Date: Tue, 17 Nov 2009 00:23:24 -0800 (PST)
From: Peder Pederson <pederdagreat@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Secret Chapter One

The Secret

in

Five Movements





by





D. V. Zomba

Copyright 1994

Contents


One: Average	3
Two: The Dream	14
Three: The First Time	25
Four: The Key	34
Five: The Sacrament	44

One
-Average-



	It has been stated more than once that "There are times that try
men's souls." Phil Beyer had been tried.

	His life had not been particularly hard nor particularly
easy--merely normal, average, he supposed. He was born and raised in
Wabasha, a small Minnesota town sprinkled with an assortment of houses that
mirrored its history. White, storey-and-a-half, steeped roofed, Victorian
houses--nondescript cracker box houses of the immigrants--an occasional
brick home which belied a degree of wealth appropriate to this small
town--an occasional large home, elegant manses of physicians or
lawyers. All were nestled comfortably on the banks of the Mississippi,
among its bluffs. Wabash sat high enough along the banks to avoid the
Spring floods from the melting snow of winter. It was a safe town in all
respects.

	It was peopled with a variety of folk whose ancestry was mostly the
reserved northern European and a sprinkling of the outgoing
Mediterranean. Yet it was strangely homogeneous--there wasn't any great
social rifts to speak of--a quiet town. Wabasha had its share of 'strange'
people. There was old Mrs. Freemont who always wore blue sneakers, blue
stockings and sailor-like top over a similar colored longish skirt. Her
father had been a regionally famous, or possibly notorious doctor, but she
was strange and a spinster. And, then there was poor Al Jamison, known to
most by the politically 'un-correct' nomenclature: the village idiot. There
were the 'advantaged.' A few wealthy farmers, of course the three doctors
and the Bahadurs were considered 'rich.' The Bahadurs were probably the
most noted family. They had a home in Wabasha which the frequented,
rarely. It was rumored that, "They had money in South African gold mines."
Usually they were seen only during the Spring--a time when Wabasha and the
surrounding area literally and figuratively bloomed after the frigid
imprisoning winter. Most of the folk in Wabasha were 'average.' Phil's
family was, likewise, average.
	His father had worked in a defense plant in nearby Minneapolis
during The War. After, he took a job in Wabasha as a machinist for a local
trucking firm that was expanding into an efficient inter-state fleet. His
mother was, of course, a housewife. They regularly attended one of the
local conservative churches--they were good members of the congregation.
The Beyers were what has euphemistically been called, "solid citizens."
They were also average, particularly in their conservatism, but then, with
a few exceptions, so was everyone else in Wabasha. Or so it seemed.
	Phil had spent his growing years going through the elementary and
secondary school system of Wabasha, as did his younger brother, Mark, and
sister, Ellen. His public school record was a bit above average. He
excelled in no one thing, but was a good student. He was considered the
second best cross-country runner at Wabash High. He was not 'popular' nor
was he unpopular. Phil was in most respects considered a pleasant, average
young man from a 'good family.'
	During the weekends and the summers Phil's activities were normal
for a small town boy. He liked the river, particularly in the Spring and
Summer, wandering up and down its banks, luxuriating in the warm humid
smell of his surrounding. He, alone or with his friends, would walk for
miles along the west bank of the river 'exploring,' looking for
'adventure.' Sometimes, he (they) would climb up into the ravines, with
their small streams, find a cool mossy area to eat a snack. Or, if hot, he
(they) would strip to his swimming suit and swim off some sandy point of
the river. Two or three times Phil and his friends even went
skinny-dipping. That, too, was an adventure.
	In the winter the bluffs offered great sport, particularly after
one of the many snowfalls. The westerly wind would create great cornices of
snow over the top overhangs. Precariously perched over the edge of the
bluff's summit the snow cornices hung. He and his friends, or siblings,
would run up to these overhangs in a line and jump at what they thought was
the point of contact, setting off small snow-slides. They, of course called
them 'avalanches.' Sometimes they would misjudge and tumble down the
incline in the embrace of the cold, rolling snow. Great adventures, great
fun!
	During the time that he lived in Wabasha, Phil's physical make-up
was also average. Average height. Average weight. He wondered whether he
would ever get to six feet! He wondered whether he'd ever be more than 145
pounds! He wondered whether he'd ever be more than average!
	Then, of course there were secrets. Everyone had secrets.

	Secrets, too, were considered normal, average--family secrets,
personal secrets. Phil had a secret. A secret which had developed from the
most unexpected source when he was thirteen.
	Two itinerant preachers, headquartered somewhere in Wisconsin, had
been sponsored by the Beyer's church. They arrived in Wabasha one July in a
large, old, tarpaulin-covered truck and a '38 Chevy coupe. The truck
carried a large 'preaching tent,' a smaller 'living tent,' three foot
lockers (one for each pastor's personal belongings and one containing a
small two burner stove, pots and eating utensils), wooden folding chairs, a
collapsible pulpit and a pedal organ. The 'living tent' was Army Surplus,
maybe twelve by eighteen feet. The preaching tent was big enough to hold
about seventy-five collapsible wooden chairs, pulpit and organ. Under a
tarp attached to the front of the living tent was the food area. Actually
the pastors didn't have to cook too much. Many of the members from the
church's congregation brought the pair 'hot-dishes'--tuna casseroles,
shepherd's pie, any thing that they could easily afford. After all it was
the 'Lord's work.'
	Paster Amund was the leader. He was the "preacher." Totally
nondescript, he was somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five, of course
average. Pastor Richard, was second in command, an apprentice preacher in
his mid-twenties. His charge was the music, the organ. He also got to
prepare the meals and drove pastor Amund around. They were to be in Wabasha
for ten days.
	Of course, the Beyer's went to the opening services, en masse, on
Wednesday night. The congregation was mostly from their church. There were
more empty chairs than there were occupied ones. The services were
long--lots of singing, lots of witnessing, lots of preaching and the
'call.' It was hot inside the tent. Perspiration ran down the necks of the
men and arm-pits were moist. The ladies fanned themselves with the thin
hymnals and dabbed their foreheads with scented handkerchiefs. The hot, big
tent smelled of oiled canvas, cologne and perspiration. Phil was totally
bored and squirmed as he felt rivulets of sweat meander down his side from
the hairless armpits. He wasn't looking forward to ten days of this!
	The Friday night service was interminably long, a few more people
than the other two nights and just as hot. Afterwards Mr. and Mrs. Beyer
stopped to talk to the pastors, telling Pastor Amund how inspired his
message was--Phil thought, "Yeah, also long!"
	Pastor Richard informed Phil's parents that we was going to Winona
on Saturday. Winona was some distance down the river. He had to pick up new
hymnals and wanted to know if Phil would like to go along for the
ride. Mrs. Beyer said that would be nice and it was a break in the summer
routine for Phil and asked Phil, "Would you like to go?" It was one of
those questions which was not truly inquiring of Phil's preference, but one
of those familial questions. Those questions between parents and children
that the child instinctively knew demanded a positive response.
	"Yeah, sure." Phil was noncommittal in the tone of his response. It
would be a welcomed break, but he was rather shy and wasn't too sure of
spending a couple of hours with a preacher. Trapped in a hot car, what
would he talk about? "Jeeze," he hoped to himself that it wouldn't be
religion! That was for old people.
	The next morning Pastor Richard and Phil left at ten-thirty, it was
hot, all the car windows were rolled down, the wings turned inward and the
hot air blasted their sweaty faces. They talked, thankfully not about
religion, but about Wabasha, the summer, summer vacations--just the average
kind of talk. Phil was somewhat reticent in the company of Pastor Richard
and also respectful. He was always that way with his elders, especially
those whom he had recently met. He had been taught always to be respectful
to his elders.
	Pastor Richard collected the hymnals and the two were invited to
share lunch with a local minister. The two ministers talked about the
'business of the Lord' and Phil, getting bored, quietly ate the egg-salad
sandwiches and fruit-jello desert. After the mutual blessings and
'good-byes' they left.
	If it had been hot on the way to Winona, it was even hotter on the
return trip. The afternoon July sun can be unyielding, especially without
wind in Minnesota. The temperature was nearing ninety-eight degrees and the
humidity just as high. It was oppressive. Sweat beaded Phil face and he
could feel it roll down his side from his arm pits.
	About ten miles from Wabasha, Pastor Richard turned to Phil and
asked if he'd like some lemonade. Phil nodded, "Yes."
	The pastor turned off the two-lane paved road onto a narrow dirt
track that led down to the river. The old Chevy coupe jounced over the
narrow rutted, single lane road-trail, canopied with various trees and
bushes until the sparkling river came into view. Walking a few yards down
to the river bank, they sat on a thick willow trunk that bowed, almost
horizontally, to the river. The willows offered a dappled parasol of
shelter from the sun.
	Pastor Richard had thoughtfully packed a thermos of lemonade in a
small basket earlier that morning. Both drank the lemonade, savoring it
refreshing flavor, and then a second glass was downed.
	"That hit the spot." Pastor Richard said, mopping his forehead with
a sweat dampened handkerchief. "I'm so hot!"
	"Me, too," replied Phil.
	"Let's go swimming and cool off."
	"I didn't bring a swimming suit."
	"That's okay, neither did I. We can skinny dip. Nobody's around.
Nobody'll see us," Pastor Richard said as he unbuttoned his shirt and
kicked off his shoes.
	"I don't think so," Phil replied, nervously. He had gone `skinny
dipping' before with his friends, but only at night. It had been an
adventure, a little bit dangerous, or at least they had thought so. But, he
had never gone skinny dipping with an adult, 'an old person' and certainly
never a pastor!
	"Suit yourself," Pastor Richard said as he stripped off his shirt
and sox. He stood up and began to loosen his belt. Phil noticed his broad
muscular chest, covered with short, flat laying hair and he self
consciously glanced away. From the corner of his eye he could see Pastor
Richard slide his pants down his thighs and step out of them.
	"Are you sure you don't want to cool off . . . relax a bit?"
	Phil glanced back, making sure only to look into the pastor's face
and replied, "No, that's okay. I'm not so hot." That was a lie! But in that
instant of visual contact he could feel his face begin to flush as his
peripheral vision took in the form of the young pastor, clad only in his
white briefs.
	"Well, I'm hot!" Pastor Richard said with a smile, his eyes locked
on to Phil's, hypnotically. At that instant of visual contact he hooked his
thumbs under the band of his briefs and shoved them down.
	Phil, peripherally, saw the dark, thick patch of pubic hair framing
what seemed to him a large cock and equally large balls. He turned his head
away and pretended to look at the river, the trees, anything but that image
that seared itself into his brain. Pastor Richard crossed his field of
vision as he waded into the water, causing outflowing rings to radiate from
his legs. His back was to Phil and he self-consciously looked at the
pastor's form, his shoulders, his back both tanned, his buttocks, muscular,
firm and white. He was embarrassed. He wanted to look at the pastor's
nakedness, but felt that it was wrong. Yet, there was still the desire to
look, to see.
	The cooling water was mid-thigh when Pastor Richard turned back to
Phil. "You don't know what you're missing, " he said with a broad smile.
Phil couldn't help but notice that the pastor's cock had noticeably
lengthened, the tip skimming the water.
	"Naw. That's okay," he smiled self consciously. He shrugged his
shoulders and looked down, trying to find a stone to kick. His
embarrassment was mounting. Pastor Richard smiled back, then dove into the
water and languidly began to swim about.
	Relieved, Phil returned to the willow trunk, straddled its broad,
rough surface and glanced about, his mind racing back and forth over the
past few minutes. "Why should I be so embarrassed?" he thought. He had seen
nude bodies before, gym class, the showers and all. "Maybe because he's a
pastor," he rationalized to himself. Yet, he wanted to look, he wanted to
visually explore the pastor's nude form.
	Having swum about for some ten minutes, Pastor Richard waded out of
the river, stripping as much moisture as he could from his body with his
hands. He walked over to the willow. "That felt really good. I was so hot,"
he stated smiling. He swung a leg over the trunk, facing Phil, not more
that a yard away. Again Phil couldn't help notice that the pastor's
position on the log had forced his large plum-sized balls forward and the
equally large cock arched over the top, pointing his way. The pastor
adjusted them, apparently absentmindedly and continued to smile.
	Phil returned the smile, a tentative smile. It was expected, but
again he could feel the flush again infuse his body as he forced his eyes
to lock only on the pastor's eyes. His embarrassment was mounting. Again,
he glanced away.
	"You should have come in too," the pastor said and then added,
"Have I embarrassed you by swimming nude?"
	"No," came the reply, too quickly, too tentatively. Again he cast
his gaze on the neutral river.
	"I think I have," he said, lightly touching Phil's knee. The shock
of that touch brought Phil's eyes back in contact with Pastor Richard's,
"but don't be," he continued with a warm smile. "There's nothing wrong with
it." At that Pastor Richard swung his leg over the trunk, slid off and
slowly began dressing. Phil felt profoundly relieved. The short ride back
to Wabasha went by quickly and quietly.
	As Phil was helping the pastor unload the hymnals, his family's car
pulled up to the tent. Phil's father stepped out walked over to them.
	"Grandma Beyer isn't feeling well. Mother, the kids and I are
driving over to Prescott to see her. You can come along, if you want.
Nothing serious, but we'll probably be late." Then, turning to Pastor
Richard and Pastor Amund who just had walked up from his trailer, he added,
"We'll miss the evening service."
	"I understand," Pastor Amund said.
	"Why doesn't Phil stay here, if he wants. We've got plenty," Pastor
Richard said. Then he added, as an afterthought, "He could spend the night
with us."
	"I don't want to trouble you," Phil's father said. "I th...."
	Before he could go on, "No trouble at all. Besides, Phil can pass
out the hymnals and take the collection for us," Pastor Richard stated.
Pastor Amund nodded his concurrence.
	"Well, if it's no problem...."
	"No problem at all. We'll drive back now with you so Phil can pick
up his tooth brush and things. I'll deliver him back tomorrow after
breakfast in time for your church services," Pastor Richard stated with a
broad smile.
	"Okay with you?" Phil's dad asked him.
	"Yeah, sure," Phil replied a bit tentatively. He was caught between
a rock and a hard place. He didn't want to have to endure the drive to
Prescott, and he didn't want to sit through another long revival service.
He was a little surprised at his reply--it was almost subconscious--his
affirmative reply.
	He rode home with his father, collected a change of clothes, his
toothbrush, and a towel placing them all in a paper bag. On returning to
the campground, Pastor Richard said, "you can put your things in the tent
and help me with supper."
	Phil went to the 'living tent.' lifted the flap and saw a double
bed with it's head against the back wall. At its foot was a single bed.
There were two double-sectioned orange crates--one beside the double bed,
one beside the single bed. They contained personal items, well worn Bibles
and a wind-up alarm clock. He also saw two foot lockers that appeared to
double as chairs (this he deduced since there were no chairs present). He
put his things on the single bed and went out to help the paster.
	That evening produced another long, hot, boring service. Again,
mostly only the members of his churches congregation were in attendance.
And, again there was 'the call.' "How many times do you have to be
'saved?'" Phil thought.
	He had to explain to the inquisitive, well-meaning members of the
congregation why his family was not in attendance. What a bore!
	Darkness had come. Pastor Amund had gone into the living tent.
After he had collected the hymnals from the chair seats and depositing them
on the small table inside the tent entrance Phil straightened the rows of
folding chairs. Then Pastor Richard announced, "It's time for bed."
	They walked to the living tent. Phil thought that he'd probably be
given the single bed to sleep in, but as they entered the tent Phil saw the
pajama clad Pastor Amund raise from his knees and slip under the coverlet
of the single bed.
	"Good night," Pastor Amund murmured.
	"Good night, brother,"replied Pastor Richard. He reached up and
turned down the Coleman lantern to a dull glow and began to undress
calmly. Phil's mind was racing--he didn't know what to do--images of that
afternoon raced through his mind.
	"Get your pajamas on," Pastor Richard said to Phil in a light, off
handed manner. The young pastor stood nude in the half light, facing
Phil. The light played across his form, emphasizing the muscle masses and
he nonchalantly scratched his balls before donning his pajamas. All the
time his eyes were on Phil's, searching.
	Phil, reached for the paper bag into which he had placed his
pajama, tooth brush and tooth paste, and a change of cloths for the next
day. The bag had been placed on the double bed. He began to change, all the
while keeping his back to the watching pastor.
	He quickly donned his pajamas, top first, to cover his nakedness.
He was nervous. A nervousness that grew out of his inherent shyness. He sat
on the edge of the bed as Pastor Richard began folded his clothes and
placed them on his footlocker-chair.
	"Time for your prayers, Phil," the pastor said as he sank to his
knees at the side of the bed.
	Phil quickly followed the example of the pastor. Generally, he did
say his prayers, nearly every evening, but not on his knees, only after he
had crawled into bed, and then always in silence, mouthing his petitions.
It was expected, his mother had taught him that's all he could remember.
But, he really didn't know why.
	Pastor Richard's prayers were barely audible and extemporaneously
lengthy. After he had finished he glanced at Phil, smiled warmly and
said. "Now it's your turn."
	Phil simply wasn't prepared for this! So he began with the rote
prayer he had been taught as a young child and ended with a sentence or two
of disjointed, unrehearsed, unpracticed supplications and a quick, "Amen."
	The pastor pulled back the light coverlet and said, "In ya go!"
	Phil scooted to the far side of the bed, next to the canvas wall
and the gauze 'window.' Nervously hoped that he could go right to sleep.
The the Coleman was turned off. He felt Pastor Richard slide into the bed.
	"Good night,"
	"'Night," Phil whispered.
	The gray twilight of pre-sleep began to lower itself on Phil's
unquiet mind. He breath deepened and slowed. Sweet sleep was about to be
his.
	Just on the edge of slumber he was instantly brought back to full,
adrenalin-prodded wakefulness. There was, he thought, a touch to his
thigh. He stiffened, held his breath and wondered whether he had dreamt it.
	Again, a touch, this time light, as light as the first. He had not
dreamed it. It seemed tentative, a mere brush. He continued to hold his
breath.
	 "It must have been an accident," he thought, trying to dampen his
panic.
	Then he felt a hand come to rest upon his thigh. This was no
mistake! His heart raced. The hand slowly, lightly began to move up his
pajama covered thigh. It began to insinuate itself into the front opening.
His mind raced faster than his heart. He pretended to be asleep.
	He was panicked. He felt fingers seek out and begin to manipulate
his penis. He fought against its stiffening. It was a losing battle as his
pubescent cock grew and hardened.
	"What if Pastor Amund sees?" Phil's mind screamed out, silently.
	His mind raced even faster as it again screamed silently, "WHY!"
	Everything became disjointed--his mind from his body, the
pleasurable sensations that he felt from what he had been taught. The
fingers continued to manipulate his now erect boy-penis. Images of an irate
Pastor Amund, of penis draped balls on a log, white buttocks over
glistening water, Pastor Richard standing nude in the half light of the
Coleman--all these raced through his mind as the cock-centered pleasure
began to rise. His mind raced.
	His thought processes became fragmented, irrational as they sped at
supersonic speed. During instants of lucidity-- "This isn't right!" The
fingers were still working,expertly, bring feelings, pleasurable sensations
that Phil himself had been able to create over the past few months. But,
then, that was his hand, not someone else, like now! Somehow this wasn't
right he thought, but his body conversely reveled in the sensations. It was
a time of indescribable turmoil,
	Then the spasms--the miniature dry eruptions came and infused his
body. He silently gasped. The sensations of the hot fingers wrapped around
his cock became strangely painful, intolerable. Phil had the sense, the
need to push the hand away. This he did. The fingers removed themselves
from his lessening erection and closed around Phil's wrist.
	He felt his hand being moved and placed on a hot, hard, quaking
tube. It was the pastor's turgid cock!
	"What if Pastor Amund. . . .?" Phil's mind again screamed out. He
let his hand lay on the pulsing organ. Then the fingers closed again around
his hand, causing it to encircle the hot, velvet covered thing. Slowly up
and down his hand was directed. He passively allowed the action, the
direction.
	Phil was stunned. He felt some interest in the feel of the pastor's
organ, but it was wrong. And, besides pastor Amund was so close. The cock
under his encased, guided fingers began to swell. Or, at least, he thought
so. Then it too began to spasm and Phil felt a warm, sticky substance spill
over his fingers. They were now released and Phil quickly pulled his hand
back, wiping it on the sheet as he did. He didn't fall asleep until the wee
hours of the morning. His racing mind wouldn't allow it.
	That was his secret.
	"But, then," he thought, "so does every body else have secrets." He
wondered whether their secrets were like his. He pushed it to the back of
his mind. He had felt guilt. Strangely enough not because of the act, but
guilt brought about by the pleasure he had felt. The pleasure of some man,
other than himself, bringing him to orgasm. But, it was his secret. The
secret of a thirteen year old!

	The summer of his high school graduation he got a job working in a
Le Sueur canning factory. It was hard physical work, long hours. Many of
the young people from Wabasha worked there. They stayed in barely adequate
'company dorms.' Actually they were open-bayed, army-surplus quonset
huts. But, to the young, it was a great adventure and the small
bathroom-toilet-shower was merely an inconvenience, as were the army
cots. They were on their own, many for the first time. That included Phil.
	The camaraderie was exhilarating. Phil liked it. Besides, the long
hours brought good money. He would need it. He was to enter Winona State
that Fall. In addition, there were other benefits. Phil had grown to a full
six feet and the hard work plus the relatively nutritious food that the
company provided had aided in upping his weight to 165 pounds. He was
thankful.
	"The Beyers are late bloomers," his mother had repeatedly stated as
he fretted about his physical development, or more precisely, the lack
thereof.
	 "Better late than never!" he thought one afternoon in the late
summer as he looked into the dorm's mirror at his too short and tightening
pants.
	By September he had saved up enough money to get him through the
first year along with his parent's help. He was really looking forward to
'college.'
	Along with his physical maturity, Phil was beginning to gain mental
maturity as well. He knew that he had to apply himself. A lot was at
stake. He had to do well. He would be the first of the Beyers to go to
college. His father had to quit high school to help his grand-father's
ailing business. Phil's mother had finished high school and one year of
college before her large family's meager resources ran out. There was no
question in his parent's minds that Phil's generation of Beyers all would
be properly educated. This was a wish of his parents, more than a wish, it
was a goal to be achieved at all costs. It was an ambitious goal, but,
attainable.
	Also, Phil had ambition, although he wasn't quite sure of the
direction that he should take. But, he would succeed. So he took to his
studies with a certain ferocity and did well his first semester. During the
Christmas vacation he worked at Avalon's Red and White. It was a job that
he had had during his last two years of high school. Besides, Mr. Avalon
need the help.
	During this time Phil became aware, in little ways, of the hardship
that his college expenses were exacting on his family. Nothing was said,
but he was aware. He had suggested that he stay out a semester to make more
money and to relieve the pressure on his family. This was instantly, almost
violently refused. There was to be no question of his immediate education.
	Upon his return to Winona he had mentioned to his room mate, Ed
Jensen, his financial situation. He and Ed had become relatively close that
first semester. Ed was a Business Administration major and a member of the
Air R.O.T.C. unit. The military had no particular appeal to Phil. It was
not that he was against it--he merely had never considered it.
	Ed, on the other hand, came from a background not altogether
dissimilar from Phil's. Having been unemployed, Mr. Jensen had entered the
military during the latter part of the Depression. He was married in 1940
to his high school sweetheart. Mr. Jensen served during The War, had been
awarded a battlefield commission and a Purple Heart, actually, two. His
second wound qualified him for an early release and a small disability
allowance. He used it along with the amount of money saved from his unspent
pay to set himself up in a business--an auto repair garage and service
station. That was in New Prague. It was enough to keep he and his family in
some comfort. So, at least to Ed, the military had its positive side.
	Like Phil, Ed had worked to save money for his education. Air
R.O.T.C seemed to be a good choice. It paid for his school. And, besides,
his father had said that the Air Force always ate well, not like the Army
to which he had been attached.
	"Why don't you join the R.O.T.C." Ed had half seriously suggested.
	Phil thought about it all week long.
	Friday morning Phil went to talk to Captain Roswald Martin,
R.O.T.C. commander and that afternoon he 'signed on.'

	That evening he and Ed got a couple of ID's from some older
dorm-mates, drove to LaCrosse and celebrated. They got drunk. It was Phil's
first time. Part way back to Winona, Ed pulled the old Plymouth off the
road and fell asleep. Phil was already sleeping, actually,
passed-put. Luckily it was during one of those almost balmy Minnesota
January thaws. It was cold, but not freezing and the two winter-dressed
bodies provided enough warmth in the car for their fitful sleep.
	It was Phil who awoke first. The wrenching in his stomach was
frightful. He quickly stepped out of the car and immediately began to
vomit. It was only after the last few dry convulsions that he became aware
of the unbearable pounding headache.
	"Good God, I'm dying!" he thought. He steadied himself against the
car with one hand, the other pressing his temple. He began to take great
gulps of the fresh cold morning air.
	"What's the matter Buddy? Not feeling so good?" (Ed always called
him "Bud" or "Buddy").
	Phil turned to see Ed's face, angled across the seat, looking out
at him. He had the semblance of a smile on his disheveled face.
	"Uh-huh"
	Ed laughed, good naturedly. "Don't worry Ol' Bud. It'll pass," he
stated, not with some authority. "Come on. Get back in. I'll get ya to the
dorm and a good shower will fix what ails ya."
	Phil gingerly, oh, so carefully edged himself back into the car and
closed the door. He winced at the sound of the crashing door, sending
another paroxysm of pain through his tender temples. The ride back to
Winona was interminable. Happily Ed was silent. Not having to talk and the
frequent gulping of mouthfuls of air help to calm his queasy, convulsing
stomach was all Phil could safely do.
	They arrived safely back to the dorm. After a hot shower and a
careful brushing of their teeth they climbed into their beds and quickly
fell to sleep. That was around 10:00 am on Saturday.
	Sunday morning Phil woke, soon after eight-thirty. He was thirsty,
more thirsty than he had ever remembered being. He threw back his bed
covers and swung his legs out of bed. It was only after his feet had
touched the cold floor of his dorm room that he realized that he was stark
nude. Phil always wore pajamas to bed. In part because his mother had
always provided him with pajamas, and in part because there was only one
bathroom in the Beyer house and that was downstairs off his parent's
room. He and his younger brother shared one of the two small upstairs
bedrooms, next to his sister, Ellen's room. There was always a sense of
decorum in the Beyer household, not prudery, so pajamas were the norm.
	His nudity slightly disturbed him. The secret flashed before his
eyes for a brief instant and was quickly repressed. Then after he recalled
yesterdays memories he remembered that he was too tired, too weary, too
sick to waste time and excess motion to put on his pajamas. He remembered
that after the ministrations of the shower he slipped hastily between his
covers, barely dry and sank into a fitful sleep.
	"I'm so thirsty," he thought as he reached for his terry cloth
bathrobe to cover himself. It was only then that he noticed that he didn't
have his usual morning 'piss-hard-on.'
	That had always been a condition of merriment and some good-humored
ribbing by Mark, his brother, younger by eight years. Especially when Phil
tried to hide it under his thin summer pajamas. A losing battle--hiding it
that is. It had even been mentioned by Ed in an equally good humored way on
more than one occasion. But, then Ed, too, had the same problem. That, Phil
had noted with equal good natured humor, and with Ed it was so obvious
since he slept "in the raw" as he liked to say.
	Phil padded across the hall to the dorm-section's bathroom, leaned
over the drinking fountain and drank his fill. Feeling some what better,
but still a little fragile, he returned to the room. As he quietly closed
the door he noticed that Ed was waking. He sat on the edge of his bed,
adjusting his robe.
	Ed sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stretched. "How're ya
feelin, Ol' Bud?" he asked good naturedly.
	"Fine, except I was so darn thirsty when I woke up. I drank like a
horse."
	Ed chuckled in understanding and further asked, "How's you
stomach?"
	"It's Okay. A little fragile, How come you don't get sick?"
	"Guess 'cause I didn't drink as much as you."
	"Uh," was the limit of Phil's reply.
	"I need some water too," Ed stated as he threw back his covers and
wrapped a towel around his waist. Then he too went to assuage his thirst.

	The "initiation," as the celebration and the resulting drunk became
known to the two, coupled with Phil's enlistment into the R.O.T.C.,
cemented even further the friendship that the first semester had
nurtured. Ed and Bill, two similar, yet two distinct individuals became
what euphemistically was called "fast friends." Yet the term did not
really, adequately describe the depth of their friendship. They were more
like brothers, close brothers. There was a bond of friendship, even love,
that all too rarely occurs. It was a friendship that bridged their
difference, and there were those--differences, that is. It was also a
friendship that complimented their individual characters and offered
undemanding acceptance. They were not uncritical, but their criticism was
handled in a non-judgmental way. The depth of their friendship was rare.
	Even when the were apart for long periods of time--during Christmas
vacation, summer vacation (except for the two weeks of "Summer
R.O.T.C. Camp")--they would write each other, infrequently, and even less
frequently phone each other. They were secure in each other's
friendship. After the separations they would "catch up" on each others
news: what they did, how much money they had saved, if they got drunk, what
girls they had "slept with," the usual stuff. These conversations often ran
into the wee hours of the morning. And, often as not, they would both fall
asleep with the room light blazing all night long.
	They even shared secrets. Once, after finals of their junior year,
when the extreme pressures were gone, they sat in their room and began to
talk. Soon their conversation began to become "serious." It was inevitable
and necessary that their friendship plumb all the depths. They were talking
about some of the "weird" things that had happen to them. After a lull in
the conversation, Phil asked, "What is the weirdest thing that's happened
to you?"
	It was a kind of a test. A test of their friendship. A tacit
understanding that this was a fork in the rode of their friendship. It was,
in a sense, an unusual condition for the two, so young. Yet implicitly both
knew the import. Neither at the time knew that few of their age group had
had the opportunity or the ability to develop such an association, nor that
fewer still had reached the 'fork-in-the-road,' the level of true, real,
all-encompassing friendship.
	Ed, paused, searched his friend's soul, accepted the challenge,
paused again and then confessed, "Once my cousin sucked me off."
	"A girl cousin?"
	"No, a guy cousin."
	"What?" Phil questioned, incredulously. This was not what he had
expected. Not from Ed. Ed was what is euphemistically called
'masculine'--six-foot-two, a hundred-eighty-five pounds,
football-player-type, girl friends--he was thoroughly masculine. Phil, not
ever having expected such a confession could only state, "Unbelievable!"
	Ed snorted, self-consciously, "Well, I was only fifteen. We went to
my uncle's farm near Wilmar for a weekend visit. I had to sleep with my
cousin. I guess he was about nineteen. He was going to the 'U.' " He looked
down at his folded hands, somewhat self-consciously, and continued, "Some
time, during the night, after I had gone to sleep, I had a sexy
dream. . . . Ya know, everybody has 'em. Well, it was so real. I woke up
and felt someone sucking my cock. It was Grant. By then I was close to
coming. . . and. . . I did."
	Ed glanced up at Phil. Phil was mesmerized. Ed said, as if to
expiate that act, "I pushed him away. Turned away from him. He tried to put
his arms around me. I pushed him away and I told him not to do that again
or I'd tell my folks. He never did it again." Ed returned his gaze to his
hands.
	"Jeeze, that is weird!" Phil said. Then his secret flashed before
his mind's eye. There was a brief silence between the two. Ed sat in
embarrassed reflection.
	Ed glanced up, "What about you?"
	The die was cast. "Well . . ." Phil paused in is silent
debate. Then acknowledging, mentally, the challenge to their association he
quietly confessed, "Once a pastor jacked me off."
	"Your kidding!!" Ed snorted in shocked disbelief.
	"No. . . no I'm not," replied Phil, and he related the story. Well,
most of it. . . . He didn't tell Ed of the pleasure he felt or the desire
to pass his eyes over the pastor's nude body.
	"Well, ol' Bud, that's really weird!" They both laughed. A laugh
that comes from relief. Another indissoluble block had been added to their
friendship.
	One thing is for sure, Phil and Ed's friendship was anything but
average.