Date: Thu, 24 May 2012 22:13:21 -0600
From: michaelpete@hushmail.com
Subject: Where There's A Will Chapter 6

Dear readers: Please consider supporting Nifty with donations as that is
how they are able to continue their great work. Ten bucks is fine though
more is a lot better.

Be advised that in the following one will find graphic sexual depiction
between minors and minors and adults. The story is fiction but based mostly
though not entirely on real characters, events, places and situations.
There is no relationship between the names used and that of any real
person. Send comments to michaelpete@hushmail.com.

Michael Peterson


      CHAPTER VI

       ESCAPE


      By the time William had finished relating his incredible adventures,
I'd already contacted the human smuggling arranger and was to meet him the
following day. I was concerned about leaving William alone but Kevin agreed
to babysit. Would he be tempted to go for some sex? Would the always
curious William? If it happened, would there be a problem?

      I found myself unable to say anything to either about it.

      What puzzled me a bit during the get together with the arranger was
the man's seeming lack of curiosity about why I would want to move an
eleven year old boy from the US to Honduras but I was gradually able to
dismiss my concerns of a potential problem with the thought that men like
this surely couldn't care less about the reasons people wanted to sneak
around as long as the money was right. After all, they'd been known to
leave their customers, including children, to die in locked trucks or on
the desert rather than get caught themselves. This situation was small
potatoes alongside what effectively was homicide. The man did ask what the
boy looked like explaining that the coyote who would take `your boy'
through would have to make him look Latino. His hair would be dyed and some
kind of make up put on to darken his skin. He'd go by bus all the way
accompanied by a man who worked that route regularly but in the opposite
direction. The fee was fifteen thousand dollars, ten before departure and
five immediately on delivery. I agreed and went straight home to prepare
for one frightening and life changing undertaking.

      First, though, I had to clear the idea with William.

      I wasn't sure how to broach the matter so just dove in. "William," I
said with the boy planted on the sofa close in front of me, his hands in
mine, "how would you like to live in Honduras. We might even be able to
find your friend Soliman."

      His eyes lit up. "Sho'! When we goin'?"

      Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Kevin rolling his. "It's not
going to be all that easy. There's no way you can go legally like on an
airplane. A coyote is going to have to smuggle you there. I'll meet you
there."

      "Tha's okay. So when we goin'?"

      "I don't know, soon. I have to make a lot of arrangements like
selling this house, my car, other stuff, convincing my boss to let me work
from there, other things I haven't thought of yet."

      He pressed me on a day but it seemed certain that things would take
longer than imagined. William's passage was expected to take from a week to
ten days. I would need to be in San Pedro Sula within six days of William's
departure. Communication would be via a cell phone to be provided me the
day I handed William over.

      Kevin was understandably worried, even distressed. For one thing, he
was losing his long time best friend, And, even though he was recommended
as reliable by my friends at the Salvadoran restaurant, he didn't entirely
trust the arranger.

      "You're giving ten thousand dollars and a small boy to a man mixed up
in a very shady business. I know you could come back here and look for this
guy if something were to go wrong but, then, what could you do? You sure as
hell couldn't go to the police."

      "I could sure damage his reputation in the Latin community. That
reputation is his bread and butter."

      In the end, Kevin agreed to handle the sale of my house and
belongings. I'd still have to sign any contracts of sale but that could be
done via a notary public at the local U.S. Embassy.

      As I expected, Harry Martinson, my boss, thought I was going through
some kind of midlife crisis. "How old is she?" he asked. "Eighteen, twenty?
It sounds to me like you're throwing a very promising carreer away on some
romantic fling. Christ! Why do you have to go there. Can't she stay here?
You gonna move in with her family and support them? Harry, come back down
to earth!"

      He too finally caved, with a smile, and was perfectly content to have
my services at half of what it currently cost. "They do have electricity
down there, don't they?" was his last remark.

      I immediately upped my Spanish lessons schedule to daily. Within five
days, the house was up for sale, there was a buyer for my beloved Triumph,
I had a ticket, round trip to avoid problems with immigration once I
arrived and the name of a San Pedro Sula law office that handled Honduran
residencies,

      William was excited, retelling me stories about Soliman and Jorge,
going over a map of Honduras with me, trying to find the village Soliman
had told him about, and working on my Spanish. His was not only fluent but
his second language didn't bear a whiff of his southern drawl. He didn't
look remotely Latino but then photos I'd seen did show some light skinned
Hondurans.

      Israel, the coyote agent, only needed a week's advance notice to have
someone pick up William. The relatively short period of time during which
he could have a coyote available suggested a great volume of groups
crossing the border as well as the enormous amount of money being made..

      Unable to locate Soliman's village on either maps or the internet
from internet cafes, not my house, I decided to let that matter go until I
was in Honduras. No need to give anyone a clue as to where exactly I would
be.

      Even sex was occasionally interrupted by questions about the trip,
Honduras or what we'd do there or enticing comments about different ways
Jorge had fucked him. Where our sex had been principally a physical thing
before, it was now more emotional, loving. He'd kiss me on my cheeks,
shoulders, all around my groin though never on the lips, and make love to
my cock when sucking me. He suggested increasingly novel ways to fuck him
but, in the end, if I can put it that way, his favorite was from the front,
his knees up to his chest, eyes closed, bottom lip tucked under his upper
teeth, dick fully erect. I'm sure my cock was poking his premature but
certainly operational prostate. When I came, a few strokes of his cock, by
me of course, brought on a strong, prolonged orgasm.

      Though he did press for them, I was far too timid to walk into a sex
shop or even order off the internet the sex toys his truck driver friend
had used.

      As the day of departure neared, I repeatedly went over what William
should and should not say to the coyote who would be taking him on those
long bus trips, first from where we were to the Mexican border, then
through Mexico to Guatemala and from there into Honduras. There was no
doubt he'd ask questions even if just to converse during the many hours
they'd be together. The agreed on story was that he was going to join a
family he'd lived with for several years but which had been deported. I was
merely facilitating the move and would be returning to the US once he was
settled. I was a nice man who he'd met working supermarket parking
lots. He'd told me his story and, for some unknown reason, I had offered to
help. William wasn't to have any idea about my motivation. If asked, he was
to appear surprised by any reference to possible sexual motivation or
activities.

      The coyote, a man who said his name was Juan Garcia, an obvious
alias, arrived at my house on a Friday morning in a recent model Mitsubishi
SUV driven by a second man who made a point of staying inside the vehicle
and keeping his face out of sight. In passable English, he explained that I
needed to be in San Pedro Sula by the twenty-ninth of September and would
receive a call on the cellphone he handed me with details on where and when
to pick up William. The final six thousand dollars would be required at
that time.

      I said, "We agreed on fifteen, not sixteen thousand."

      "Israel says ah gotta make him look Mexican an' tha's gonna cost you
a thousand. You don' wanna do it, you gotta talk to Israel."

      The idea of changing his appearance had been discussed and did made
good sense though I couldn't imagine why it would cost a thousand
dollars. Nonetheless, I agreed.

      Trepidation built as they drove away, William looking back at me
happily through the rear window. What the hell had I gotten myself into?
I'd quit my job. My home was receiving potential buyers. I was driving a
rental. My investments were being moved into gold and less lucrative but
safe European and Asian stocks. My savings account had been closed and that
money plus the remaining cash from the extortions placed in a dollar
account in a Caribbean bank. I had nine thousand five hundred dollars in
cash, five hundred less than the amount required to be declared on entering
Honduras. Worst of all, I was involved in what could quite easily be called
the international kidnapping of a wanted underage boy I'd been having daily
sex with and was planning to live with, protecting him as an illegal alien
as well as probably acquiring false papers for him, in a country from which
a number of Americans had been hauled back to the US for sex tourism. I had
to be completely out of my mind. Love was the problem, the impetus. I was
completely, crazily, in love with William, willing to brave any peril to be
with him. It wasn't possible in the United States of 2006. It was, albeit
not entirely safe in Honduras, but safer if we could find Soliman and his
family and, of course, if they were accommodating.

      Just three days after William had begun his journey, after a tearful
goodbye from Kevin, with nine thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills
esconced in a money belt under my shirt and five hundred more in my wallet,
I boarded a Taca jet and flew to San Salvador then transferrered to another
aircraft for the flight to San Pedro Sula. After checking into a four star
hotel being promoted there at the airport and putting my cash in the hotel
safe, I hit the streets armed with a map and a hundred dollars in local
currency looking for a place where William and I wouldn't be under the eyes
of suspicious gringo tourists.

      After the air conditioned airport, van and hotel, I was immediately
struck by the heat, humidity and closeness that was San Pedro Sula. Sweat
broke out all over me, possibly not entirely due to the weather. That same
trepidation I'd felt with William's departure returned as I gradually
grasped some of the realities of this Third World country which was to be
my new home. The farther I walked from the area of my hotel, the more the
poverty was apparent. The first thing I noticed was the dilapidated public
transportation vehicles, busses and tricycles, with men in the open doors
calling out destinations to potential riders. There were cars and pickups
which, in the states due to their poor condition, would not have been
allowed on the streets. The tallest building I could spot was about five or
six stories high. There weren't many over two.

      Mostly, I was hit by the untidiness. Trash littered the streets in
front of dirty business fronts. The first hotel on my list was a glassed
front affair that looked more like some kind of cheap goods store. The desk
was alongside a kiosk that sold everything from newspapers to candy to
bananas. A room with private bath and cable television was seventeen
dollars and change. The young man who showed me a sample room took me on an
elevator with no interior door, something found frequently in Europe but
which I'd never seen in the U.S. The only marginally clean room smelled of
stale cigarette smoke.

      The second hotel on my list was a few blocks east and nicer, three
dollars more but with a desk clerk who for some reason I sensed to be a
nosey type. The next was another seventeen dollar a night place whose large
lobby was filled with folks who tended to watch everyone entering and
leaving.

      It took the rest of the day and half the next before I met an English
speaking cabbie who, although he congratulated me on how good my Spanish
was, communicated entirely in his broken but quite understandable English,
and who, perhaps from experience with other foreigners seeking someplace
discreet, seemed to sense what I wanted. The side street hotel he
recommended featured entry to its decent rooms via a hallway close to the
main door but well off to the side of the desk. The clerk didn't ask for
any identification so I registered as Henry Aldritch, for some reason the
first name that came to mind, and took a third floor rear room. My cabbie
smiled pleasantly at his ten dollar tip.

      Rather than trust the new less than one star hotel with nine thousand
U.S. dollars in cash, I paid a fee to keep my money where it was for a
month. Non-residents, I'd found, couldn't open bank accounts.

      The next task after moving in was to try and locate the town where
Soliman told William his aunt had resided. That was resolved to a certain
extent by another cabbie who informed me that there were two `aldeas' by
that name and offered to take me to both, one of which was two hours away,
the other six. It seemed best to wait for William so I took the man's name
and cellphone number and promised to call when I was ready.

      The coyote's phone call came three days later. The caller asked where
I was staying then said he'd be there in twenty minutes. I'd planned to
meet somewhere else but the brief conversation didn't allow for that. I
wanted a definitive break with the coyote and whoever else he was working
with. A quick move would be necessary.

      I hardly recognized William with jet black hair including eyebrows
and lashes and the deep tan the coyote's makeup artist or tanning parlor
had given him. The eyes, however, were the same, Right there in front of
the hotel, he ran and jumped into my arms, hugging and kissing my
jaw. Passersby didn't seem to notice. The coyote appeared unimpressed. I
put the boy down and pulled the cash laden envelope from my pocket,
laughing at myself since this wasn't the first time I'd handed over a
similar sum for William in his presence.

      The coyote went back to his late model, tinted glass car and drove
off as we walked inside. The moment we entered my room, William went for my
fly. He smelled of days without a bath.  "You need a shower, my friend."

      "They got hot water?" he inquired with one hand gripping and
massaging my near immediate boner. The `yes' reply prompted, "We kin do it
in theah."

      `In theah' was where I found that the skin darkening was complete,
including his cock and balls. When soap and water weren't turning him back
into a white boy, it became apparent they'd used some kind of very thorough
sunless tanning technique. "They put me insahd this kahnda shar an' sprayed
this stuff all ovuh me an' wuz turnin' me aroun' an even in mah ass. Don
Juan said it'll go `way in three o fo' weeks," William informed when asked
about it.

      I kind of liked the brown flesh but worried having what appeared to
be a Honduran boy with me in the hotel would look like, well, kind of what
it was. We needed to speak a lot of English around there. I'd told the desk
clerk that the boy coming was my grandson, here to see his Honduran
relatives.

      Washing William was difficult in the small shower with him humping my
leg and fondling my balls. Before it was possible to cover him with soap,
he took the bar from me, lathered up my cock and ordered me to sit
down. With my feet sticking out under the plastic curtain, he carefully
sat, facing me, down onto my cockhead. His eyes closed as it slipped
inside. Holding onto my elbows, he leaned back and slid around in soapy
circles. After a few moments, I had to stop him or our session would have
been far shorter than he preferred.

      Lying in bed naked after drying off, he filled me in on his
relatively uneventful journey. After a day becoming a Latino in appearance,
they'd spend the bulk of their time on busses, Greyhounds in the states and
something similar right through Mexico and Guatemala. There'd been hotel
stays at the Mexican side of the U.S. Mexican frontier, another shortly
before crossing into Guatemala and the last one in Guatemala City. In all
cases, William had slept untouched in the same bed as his guide. At all the
Mexican and Guatemalan borders, William had crossed unnoticed on foot,
wearing flip flops and humble clothing, right past government
personnel. He'd crossed the Honduran border hidden in the back of the car
that brought him to my hotel.

      During conversations, the man had asked about why he was making the
trip, who I was and why I was putting up all this money if I wasn't a
relative and wasn't going to be living with him. William said he'd followed
my instructions and provided very little information. Sex hadn't come up. I
hoped that was true.

      I vacillated on my earlier determination to switch hotels,
particularly since I was now with a boy whom the hotel staff believed to be
an American visiting his family. The hotel itself was off the beaten track,
its only foreign guests apparently Central Americans, and didn't have my
real name.

      That afternoon, I bought William two sets of outer and four sets of
under clothing though, with the heat, it didn't seem likely he'd be using
the latter.

      The next morning, after some torrid sweaty sex requiring another
shower, I called the taxi driver who knew the two same name villages where
I hoped we would find Soliman and his aunt. With all our belongings, we
took the two hour ride in air conditioned comfort. The driver had a
different, nicer car from the one he'd used as a city cabbie.

      The first `aldea' was about a couple of miles down a dirt road off
the main highway. William wandered about asking for anyone with Soliman's
or his aunt's last names. There were two, both of whom said they had no
young kin named Soliman or Jorge. It was about that time that the cabbie
asked why an American kid was interested in a Honduran family. I told him a
partial truth that they'd been his foster family but had been deported as
illegals. With that, he got out and joined William in his quest. I stayed
with the car out of concern for our belongings. Moments later, William and
the cabbie came back to the car followed by a small mob. No one looked
angry so I got out.

      William was excitedly holding onto the arm of a woman and saying,
"This heah's Tia Lili's sistuh an' she says Tia Lili's back up the road in
that town we wen' through. Membuh wif tha' place wif the big chicken?"

      I nodded. He'd pointed it out as we'd gone by.

      "She's workin' in a res'rant theah an' this lady gonna take us an'
Soliman an' Jorge's livin' wif `er theah so le's go!"

      He was already getting into the back as he spoke, tugging the
nervously smiling woman in behind him. I hopped in the front. The driver,
apparently almost as excited, had us on our way before my door was closed.

      On route, the cabbie informed me that Tia Lili's sister and others
there had heard about `Yackie', the gringo boy who'd lived for a couple of
years with Tia Lili and her boys.

      The town was nearly half an hour back and large enough to get lost
in. Tia Lili's sister had to re-orient herself once when she took us up a
wrong street. The establishment in question wasn't the kind of spot I'd
have picked for a meal. Even the sign was dirty. The few bare single
fluorescent fixtures inside were turned off. The light coming through two
large windows in front and a row placed high on the right side wall barely
illuminated the place. There were a couple of dozen tables, a few pushed
together, most with working class patrons, men except for two women, eating
or waiting.

      William rushed inside. I followed warily, concerned about what the
folks inside would think about this obvious foreigner with the apparently
Honduran preadolescent. As I cleared the door, William was standing front
of a waitress, staring up at her. She was bent slightly over, as though
trying to figure out what the boy was saying. Suddenly, though, she threw
her arms around him and he, his around her. The customers she'd been
serving seemed amused, certainly not annoyed that their service had been
interrupted.

      After a few affectionate twists and turns, William pulled loose and
turned toward me. The woman looked up and smiled broadly. After begging her
customers immediately given forebearance, the two, arm in arm came to me.

      "This' heah's mah aunt Lili," announced William proudly with tears in
his eyes though not as wet faced as his `aunt'.

      She wiped her hand on her apron and held it out. We shook and I
replied in my best Spanish, "Mucho gusto," a sort of pleased to meet you.

      After a pair of additional embraces, aunt Lili excused herself to
finish serving her customers and rushed back to the table where an excited
conversation took place, the two men there looked my way and nodded
pleasantly. Tia Lili, a great smile fixed on her tear covered face, kept
turning toward William. I was being tugged toward the rear of the
place. "Soliman's out back heah. C'mon!"

      I was dragged by the arm through a better lit, basic kitchen with two
domestic refrigerators, a long table top gas stove and a woman working
feverishly cutting vegetables at a well used wood work table. She didn't
look up as we flew through.

      Behind was a dirt lot with two shacks, both with bamboo sides and
corrugated metal roofs. William called out, "Soliman" three times. A boy
about William's age wearing nothing but a pair of blue shorts appeared in
the curtained doorway of one and stared for a moment before bursting into a
great grin and shouting back, "Yackie! Yackie!"

      The two met half way alternately hugging and poking each other,
babbling away in staccato Honduran Spanish before William whipped the boy
my way and said to me, "This is mah bro' Soliman," wrapping an arm around
the boy's neck as he did.

      The love free for all went on for several minutes and included both
rolling in the dust.then sitting up where they were and trading tales, or
so it seemed.

      My thoughts were more mundane like where we were to sleep that
night. I had no desire to return to San Pedro Sula. Certain there had to be
taxis in such a sizeable town, I turned to go find the cabbie, nearly
bumping into him. He too was in the doorway enjoying the reunion out in the
yard. I added a twenty dollar tip to the fifty dollars he requested in the
naïve hope that would buy some loyalty. He helped me put our two bags
inside the restaurant kitchen.

      Tia Lili was the only waitress dealing with the lunch crowd so
couldn't speak to me. Her sister had no knowledge of hotels in the
area. She did inform me that Soliman's brother Jorge had a job at his
uncle's nearby metal working shop.

      William and Soliman came inside and offered to take me along with
them to Jorge's workplace. Two blocks from the restaurant, I was privileged
to watch another emotional though less physical reunion and exchange of
tales that went on for two or three minutes before either William or
Soliman thought to mention my presence. Jorge, a strapping fifteen or
sixteen year old, came straight to me and held out his dirty hand then gave
me a fierce hug as he thanked me for bringing his `little brother' home. He
was as strong as he looked.

      The `herrero', iron worker, who ran the shop, already knew enough of
the kids' past history together to join the others in offering his thanks
and even a stronger handshake. He told me the town had two good hotels, the
one farther out the better. It had hot water showers and a swimming
pool. He offered to take me there in his pickup, a battered at least twenty
year old Toyota that ran quite well on the ride back to the restaurant. Tia
Lili suggested her `sons' go with us to the hotel and come back in time for
a dinner she'd prepare for us all. Her sister had to get back to her own
family so I paid a man with an old Camry taxi to take her home,

      I was urgently seeking an opportunity to counsel William on what he
should and shouldn't say to his friends, specifically how he described how
we met and what when on, and didn't, between us. Of course, I was also
wondering what sex would be like with Soliman but then I'd been fantasizing
that sort of thing with most boys I'd spotted most of my life. His large
though still still preadolescent looking body was a bit chunky for my
tastes but sported an interesting little lump in his loose fitting
shorts. I doubted he was wearing any underwear. I seemed to remember
William mentioning that he had a decent sized cock. Jorge was nearly a man
and of no physical interest.

      Having been given the seat of honor up front with the driver, my only
conversation was a difficult one with Ricardo, the herrero or metal worker,
difficult to hear over the rattling of the pickup on poorly patched asphalt
as well as due to his rapid speech. I did manage to communicate that I was
from the Atlantic coast of the United States, worked with computers and
thought William was very intelligent. He reiterated his appreciation for my
bringing William here to a life he was sure would be much better than that
in some children's home. I assumed he expected William would be living with
Soliman's family. I'd considered that and wasn't against it. It would
probably prove far less problematic than constantly having to explain his
presence to neighbors and, of greater importance, to the school personell I
expected someone would eventually have to deal with.

      First, of course, there was the matter of finding someone who could
arrange a local birth certificate for him, illegally get him legal.

      The hotel was a rambling two rows of motel style rooms complete with
a palm tree surrounded parking lot in front of the doors and an office at
the end of one row. All the rooms were the same price, roughly fourteen
dollars US. There was a restaurant off to one side in front of the
relatively large, sparkling clean swimming pool. The boys were hot to get
in there and no one complained when they did so in their pants. I knew
William didn't have on underwear and Soliman pushed his pants down inside
the door to prove I'd been right that he hadn't any either. Unfortunately,
he did so in the back showing off a nice rear end but not allowing me to
learn what he had in front.

      The uncle and Jorge went back to work while I sat in a beach chair
and enjoyed watching my two happy guests frolic in the water, showing off
their golden brown skin, one the real McCoy, the other chemically
produced. I was going to have to go to the internet to research how long
the latter was likely to last and would it just slowly fade or turn
splotchy.

      Sadly, rather than take off their pants in my room to dry, they lay
in the sun long enough for it to do the trick.

      Dinner at Tia Lili's was local but fun. The chicken had a rather
strange flavor to it. The ice cream for desert worried me. Was my gringo
gut going to handle it? It did.

      William begged to be allowed to spend the night in Soliman's hot
shack. I slept alone in air conditioned physical comfort. The two of them
showed up early the next morning in time for breakfast.

      Finding a house was my priority for the day. Soliman's uncle showed
me the real estate section of the area paper. Most of the rentals were in
other surrounding towns. The few in our small city were apartments or
rooms. However, there was a real estate office advertised. I went along in
a tuk tuk, a battered three wheeled motorcycle, to centro, the middle of
town, on one side of a block sized very public park, to see what they had
to offer. The woman there wanted to sell me a house but eventually, dug out
a list of three homes for rent. We went in another nicer tuk tuk I paid for
to see all three. The first, a single story home on the outskirts near the
road back to San Pedro Sula was the best. It had two bathrooms, three
bedrooms, a living / dining room combination and a small kitchen. A nine
foot high wall surrounded it as did similar walls the other dozen or so
houses in the block and nearby. The rent was steeper than I imagined but
probably due to the color of my skin. Still, three hundred dollars a month
was well within my budget. A two month deposit was required. That required
a quick trip, if almost five hours qualifies as such, back to San Pedro
Sula to get two thousand dollars from the hotel safe and change half of it
into Lempiras.

      It wasn't until I moved in the next morning that I realized it hadn't
hot water in the single shower. Still, the water wasn't all that cold and
roughing it was part of the fun. William didn't seem to mind. I finally got
to see Soliman completely naked when they both insisted on using the
shower. He was well endowed in front and pubing though his balls seemed
small for the size of his cock which probably reached four inches hard.

      William slept with me that night. It was wonderful.

      The next morning, I asked him what his friends had said or asked
about me.

      "Jorge asted if'n you wuz a fag but ah said no. Soliman jes' thanks
y'all's a real nahs man."

      A little later, he volunteered that, "Jorge got a real big `un. It
kahnda hurt when he fucked me but not all that bad. Soliman done me
fust. Jorge hadda use ole from the res'ran kitchen. He din't have none a
that stuff we used back in Mis'sippi but the ole wuz okay, jes' smelled
kahnda lahk fried stuff. Kin Soliman `n' Jorge stay heah sumtahms?"

      I told him I'd have to think about that. "Cuz a the naybuhs?"

      Smart boy. "Yes. Let me see what they're like first."

      He didn't object when I bought notebooks, pencils and a first grade
Spanish reader and both paid attention and did the assignments I gave in
hopes of preparing him for entry into a school where my help would enable
him to skip grades and eventually catch up to this proper level. He spent
his afternoons at Soliman's. We had dinner each night at the restaurant
where Soliman's mother worked and lived with her two adopted sons. I got to
know the menu well enough to pick foods I liked.

      During the third afternoon in my new home, I went to San Pedro Sula
to speak to two lawyers regarding legal residency and, with one who seemed
the more knowlegable as well as flexible, what might be possible with money
to arrange a birth certificate for someone who had never gotten one and
whose family had abandoned him. I had hopes that William's clearly Honduran
Spanish and current coloration would make that possible. The English
speaking lawyer, Licenciado Gaspar Montnegro, seemed to believe I was
talking about myself so it was necessary to assure him it wasn't and that
the person in question did speak the local lingo without an accent.

      He thought about it for a moment then said he doubted he'd be able to
help in such a matter but would look around for someone who could.

      William progressed rapidly with his studies, learning most of the
alphabet, the Spanish version, in three days. He was able to read the
simple sentences in the first few pages of the reader. He was spending
every other night at Soliman's house, coming home early when Soliman went
off to school. Saturday, after buying both swimming suits, I took them back
to the hotel swimming pool then to a park with swings and a soccer
field. That required the purchase of a soccer ball.

      A look at the inside of William's mouth convinced me a dentist was
required. Wary of the possibly lower skill level of some locally trained
dentists, I went to the yellow pages and picked the one with the most
impressive ad. He was quite happy to give me an appointment but it was
three weeks hence. Since William claimed not to be any discomfort, I
accepted the date and wrote `dentist' over the day on a calendar William
drew up and taped to the wall.

      Sunday morning, after spending the night again with Soliman and
Jorge, William came home to me rather than go to church with Soliman's
mother. "Ah don' lahk churches. All they do is tawk stupid and wan' e'ryboy
ta give `em money."

      When I asked what kind of church Soliman's family attended, he
answered, "Cath'lic but ah don' lahk them neithuh. `Jes a bunch a bullshit,
sorry, uh, crap."

      He told me Jorge had fucked him hard the night before and he didn't
think he could handle my dick "back theah" for a few days. Moreover, he
thought it best to stay with me for a while until his ass felt better. "But
we kin still suck on each'n othuh."

      That's what we were doing the next norning at around seven when there
was a loud knocking at the outside door along with two rings of the
doorbell.

      "Tha's the cops!" burst out William.

      "No, probably just some salesperson. Wait, let me see." Worried that
William's street honed instincts might be correct, I dressed as quickly,
and completely, as I could and told him to do the same.

      There was more knocking and door bell ringing before I could get out
the front door of the house and to the wall entry. I opened the small
window in the metal door. There were several men outside, none in any kind
of uniform nor in suits, just clean street clothes. One at the door held up
an ID of some sort and said in English with a mild Spanish accent,
"Interpol, Mr. Frysdale. Please open the door.

      Shocked, I asked, "What do you want?"

      "We need to talk to you, and the boy."

      "What about?"

      "Mr. Frysdale, open the door or we'll have to break it open."

      Completely unsure of my grounds I still asked firmly, "Do you have a
warrant?"

      "I don't need a warrant, Mr. Frysdale. Now, open the door now!" He
sounded angry.

      Once again, I insisted on a warrant. The man backed off and another
carrying a door ram approached. I said, "Wait, let me see your
identification again."

      The open wallet was briefly held up to the window then snatched away
before I could read it. I began to suspect this was a robbery. The only
doubt was how robbers would have my real name. The man with the ram again
approached. I opened the door.

      Four men pushed past me, two heading straight inside the house. As
they passed, I saw the holstered automatics on their belts. They probably
were what they said they were. I hoped William would be calm and not
resist. I was told to go outside where two more men awaited me, one with
handcuffs dangling from his fingers.

      I felt doomed.

      The two turned me around and put my hands on top of one of the three
recent model cars parked across the front of my house. After a brief
frisking during which the house keys were taken out of my pants pocket, one
hand at a time was pulled behind me and cuffed. The rear car door was
opened and I was pushed down and inside. They closed the door.

      Moments later, two of the men inside raced out the door and jumped
into the two other cars. One shot forward, shooting gravel back at the car
I was in. The other backed rapidly to the corner. Through the rear view
mirror, I saw him turn right quickly and take off up the cross street. The
man in charge came out the door speaking into a cellphone, a frustrated
look on his face. I was sure William had somehow eluded them.

      The man apparently in charge went back inside, still on his cellphone
only to come back at a trot and open the door beside me. "Where's the boy,
Mr. Frysdale, and no bullshit. You're already in enough trouble? Where is
he?"

      There was fury in the man's words and face. I thought
quickly. Without William, there didn't seem to be anything they could
accuse me of. "I think I better speak to a lawyer first."

      "Look, my friend, you're in my country now, not the United
States. You don't get a lawyer unless I say you do. Now, where's the boy?"

	Another thought struck me. It was always "the boy". They didn't
know his name. Shutting up seemed the best strategy at the time so I did.

	That enfuriated the man further. "You know what Honduran jail is
like? Nothing like those nice safe places in your country. You're a child
molester, Mr. Frysdale, Hondurans hate child molesters. You understand what
I'm saying? So, where's the boy?" He almost shouted the last few words.

	I was increasingly sure he knew he had nothing without William,
and, considering how tough and savvy the boy was, not catching him in my
house or with me, maybe nothing in any case.

	Unfortunately, I didn't count on the outside pressure and help he
had.

	Both cars were back within fifteen minutes. One was sent off
somewhere with two men. I was hauled to a San Pedro Sula police station and
locked in an unfurnished room where I sat on the tiled floor, still
handcuffed and ignored for hours.

	It must have been mid afternoon before the same man came to see
me. He was calmer but still carried a certain degree of anger. For a few
moments, he stood staring at me sitting there on the floor. Then, "You
hungry? I can order you a sandwich or something?"

	"What am I doing here?"

	"C'mon, Mr. Frysdale, you know why you're here. Now, you hungry or
not?"

	"Even here, whatever your name is, you can't just lock somebody up
without telling them what they are charged with and letting them have a
lawyer. What am I supposed to have done?"

	"I already tole you that. You're a child molester. Tha's a crime
here jus' like where you come from. So, why don' you jus' tell me where the
boy is and maybe we can jus' deport you and not put you in prison here."

	I shook my head. "None of that's true and I think you know it. I'm
sure it's also against the law to drag someone out of their house and lock
them up with no proof they've done anything."

      "We got witnesses, very good witnesses and maybe we can charge you
with something else and I think you know what I mean so quit being stupid
and tell me where you got the boy."

      "I want a lawyer." That was the last thing I said to him even though
he went on with his threats for another fifteen minutes or so then left as
angry as he'd been earlier. The sandwich offer was forgotten.

      My silence netted me a day and night without food, little sleep and
increased discomfort with my hands still cuffed behind me. It was difficult
to resist the temptation to shout and kick at the door. Just when I was
close to giving in to my frustration, a uniformed officer came in with two
pieces of overdone roast chicken with rice in a Styrofoam container, a Coke
and keys to the cuffs. It was painful moving my arms forward. He didn't
respond to my attempt in Spanish to ask why I was there. He locked the door
after he left. I was still a prisoner.

      Two more meals and a second night on the floor passed with no
communication. Finally, around midday on Tuesday, a suited man with even
better English than the first came to speak to me.

      He had a folder with several papers in it along with my passport and
checkbook. He called me by my first name and identified himself as
Detective Lieutenant Francisco Caballeros. "Harry, you're in a lot of
trouble here, and not just with us. Your people want you too for
kidnapping. You got a lawyer? You're gonna need one, a very good one if you
wanna stay out of prison here."

      "If you have my things there, his card is among them, Licenciado
Marroquin."

      The man looked and found the card. After reading it over, he said,
"This isn't what you're gonna need. He's, you know, business and
immigration. You need a good criminal lawyer, unless you wanna talk to me
and maybe we can do something that works for both of us."

      "Detective, I haven't done anything wrong, certainly not kidnapped
anybody so there's nothing I can tell you. Why don't you let me talk to my
lawyer and see what he says?"

      "Look, Harry, maybe you think just because we don't have the kid we
can't charge you but you're wrong. We got witnesses at two hotels and back
where you was living including two kids know what you was doing. And the
Americans got witnesses too so here's the way it is. You work with me and
maybe you just get deported and only gotta fight with the Americans who
maybe don't got as good a case as we do."

      There was no way any hotel person had seen me having sex with William
and I didn't believe William had said anything incriminating to Soliman or
Jorge, nor did I believe two kids who'd lived for years as illegals in the
states were going to say much if anything to any kind of authority. "I want
to speak to my lawyer."

      They left me in the room for another day, again trying for
twenty-four hours to convince me to talk. I didn't and was finally allowed
to call Licenciado Marroquin, reaching him on the third try. By the time he
arrived late Wednesday afternoon after a final attempt by the detective to
get me to talk, I had a story ready. He asked "Who is this boy they are
talking about? Is this the person you were talking about with me?"

      "I don't know who they are talking about. I was talking about a woman
I know. The only kids I was around were her relatives. They were always
wanting me to go eat with them where they lived and take them places. I
certainly never had any sex with them. Anybody who says anything like that
is flat out lying."

      "Then who made the calendar they say they found on your wall? They
said it was made by a child."

      I'd forgotten about that but the answer came easily. "One of the kids
at my friends house gave it to me. It was all I had so I put it up."

      That seemed to satisfy him.

      He confirmed what the police were saying wasn't his kind of matter
and suggested another lawyer he'd already spoken with. "He's very good but
also very expensive. You'll need at least ten thousand dollars just to get
him to take your case."

      Less than two hours later, Licenciado Wilfredo de Leon was in my
room. He got the officers in charge of my things to give me my check book
and I signed over ten grand.

      His English was heavily accented but easily understood. Half an hour
after he arrived, I was on the street but without my passport. In a ritzy,
by local standards, restaurant I was paying for, he told me, "Look,
Mr. Frysdale, I don' think they got anything on you. They talk about this
boy but don't have his name or anything, not even how old he is. Without a
boy, they don't have anything to charge you with. Somebody says you did
something to some kid nobody knows don't mean anything." He explained
they'd have to either have a hearing soon or give me back my things. The
man he'd spoken to didn't seem to be interested in doing anything but
getting rid of me. He didn't know anything about the Americans wanting to
charge me with something. "If it's the same kid that nobody knows, how they
gonna charge you with doing something to somebody nobody knows?

      "So, you go on back home but don't go around nobody connected with
this or maybe you oughta come stay someplace here in San Pedro, at least
for a while." My passport would take a few days but, since he doubted I was
going to be charged with anything, they'd have to give it back.

      During our talk, I got the impression he knew there was substance to
the police charges and was suggesting I stay away from the boy they were
seeking.

      After spending the night in a hotel and buying a cheap cellphone that
charged minutes off a card, I returned to my rented house. It had been
ransacked. The new refrigerator, stove, microwave oven and TV had been
stolen. Even the dishes and pans I'd bought and the sheets off the bed were
gone. I didn't bother looking for my expensive laptop. I called the
landlord and told him what had happened. He already knew and wanted to meet
with me immediately.

      His concern, apart from his damaged house, was why I'd been
arrested. "I think they confused me with someone else," I claimed in
probably incorrect Spanish. I told him the police had taken my keys and
apparently hadn't bothered to lock up after leaving. He told me neighbors
called about a truck taking things out. I asked, stupidly, why they hadn't
called the police. He replied, they thought the men they saw were police. I
didn't pursue the matter any further. The landlord wanted me to pay for
repairs. At first, I refused, but on examining the damage, there didn't
appear to be more than a broken electrical socket where they had apparently
pulled the refrigerator out without unplugging it. So, I agreed. I had to
assure him I wasn't a criminal and nothing illegal was going on in his
house. If the police had spoken to him, or the neighbors for that matter,
they certainly would have mentioned boys, but the subject didn't come up.

      I went into the bedroom and lay on the uncovered mattress. Why hadn't
the police questioned the neighbors about a boy or boys in my house? I had
to be sure so I knocked on my neighbors doors, three of them in order to
find one at home. She was with a pair of friends so hadn't much time to
talk. After explaining my situation was almost certainly a case of mistaken
identity since in the end the matter was dropped without telling me what it
was all about, I asked about the truck that had taken away my
belongings. She hadn't seen it but according to the man who lived next to
me, his maid had seen the men and asked if I was moving out. They told her
to go away which she did when she saw the pistol on the belt of one. Had
the police been around asking questions? Not that she knew of.

      As I was about to leave, she told me the neighbor she'd mentioned had
been accepting my mail. I figured it must have been advertisements since,
other than the landlord, the furniture and appliance stores that delivered
my things and Soliman's family, no one knew I was living there. I'd
originally come in a tuk tuk to look it over but there was no reason the
driver would be involved.

	On a hunch, I called my lawyer and got lucky. He was in. "Do you
know the detective involved in my case?"

	"I just talked to the captain there. What was his name?"

      I had to think but remembered, "Detective Lieutenant Francisco
Caballeros."

      "Detective lieutenant? You sure he said detective lieutenant?"

      "That's right."

      "We don't got detective lieutenants here, just on American
television." He was silent for a moment then, "You paid for me. Let me
ask..., I'll call you back. I got your number. Just be careful, okay?"

      I didn't need him to call back to know who was behind this, the
Americans, but why? Did they somehow know about William being brought
through by the coyote? Were they following up on me due to the extortion
attempt? Were they watching me?

      My thoughts that day revolved around whether I should stay there or
take De Leon's advice and get a place in San Pedro Sula. I wasn't ready to
give up on finding out what happened to William and supporting him in any
safe way I could. Though I almost went for lunch at the restaurant where
Soliman's mother worked, caution took precedence and I chose a pizza house
in the shopping center where I bought my appliances.

      De Leon did call back later that afternoon. The only Francisco
Caballeros in the police department in that region was a young man who'd
been on the force for just a year. There was no detective with that
name. "Might have been Interpol but they can't arrest anybody. It's not
what they do, at least not here. I think the Americans want you for
something. Not much I can do for you there unless they try to extradite you
back to the states. You got problems there?"

      "Not that I know of. Shouldn't be."

      I told him I'd stay in touch. He again admonished caution.

      When I heard my neighbor's garage door open, I went to ask about my
mail and see what more he might know than his neighbor. Before getting the
single letter he had for me, he told me no one had asked him anything
except other neighbors and none of them, to the best of his knowledge, had
been spoken to by the police. His maid had thought the men emptying my
house had probably been policemen. When he brought out my letter, he
brought the maid with him. She told me the men looked and acted like
police. The letter had a woman or girl's handwriting. The single `i' had a
circle instead of a dot. The `i' was in Harri. Frysdale was spelt
`Fraisdel'. The address was correct. Inside was a folded letter size paper
with eight numbers on it. I dialed them on my cellphone. Jorge answered,
immediately asking what happened. I gave him a brief standard mixup reply
and asked about William or `Yackie' as they called him.

      "He's staying with my uncle in his house. Where are you so I can come
see you?" He spoke slowly from experience with my poor understanding of
rapid local speech.

      "Did anyone come and ask you or your mother or Soliman questions
about me?"

      "No, we just knew the police took you when Yackie told us."

      "Let me call you later and we can meet. So Yackie's okay?"

      "Yeah, he's okay but he was crying a lot because he thought he wasn't
going to see you again. How come the police let you go? Is it..."

      I cut him off. "We'll talk about that later when I call. Don't call
this number. Wait for me, okay?" I hung up.

      It had to be the Americans. But how could they know about William
being brought here? Unless they caught the coyote or his arranger and they
were trading me for their own benefit, or, the police involved in the
extortion killings were keeping an eye on me via the FBI or someone with
people in Honduras. The first man who claimed to be Interpol had never let
me clearly see his ID. Anyhow, Interpol was a worldwide operation, not
specifically American though, I guessed, they'd probably cooperate if the
Americans said the word `pedophile'. Damn near any governmental or even
non-governmental organization would. We generated great headlines.

      Finding out if there was someone tailing me seemed critical. I walked
out to the main street, flagged down a tuk tuk and told him I was looking
for a place but wasn't sure where it was. I'd pay for his time in searching
for it. I don't know if the driver noticed, but after every indicated turn,
I watched out the rear window for any vehicle following along. After three
turns, it appeared there was, a small green sedan, but then he was
gone. However, two turns later, there was another, this one a light blue
late model Ford, hardly a car I'd expect someone in that town to be
driving. It took the next turn too then was replaced by the original green
car on a major boulevard. I was definitely being followed.

      I directed the driver to a large, by local standards, shopping center
and handed over the requested hundred lempiras in front of a large
supermarket. It was getting dark but I spotted the Ford stop three rows
back on the parking lot. I skirted the supermarket and went inside the mall
looking for an alternate exit. Not finding one immediately, I ducked into a
clothing store and hid behind a row of jeans watching to see who would come
in. No one suspicious appeared. A walk around let me know why. There were
only three entries, all of which could easily be observed by two cars
parked apart communicating by cellphone or radio, the latter seeming most
likely. And, with all my obvious attempts to lose them, they were probably
aware I knew I was being tailed.

      I called Jorge. William answered, "Harry?", bringing tears to my
eyes. I turned toward a display window and quickly said in Spanish,
"Please, I need to speak just to Jorge. Don't say anything."

      Smart boy that he was, he replied in accentless local lingo, "Okay,
I'll get you Jorge. You okay?"

      I answered in Spanish, "I'm fine."

      Jorge's uncle took the phone. "We're very happy you're okay. You need
any help?"

      "No, I'm okay for now but we can't meet for a few days while I fix
something."

      "That's okay. We understand. But you need help, you call, okay?"

      It was his friendly attitude that led me to go back to the appliance
store where I purchased a new, smaller refrigerator, stove and
microwave. In the supermarket, I bought sheets and a blanket. It was, as I
was handling the refrigerator door, that it occurred to me why the original
units as well as pots and pans were taken: fingerprints on the appliances,
pots and pans and evidence of sex on the sheets. William's prints were sure
to be on all. They probably took the TV to make what they did appear more
like a standard burglary. The computer was likely to search for kiddie porn
they seemed to believe all peds possessed. I wasn't sure if any trace of
the lubricant we used was going to be found on the sheets. My semen went
either into William's rear end or down his throat so they weren't going to
find any of that. Surely they found my tube of KY. It wasn't there with
what was left in the house but I could quite reasonably say it was for
masturbation. They had no way to prove otherwise. The big question was
whether anyone had ever taken William's prints. He'd never mentioned it
but, those days, who knew? If they did, they probably also had his photo.

      I paid for all with my US credit card. There was no need to hide my
presence in Honduras from people who knew I was there and at exactly what
address. The large items would be delivered in the morning. Those that I
could carry were left at the personal belongings check in table at the
supermarket when I went in to buy some non-perishable food.

      Since I now knew about the surveillance, I had to assume they'd seen
me buy the cellphone. After dropping into a drugstore and an electronics
emporium, watching for any observers and spotting none, I stopped at a
kiosk selling cellphones bought another cheap card unit requiring a name
but no ID along with a couple of hundred lempira cards.

      For two days, I put my house back in order including replacing the
broken electrical socket and changing the locks on the carport and front
and side house doors. After buying a new laptop, I called my boss to let
him know my computer had been stolen and arrange for him to courier the
programs, files and information I needed to get back to work.

      "You ready to come back?" he asked tongue in cheek.

      The material requested on seven DVD's was delivered barely sixty
hours later, a good sign for service in Honduras. I went right to work.

      All this time, I'd been planning how to get loose of those watching
me. After five days, I figured a late night walk out of my street wouldn't
be on their radar. So, donning a pair of dark pants and a navy blue sweat
shirt with hood, carrying a pack of crackers and a bottle of water, I took
a two AM stroll. There were no parked cars in sight. Nor were there any
forms of public transport. Jorge's uncle's shop was at least three miles
away and in a working class area I didn't remember very well. It was easy
to tell that no one was following me in the quiet, dark night. I ate all
the crackers and drank the liter of water, finding the iron working shop
shortly before dawn.

      The uncle arrived first and rushed me inside. After assuring him no
one followed me, he called Jorge on his cellphone and calmly told him to go
fetch William but not why.
      .
      The reunion was great. Tears flowed. We hugged each other probably
much too long. He whispered in my ear that he hadn't told anyone anything
about `us' as he put it.

      Though they wanted to hear what had happened to me, I was far too
curious about how William had escaped not to ask that first.

	"When ah heard that man talkin' ta you, ah knew he wuz a cop so ah
got all mah stuff, even mah school stuff an' the toofpaste," which I
assumed to mean the KY, "an' ah wen' out the sahd do' an' clum up them
bamboo poles wuz out back onta the roof an' then ah pushed `em at the wall
so's they wuz gonna think ah wen' ovuh the wall inta this othuh man's house
an' ah lay down flat an' stayed lahk that fo' a long tahm `cuz ah din't
know fo' sho' if'n all a them men wuz gone `til a heahed othuh people out
front tawkin' an' ah waited fo' them ta go too `cuz ah din't wan' nobody
knowin' ah wuz in theah `cuz ah wuz sho' the cops wuz theah `cuz a how ah
cum wif that coyote an' ah wuz a eelegal. Then, when they weren't nobody no
mo', ah cum down, fust ah dropped all mah stuff then ah got on the side an'
dropped mahself wheah they was grass an' dirt an' ah wen' out an' real
quick down ta the cohnuh an' got this tuk tuk an' cum ovuh heah an' tio
Chico, he paid the man an' ah stayed heah, well, at `is house.

	"Couple tahms ah wen' neah the house ta see if'n you cum back but
ah wuz skeered they wuz watchin' so ah nevah wen' close. Soliman's mothuh
sent you that lettuh wif `is telephone numbuh an' you called an' tha's when
ah knowed you wuz okay.

	"Whut they say to you how cum they wuz `restin' you?"

      I had to relate as much as I thought necessary from the knock on my
door to my release. Basically, I admitted that it looked like William was
right, that the Americans were after us both for how he'd come to Honduras
but that I was sure they had no idea who he was. I asked him if his
fingerprints had ever been taken.

      He'd seen it being done on TV and had been told how it had been done
to Tia Lili and the others including Soliman so was sure they'd never done
it to him.

      I told him how our house had been stripped of everything that might
have had his fingerprints and that I thought he was very clever to take the
`toothpaste' with him.

      Ricardo, the uncle he called `Chico', assured me that no one had been
by his or his sister's asking any questions nor had they seen any
suspicious vehicles or persons.

      When I said that it was going to be difficult for me to see him very
often, William came up with a solution. "If'n you lived lahk raht nex' ta
us, we could make a do' from heah inta yo' house."

      When he said it again in Spanish, Ricardo took me by the arm and
showed me the empty lot behind his shop. It belonged to his deceased
father. They'd been planning to sell it for years but one of the four
siblings had always wanted to wait in case a family member wanted to buy
it. "You are a member of our family now. You can buy it."

      Realizing that if the purchase, construction and move were to be
hidden, the Americans would rightly guess it was an attempt to get close to
the boy they were seeking. So, for a week, I hired tuk tuks to take me
around looking at houses and empty lots for sale, eventually stopping to
look at the lot I'd already arranged to buy. Only once did it appear I was
being followed, this time, possibly cleverly, by a pair of tuk tuks. A
lawyer was hired to handle the transaction, the lot bought and a cousin of
Ricardo hired to build the house as I designed it. An architect was
required to put structure to my plans and formalize them in order to get
the required permits.

      It was during that week that my hard working lawyer called again. He
had my passport and a police report that stated there were no charges then
or ever before against me in Honduras. I was going to need that to go after
my residency, a process he expected the Americans would try to thwart but
felt confident Atty. Montenegro could overcome any obstacles they put in
the way.

      The construction itself was painfully slow though I was told by my
landlord and a neighbor that it would normally take six months to a year
for a new house to be built. Mine was done in just under three months. A
door through the rear wall was installed when all else was complete so none
of the other workers by then gone would know it existed. The secret entry
was hidden behind a vertical stack of construction lumber and used
corrugated sheet metal roofing material. The door opened into the back of
Ricardo's shop. Only a slim person could slip through behind the
camouflage.

      William and I had our first night alone in bed the day the secret
entry was complete. He told me that he hadn't allowed Jorge to screw him
for a week just so his ass would be perfect for me.

      I'd have been just as happy to have him beside me in bed again but
the sex was wonderful, both times.



      It's now been four years since I left the United States. There was a
lot of bureaucracy and a couple of payoffs during the eight months it took
to get my residency but it got done and, under the new regimen for Central
America, my ID is also good for Guatemala, El Salvador and Nicaragua.

      William's birth certificate as Javier (the closest thing we could
come up with to Yackie) Jaime Perez Bran cost close to eighteen thousand
dollars but it is done and he is a citizen with a certificate for first
year junior high in his folder. At fifteen, according to his Honduran
papers, he will graduate from high school at nineteen. We'd been able to
arrange multiple grades per year in a primary school, that hasn't proven
possible since. He doesn't want to go to college, just computer repair
school. He loves electronics.

      Of course, William is no longer the sixty-six pound, forty-five inch
tall child I first met. He's moving slowly past five feet four and still
slim. I doubt he'll add more than a couple of inches and, lucky for him,
possibly never make it to medium build. It has been necessary to widen the
secret entryway but not by much and mostly for the faster growing, and much
thicker, Soliman, with whom I have never had sex.

      William and I still make love as before even though he has a girl
friend from school. Actually, he's become quite creative over the years. We
alternate who enters who and keep it oral once a week or so. His dick is
long enough to get into me from every angle and side one could imagine. His
favorite, both ways, is with the receiver on his back, ass in the air held
up by his hands with elbows below and the giver standing and plunging in
from above. It applies maximum pressure when passing the prostate and
maximum tightness on the inserted cock in our well used, loose holes.

      To a far less pleasant subject, the surveillance became spotty after
a couple of weeks. I guessed they figured the boy they sought would stay
hidden for a time but sooner or later return making periodic surveillance
an effective means of capturing him and then successfully take me. However,
that patient methodology apparently wore thin since there's been no sign of
watchers for three years. Nonetheless, we still use the secret entrance and
don't go out in public. Tia Lili is his paper mother and handles school
matters. It is a bother but, under the circumstances, a practical and
effective precaution. Once he turns eighteen, screw `em!

      Even with all the political, economic and natural calamities this
country has gone through and had to overcome, I've learned to love it
here. William's presence in my life, of course, is a major factor, but
there are a lot of great people here. The weather could be nicer as it is
in Guatemala City which I've visited a few times, but, you can't have
everything.

      So, what do I do when William leaves the nest? Who knows but I'm sure
I'll find someone, though I'll probably try to keep it platonic.

      Times have changed, tragically.