Date: Thu, 20 Aug 2009 00:58:12 -0400
From: Cole Angicent <colebph@gmail.com>
Subject: Unintended Consequences

Blah blah blah, you know the usual disclaimers, feedback welcome at
colebph@gmail.com. There is a special disclaimer at the end of this
chapter, specifically for our younger readership (yes, we know that despite
all of our `you shouldn't be reading this' warnings, you're out there.
Besides, most of you live in countries where freedom of speech is your
basic right, and this is, first and foremost, an archive of SPEECH, so I
would assert that you have every right to be here anyway). Also, although I
have a definite endpoint in mind for this story and have every intention of
finishing it, I am aware that my track record for finishing my works of
internet fiction is kinda crappy, so I am including a special copyright
notice here:

"Should there ever be a point in which more than six months has passed
since the author's last update, and the author has not declared this story
to be complete, the author hereby gives his express permission for someone
to CONTINUE the story on their own initiative, and humbly requests that the
Nifty Archivist recognizes the first person who chooses to do so as the new
author."

Hopefully there will be no need for that clause to ever be invoked, but
it's there, if necessary. And now, let's go for a little ride...

------------------------------------------------------------------------

SLAP!

Twelve year old Kyle Paebunte reeled from the shock of the blow, but
clenched his teeth, doing his best to suppress any signs of it's effect.
Already he could hear his mates chuckling in the background; to have them
see tears on top of it would only serve to multiply his humiliation.

"Never in a million years, bald dick," his now ex-girlfriend, Cynthia
Chambers, declared in that special middle-school tone of voice, the one
specifically designed to be heard by every student within a thousand feet
while remaining elusive to the ears of any passing teachers or staff.
Retort satisfactorily delivered, she swiveled on her heels and clutched her
Algebra book more tightly, wafting down the hallway with a regal purpose,
flanked by two blond bimbos who could well have been her Royal Guard.

Likewise, the boys snickering at him remained only long enough to get in a
few good shots -- "Nice one, Pay-Butt" -- before turning around the other
way. All, that was, except for Joel Dapsen, his best friend. The boy he
could count on to stand by him, through thick and thin.

Not to say that Joel wasn't laughing as well, of course, but then only he
was truly aware of the audacity behind what he'd just witnessed. "I can't
believe you went through with it, man."

"Which part?" Kyle asked earnestly, rubbing the red spot on the side of his
face and grinning wickedly.

"Both," Joel replied, after a moment's thought.

Kyle shrugged, moving with Joel towards their homeroom as the
depressingly-loud bell clamored their impending lateness. "They should
really get a ringtone or something," Kyle remarked, more to himself than to
his friend.

"Do you think the Blond Brigade saw your dick?" Joel asked.

"Nah, I made sure to angle my boxers so only Cynthia could see inside,"
Kyle asserted. The two put their lewd conversation on hold for just a
moment as they crossed the threshold into Mrs. Nielsen's English room,
where they'd later be bored to tears as they reviewed for the second day in
a row what the parts of a formal letter were. Like anyone did business
through snail mail anymore.

"Reporting for prison count," Joel saluted, earning a giggle from two girls
in the front row and a disapproving glare from Mrs. Nielsen. Then -- when
he was sure that he was out of her earshot -- he resumed the
conversation. "Did you have a boner?" he wondered.

"Half of one," Kyle responded, shifting the appendage in question
unconsciously with his hand while he sat down. "I didn't wanna scare her
off with the full length, y'know?" This was said in an exaggerated, almost
self-mocking way, as he knew Joel was well aware of his decidedly
prepubescent equipment. Apparently his Puberty Fairy had been stuck in
celestial traffic for the last six months.

"Uh huh, whatever," Joel remarked with a smirk and a roll of the eyes. "And
then you flat out asked her if she'd blow you at Ryan's party?"

"Why beat around the bush?" Kyle asked, with a shrug.

"No pun intended," a boy named Derrick quipped, with a quick shot to Kyle's
arm.

Kyle offered a polite enough smirk to the other boy, once again beating
back a surge of annoyance at the kid's blatant cutting in on his
semi-private conversations, before his eyes settled back on Joel. "I just
need it so bad, man," he complained, dropping his voice to an even lower
whisper as he confessed, "Beating the meat just ain't cuttin' it
anymore. I'm startin' to get sores."

"Mmm. Try the three-fingered approach," Joel teased, earning him a stuck
out tongue from his sexually frustrated friend.

Kyle shook his head. "Nah, I just... I just have to find someone. I'm
gettin' desperate."

There was a moment of awkward silence.

"You sure you won't—"

"Not unless you do it first, queer boy."

"Ain't queer if you're just receiving it," Kyle said. "Besides, it's not
like I'd be grossed out by any man hairs on /your/ chin."

Joel raised an eyebrow. "You really wanna make this about where we don't
have hair? `Bald-dick'?"

Kyle rolled his eyes, backing down with a wistful sigh. "Dammit. I HAVE to
get laid."

Joel shrugged. "What, you think the school's just gonna put out a list of
who's willing to suck some boy's dick?"

As it turned out, it was a prophetic question. Mrs. Neilsen, who had just
finished marking down roll, suddenly cleared her throat to get the class'
attention. "Now children, as you all know, the school board has asked us to
pass out these fliers with the names and faces of known sex offenders in
your area as a precautionary measure. Please bring these home to your
parents and, should one of these people ever approach you, make sure that
you scream and run to the nearest trustworthy adult."

Joel rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. `Trustworthy adult'. You mean like
Mr. Abbot, maybe? How'd he stay off the list this year, I wonder?"

But Kyle wasn't paying much attention to his friend anymore. He was
watching the fliers being passed across the room, back towards him. The
other kids were taking them out of obligation, shoving them into backpacks
and in some cases bluntly crinkling them up and tossing them towards the
trash can when Mrs. Nielsen wasn't looking.

But when Kyle got his, he started looking at it like it was the Buffet Menu
at a Dennys Restaurant.

The pictures weren't flattering, of course. Mugshots of men looking pretty
damned unhappy, which, given that they were either being arrested or
showing up for their semi-annual sex offender registration when the photos
were taken, wasn't much of a surprise. Pretty old looking, for the most
part. But then his eye caught a particular pedophile, a dark-haired man in
his early thirties who'd actually had the nerve to half-smile in his
picture. To say he was attractive might have been a stretch, especially to
Kyle, who wasn't ready to admit any real interest in members of his own
gender at any age. But he wasn't ugly, and he lived nearby, and the flier
helpfully declared that his victim had been an eleven-year-old male. This
sort of intelligence had... possibilities.

"Hmph," he grunted, a plan forming in his head.

Despite the logical track of their conversation, Joel was oblivious to the
thoughts running through his best friend's head. "Bet you'll wind up on
that list, you keep exposing yourself to girls in the hallway," he pointed
out.

"S'pose so," Kyle admitted halfheartedly, barely paying attention. Eyes
never leaving the photograph.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At that particular moment, the man in the photograph was standing on a
chair, trying to level a painting in his apartment with the accelerometer
on his friend's iPhone. The painting was of a distant castle, as perceived
by a peasant standing in front of a small hovel in the foreground, a lake
separating them.

"There we go," he remarked, satisfied, before passing the iPhone downward
to it's owner, who had been obligingly holding the chair to prevent him
from falling. "Thanks, Paul."

Paul pocketed the device, stepping back so that the man could get off the
chair. "Pleasure, Chris. Now can we get back to our chess game, please?"
The pair of them crossed the small living room, sitting at opposite ends of
their tabletop warzone. "Sometimes I think the painting thing is just a
stall so you can find a good move."

Chris shrugged, half-heartedly grinning. "Maybe it's Zen, mmm?
Straightening out the painting orders my mind, so that I can see the
patterns on the board more easily." With that, he moved his bishop three
squares northwest, threatening his opponent's rook.

A lesser friend might have missed the sadness behind Chris' jib, but Paul
had known the man for nearly five years. "Something on your mind?" he
asked, moving his rook out of the line of attack.

"You already know who's on my mind," Chris relented, waving his hand idly
between two pawns. Even his concentration on the game couldn't keep the
pain out of his voice, and when he finally did pick a pawn to push, Paul
noted that it was the poorer move, tactically.

Paul nodded, game forgotten for the moment. "I've been watching the
calendar. I remember what you told me."

"Ten years next Friday." Chris sighed. "Ten years... and then I don't
know."

Paul shrugged. "I thought you'd already decided not to look for him. He'd
be, what, twenty-three now?"

"Twenty-two," Chris corrected, staring out the window. "I keep telling
myself I don't want to open old wounds for him. And how would I start the
conversation, anyway? `Hey Darwin, just thought I'd check up on you now
that the court's no-contact order has expired'?"

"You could always leave out that last part," Paul suggested facetiously.

"What if he hates me now?" Chris asked earnestly. "What if they battered
him down in years of therapy, convinced him I was some horrible monster
taking advantage of him?"

"Well then I suppose he'd hate himself more," Paul pointed out, "since he
seduced you. After all, if it was horrible and he wanted it, then he must
be horrible, too, right?"

Chris' face went ashen. "That's not a comforting thought, Paul," he
remarked, eyes glazing over as his mind began to play out that scenario in
his head. "And he didn't really seduce me, per se, it was just... a choice
we made together."

"But he asked you," Paul remarked, more question than statement. He hadn't
known Chris when his illicit relationship had taken place, though he'd
heard the story a couple of times.

"I didn't exactly hide the fact that I liked boys," Chris explained. "In a
way you could argue that I was advertising. He just... decided to answer
the ad."

Paul chose that moment to reveal the weakness of Chris' previous move,
placing his knight into position next to the recently moved pawn. "Check."

As before, Chris' tactical position translated into a segue away from the
game. "I need a soda." He got up, heading across the apartment towards the
refrigerator. "Want anything?"

"Sprite's fine, thanks," Paul replied. "Anyway, there's just as much chance
this Darwin kid's still fine with everything, like it was no big deal. You
knew him; how do you think he took it all?"

Chris sighed, looking into the refrigerator but seeing through the years,
peering into the deep blue eyes of his prepubescent blond-haired lover from
so long ago. He could still remember how Darwin's hair always smelled of
Suave Kids Strawberry shampoo, and how much he loved to be licked on the
right side of the neck, from the clavicle bone to just behind the ear, with
a little nibble on the lobe at the end always sure to earn a squeal of
delight. He remembered hours of debate on a wide array of subjects, from
the existentialism of the marshmallow Peep through the ethics of
euthanasia, always cuddled on the couch with a long-ignored TV program
blaring in the background. He remembered the first time Darwin had taught
him how to cook pancakes, how they giggled at the turkey baster for making
it's lewdly flatulent sounds as it put the gloppy circles on the pan, and
how horribly covered in pancake goo their faces had gotten after a misfire,
and how even that normally bland batter had the sweetest taste as he
playfully licked it off the bridge of his preteen boyfriend's nose.

"I hope he had the strength to get through it," was all the man could
offer, bringing the sodas back to the table and glancing sadly at the
chessboard. Marvelling at the profound similarity between the hopeless
situation in the game, and the no-win decision ahead of him.

He had no way to know that a much more sinister decision would be thrust
upon him much, much sooner.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[[[***A SPECIAL NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR TO ANY BOYS THAT MIGHT BE READING THIS
STORY***]]] Please note that, thanks to our overly zealous and confusing
sex offender laws, the registry in any given state contains a VERY wide
range of characters, with those whose relationships had been loving and
gentle, like Chris and Darwin's, representing only one side of the
spectrum. There is another side -- a group of people who this author
believes are the tragic, deadly mix of a genetic attraction to children and
the prevailing societal attitude that children are little more than
property without rights, to be subject to adult whims. These people are
legitimately dangerous, and it is only because I control Kyle's fate in
this story that he didn't wind up with one of these potential killers.
Please do NOT follow Kyle's example -- do NOT seek out someone for sex
based solely upon their listing in the sex offender registry. Sexual
activity (in fact, all human activity, really) is best experienced in the
context of a loving, mutually selfless relationship, with a strong
friendship as its foundation. Anything less is not just a waste of your
time, but can actually lessen the power of the act when it is finally
experienced in the above described way, and for this reason I challenge you
to resist your hormones and never casually surrender the most intimate,
beautiful gift you can ever give another human being.

In layman's terms: If you're not sure, then it's not pure, so give it time
to grow sublime.