nipples, exploring my hairy armpits. There was
a desperation, a passion with which his hands slid over me, all at once
pulling my shirt up over my head. He tossed it on the floor and I rubbed my
hairy chest against him. His legs came up and around me. His lips nibbled
on mine. He was reaching down to my shorts, fumbling with the buckle. I
heard it jingle loose, felt him deftly unbuttoning my shorts, heard the
zipper come down. Both his hands were inside my underwear at once, taking a
soft and gentle hold of my cock and balls.

I gave a throaty groan.

	With his hands and feet, he was pushing down my shorts. I stood up
and let them fall to the floor and stepped out of them. Our naked bodies
careened together, melded, melted like hot wax against each other. We
rolled over on the bed, him on top, rubbing his cock against me, sweat
beginning to glisten on his upper lip. I reached back and took hold of his
ass, fingers falling into the crevice, spreading the cheeks, stretching the
whole a little, readying it.

	We rolled over again. I maneuvered his little body around, rubbing
my cock everywhere, between his ass cheeks, up his back, across his
washboard belly, over his chest. I maneuvered around until we were head to
toe, so that my cock was dangling over his face. He reached up and pulled
the head down into his mouth. I lowered my hips until my cock was in deep,
my balls resting on the ridge of his nose, and began to sink in and out of
him. He reached up to my ass and pulled and squeezed. His dick was bobbing
about, thrusting out from the apex of his well-toned legs, the muscular
thighs spread invitingly. I lowered my head to it and fluttered my tongue
on it.

	James' hips bucked on the bed and he moaned on my cock, slurping
and sucking as I thrust in and out of him. I slid his little dick into my
mouth, laving it with my tongue, reaching down beneath him and up between
his legs to play with his hole. As soon as I touched it, he spread and
lifted his legs, feet up in the air. I wet my fingers in my mouth and
teased the hot little butt hole. I rubbed and poked, then inserted a
finger. It slipped easily in to the second knuckle. I withdrew and thrust
it in farther, as deep as it could go. James was whimpering, the noise
muffled by the mouthful of cock. I sucked his dick and fingered his hole
until I could insert two fingers comfortably. We rolled onto our sides and
I hiked James' top leg up and over me, exposing his wet, moist hole to my
tongue. I lapped at him a few times and he froze on my cock, lips still
wrapped around it. I plunged my tongue inside him. His hips wriggled
uncontrollably and he pulled off of my cock.

	"What are you doin'?" he asked, but it was more of an exclamation
that didn't need a response.

	I tongued him deeply, sucking at his ass lips, pushing my tongue
deeper and wiggling it. He dropped his head onto my thigh, my cock under
his nose, his hand wrapped around and tugging. When I left his anus and
returned to his cock, he dove back onto mine with utter abandon, bobbing
his head on it and sucking wildly. My climax rounded the bend and entered
the home stretch. He too seemed to be close as I sucked on his dick and
fingered his wet hole, thrusting my fingers in and out.

	He came first, thrusting his hips up into my face and grunting,
shouting out, "Ah! Shit!" His hips squirmed and bounced around on the bed
and it took some skill to keep him inside my mouth, feeling the warm spurt
on my tongue, the little tool pumping and throbbing. His legs bucked in all
directions, his toes curled, his back arched. My cock was pressed up
against his cheek, removed so he could let out his cries, and as his orgasm
began to subside, he plugged his mouth again with my rampant tool, sucking
as if it was all he could do. The little boy body, jerking in my arms, the
little pumping penis, the talented little mouth-it was all enough to send
me over the edge. I exploded in his mouth and he kept sucking, the end of
his orgasm and the beginning of mine.

	I reached down and held his head still so that I could empty myself
inside him. He waited patiently, eagerly, receiving every drop as if it
were nourishment that he needed, while I grunted and groaned.

	All at once, we were still. I looked down at him and saw him lying
there, lips wrapped around my cock, eyes closed contentedly. He looked like
a sleeping little boy with his thumb in his mouth. He hadn't let a single
drop escape and even now, held fast to my drained dick as if he had no
intention of ever releasing it. But I had further plans.

	I released his head and pulled my cock from his mouth. It slipped
out slowly and he opened his eyes lazily, craning his neck some in an
attempt to follow it. I turned around and lay beside him, pulling him to
me. He was busy swallowing my cum, smacking and licking his lips, wiping
his mouth against the bedspread. When I nuzzled him with my nose, he
reached around my neck and pulled himself closer, stretching the length of
his body against me, throwing his leg over my hip. I reached down and
fingered his asshole. To my surprise, he moaned and smiled, getting excited
again, like that little puckered spot was his "on" switch. "My reward," he
murmured into my neck.

	"Yes," I said, licking inside his ear. Even more surprised was I by
my own response, immediate and powerful, rising in me with unprecedented
speed. My cock hadn't even gone down from the first orgasm and already it
was throbbing and ready for a second. It was pressed against the boy's
belly. My fingers were sliding in and out of him and he was raising his
bottom to meet them. I rolled over on top of him, between his thighs, and
my cock was like a homing device for that little hole. It bumped where my
fingers were as if bidding for its turn, cutting in on the dance. I spat
into my palm and smeared it onto my cock, then leveled and aimed it at that
precious target. James looked ready, his eyes swimming with anticipation
and excitement.

	"Oh, Elliot," he whispered. I thought he was calling me but he just
was just uttering my name like a passionate prayer. My cock head pressed
against his hole and slid in easily. It came to a stop suddenly, just
inside his bottom, only about a quarter of the entirety.

He hissed through his teeth and I nibbled on his nipples, his armpits, his
throat, his chin, waiting for the resistance to give way. He raised his
legs higher and squirmed his hips and I felt my cock slip in deeper.

	"Ooooo," he grimaced. I wasn't sure if it was pleasure or pain.

	"Are you okay?"

	He smiled and opened his eyes, looking into mine. He took a deep
breath and put his hands on my shoulders, pulling himself farther onto my
cock, our eyes locked. His face showed a mixture of passion, pain, and
discovery, feeling for the first time what he had long desired, even if he
hadn't fully realized it. My cock slid home.

	"Oh, Elliot," he moaned again. My name never sounded so erotic, so
melodic, and so intimate. It was as if his heart had spoken from its
deepest, most private place. I slipped my hands beneath him and cradled him
in my arms as I began to pump in and out of him, fucking him wetly. His
feet bobbed in the air to the rhythm of my thrusts. Every so often, I would
stab into him hard and he'd gasp and jerk, then purr like a happy kitten,
eyes closed and head back, showing his soft throat. I kissed his Adams
apple, his chest, his cheek. Found his lips. I fucked him and kissed him
and he clung to me, moaning against my mouth, gasping and
panting. "Elliot," he whimpered, and the very word, my own name, exploded
in my head until I saw stars.

	"James," I answered, more to give back to him this sacred
incantation, this holy mantra that heightened my passion. I reached down
and found him with my fingers. He growled into my ear and bit the lobe. I
buried my face in the curve of his neck and pounded away at his tight
bottom, pulling on his little prick, rubbing his soft balls. We were both
covered in sweat, bodies enmeshed, mingling, thrusting wildly, rocking the
whole bed.

Thump, thump, thump.

I fucked him long and hard and when I felt my cock about to blow, I
quickened my pace on his pecker, my fingers flashing on it.

	"Ahhhh!" he yowled. "Yeah! Oh, oh!" I felt his cock suddenly go
wet, the little vein on the underside throb, his balls pull up into his
body. I fucked more feverishly, exhilarated and dizzy with the boy's
orgasm, tasting his lips, feeling his hands on my ass, pulling my hips in
harder.

	I came with a loud roar that startled him at first. He looked up at
me, eyes wide, as I bellowed and my body shook. I rose up above him,
lifting his knees, stretching his ass tight to meet my cock. I seemed to
come forever. I threw back my head and jerked inside him, huffing and
puffing and gulping air. When I looked down at him, he was smiling,
watching the last of my spasms. His eyes shone with wonderment and
satisfaction. When I stopped pumping, I sank down onto my elbows, face to
face with him, and kissed him lightly on the lips, my cock still embedded
in his ass.

	We lay that way, catching our breath, for quite some time. I
thought the silence might make him nervous and I thought I might say
something, but I had nothing to say. It was as if I had said everything

I needed to, with my body against his, inside him, skin to skin, face to
face. I looked into his eyes. I had never seen him so happy and
peaceful. We both giggled, giddy and overwhelmed with joy. He appeared
speechless as well, and equally content about it. I kissed him, twice,
light pecks on his full lips, and my cock jumped inside him, still hard and
assertive. He snickered at the movement down there.

	"Tomorrow's the first day of my summer vacation," he said.

	"Yeah?"

	He nodded. "Now I can come over all day long."

	"If you do that," I whispered, nibbling on his shoulder. "I'll have
to make love to you all day long."

	He giggled. "And all summer long."

	"Yes."

	He reached down with some effort and cupped my balls, then touched
my cock, feeling where it disappeared into his ass. He looked thoughtful as
his hand explored, then he pulled his hand back up and pulled me down to
kiss me. "Thanks," he said shyly.

Strange, I thought, that he would be shy suddenly with my cock resting in
his butt. "For what?"

	"For savin' me," he said.

	"Anytime."