Date: Tue, 23 Dec 2008 18:56:18 -0700
From: Roy <roynm@mac.com>
Subject: Owen - chapter 20 - Gay College Section

Owen

Chapter twenty

by Roy Reinikainen


Beatrice Carver eased the screen door closed and stepped out onto the
home's front porch.  It was late, and the house was finally quiet.
Jonathan was snoring, a symphony of sound which reverberated throughout the
house, Abigail had finished her homework and was now asleep, and she and
Opie had struggled through another chapter of her library book.
'Patience,' Beatrice thought with a tired sigh as she slowly sank onto the
hard seat of the rocking chair, 'is a virtue . . . or so I've heard.'  She
snorted a soft laugh.

Helping her youngest daughter learn to read was actually the least of the
reasons she was tired.  'Opie tries so hard, but things just don't come as
easily for her as they did for the others . . . especially Owen and Jonah.
*They* were always asking for more difficult books, complaining that the
ones at school were, "too easy."'

"Oh, my lovely boys," she murmured.  "I miss you both so badly."

Earlier in the evening, she had retreated to the bathroom, the only place
where she could have a moment of privacy, to read the Christmas cards,
Daniel . . ..'  She paused a moment and corrected herself.  'The Christmas
cards from both Owen and Jonah, which the *doctor* had brought me on his
brief visit.'

She rested her head against the high back of the wooden chair.  'Oh, if
only I had met a man like Daniel when I was younger,' she thought.  'My
life would surely have been so much different.'  She compressed her lips.
'But, then I wouldn't have my four lovely children.'  She stared out over
the moonlit fields.  'Four wonderful children . . . and the rest of my life
a portrait of misery.'

She had retreated to the bathroom, resting against the vanity as she
carefully opened Owen's card first.  It was simply addressed, "Mama."  Her
fingers shook as she wiped her watery eyes with a tissue.  Just holding
Owen's card had been an emotional experience.  It was a piece of him
. . . something he had touched . . . only a few days earlier.

"Dear Mama," the brief message began, in the carefully formed letters
typical of him.  "I'm sending this card to the doctor, and have asked him
to deliver it.  I miss you so much, Mama.  More than I ever thought
possible.  I miss your touch, your laughter, however infrequent, our
midnight conversations, your insight . . . and, of course, your cooking."
Beatrice's lower lip trembled as she continued.

"I find that the strangest things remind me of you.  I was visiting my
landlady, Mrs. Verner, in the hospital, and every time she brushed a strand
of hair away from her forehead, I thought of you and I about cried.

"My friend, Lucas, brought home an apple pie from the bakery the other day.
He served me a slice, along with a dish of vanilla ice cream.  A simple
thing, but I had to excuse myself so I could cry.  I *don't* cry, Mama, yet
it seems as if my emotions are raw all the time.  That day, as I ate some
of the pie Lucas brought home, I was thinking about the year we had so many
apples to harvest you were feeding us apple pie three meals a day.  I
remember you serving it with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream at dinner one
evening.  It was so wonderful . . . the ice cream, of course, but mostly
your pie.  Remember?"

Beatrice tilted her head back and sniffed, smiling as she recalled her
oldest son's prodigious appetite, especially for desserts.

"School is going well," he wrote.  "I'm working hard at the library, and
continue to live with my good friend, Lucas.  You'd like him, Mama.  He's
so kind and generous.  He's always smiling and laughing.  I call him
skinny.  He calls me the bottomless pit.  (He's referring to my love of
food.)  I wish you could meet him, Mama.  You'd like him.

"I miss you so much . . . you and Jonah and Abigail and Opie.  I wish I
could be there for Christmas so I could give you all a big hug.  I'd have
trouble letting any of you go.

"You know, I spent most of my life dreaming of getting away from Riverton.
Now, I spend a good bit of my time thinking how much I miss it.  I miss
you, Jonah, and the girls most, of course, but I'm also missing Sam.
Sometimes, it hurts - I miss everyone so much.

"Well, since I've about run out of space to write any more, I'd better
quit.  You have a good Christmas, Mama.  Find a time when you can give the
girls my best wishes, and my love.  I'm writing another card to Jonah.

"I love you, Mama.  More than I can express.

"Forever,

"Owen"

Beatrice had been so moved she had to lean on the bathroom vanity with her
elbows as sobs wracked her body.  It was as if a floodgate had been opened
and all the sadness within her was pouring out.  She clutched the simple
card to her breast; then slipped it back into its envelope, lest she stain
it with her tears.

Her hands shook as she gently opened Jonah's card.  Like his brothers, his
was a simple card of a Christmas tree surrounded by gifts.  'Something he
never had,' she thought in sadness.

"Merry Christmas, Mama," the card read.  "I wish things were different so
that I would be able to be with you at Christmas, but please know that,
even though I'm not with you, you are always in my thoughts.  I worry about
you and the girls, and hope that everything is going as well as possible.

"I feel guilty about not being there to help you all out.  The doctor has
volunteered to be a go-between, so if there's ever anything I can do for
you, or Abigail or Opie, please find a way to let him know.  Of course, you
can call Sam's too.  I'll help out however I might.  The doctor seems to be
a good man.  He and I have had a number of nice visits where we talk about
all sorts of things.  Our talks remind me of the talks you and I often had,
sitting out on the front porch after everyone had gone to bed.

"I miss those talks, Mama, just as I miss you.  You take care of yourself.
The doctor says you don't look too good.

"I'm wishing you a Merry Christmas, and am sending you my love.  I've
kissed the letter where I've signed my name.  Touch that spot and know that
I've kissed you, as well.

"Happiness, Mama.  Life is too short.  Each of us owes it to our self to
find whatever happiness we are able.

"Love,

"Jonah"

Beatrice slowly rocked the chair, resting her hands on the cards she held
in her apron pocket.  'I've got to have strength,' she told herself, not
for the first time.  'My boys have strength.  I must, as well.  Jonathan is
not necessary for me to live.  I *have* to do something before it's time
for spring planting.  He won't be able to handle the farm by himself, and I
won't have him ordering the girls out to the fields to do the work he and
the boys have always done.'  She clenched her fist.  'I *must* have the
strength to do . . . something.'

She looked up, at the sound of Jonathan calling her name, and sighed as she
pushed herself out of the chair.  "Coming, Jonathan," she called, hoping
she didn't wake the girls.  First though, she went to the kitchen and
placed the two Christmas cards in the container on the top shelf, where she
stored all her other precious possessions: a lock of each of each child's
hair, a few photos of them smiling, some crayon pictures each had drawn
when they were young, a lumpy green and yellow ashtray Owen had made when
he was in second grade.  She knew the contents by heart.

The two Christmas cards would be safe.  Jonathan never looked in the
kitchen cabinets.

"Coming," she called, after another grumbled shout from her husband.  She
closed and locked the living room door; then headed for the bedroom, all
the while telling her self she had to be strong.


----------


"You know," Lucas paused a moment, after swinging the apartment door open,
trying to balance two bags of groceries and his computer bag, surprising
the two men, hugging and kissing, in the living room.  He wasn't sure
whether he should be irritated or amused by how quickly Sam and Owen had
separated as the door to the apartment opened.  They now stood looking like
two schoolboys who were trying to convince a teacher that they were
innocent of anything and everything the teacher might accuse them of.

Lucas pushed the door closed with his foot, releasing his bag into Owen's
waiting grasp.  He smiled his thanks and headed for the kitchen, trailed by
Sam and Owen.

Once the groceries had been set down, he rested his hands on the cold
granite slab of the counter.  Owen shifted from one foot to the other,
while Sam stood slightly behind Owen, looking equally serious.  Owen's
alabaster skin was almost luminous, a faint pink coloring his cheeks.  The
faint sprinkling of freckles on his nose, which Lucas loved so much, caused
him to smile.  Sam's suntanned skin shone a healthy brown glow beneath his
hair, which had finally, through the graces of a hot shower, been allowed
to relax.  Even so, it seemed to have a life of its own, shifting with
every motion Sam made.  Both men's lips were puffy from over use, and
neither appeared to have slept very well.

"You know," Lucas repeated, anxious to make sure Sam and Owen both were
paying attention, "there is no need for the two of you to freak every time
I come into the room."  He smiled, trying to take any sting out of his
words.  "You're acting as if you're doing something wrong by wanting to
hug."  He looked closely.  "Hell, I hope you did more than hug while I was
gone!"  He turned, as if to head toward the bedroom to check out whether
the bed had been slept in, but stopped at a slight sound.  He turned to
Owen, with an inquiring look.

"The room's a mess."  Owen murmured, the pink tint of his cheeks darkening.
"If it makes you feel any better, about all we have been doin' is
. . . touching."

"Fucking," Sam added in a low voice, his glance flicking from Owen to
Lucas.  "He means fucking, but is too cowardly to say the word."  He nudged
Owen with his hip, in mild rebuke.

"We've done other things too," Owen muttered, bowing his head slightly.

"Well, I should hope so!" Lucas laughed.  "You love one another.  You've
been apart for months.  I'm glad you've been enjoying yourselves, and
whenever I'm home you can still at least . . . hold hands . . . in my
presence."  He looked from beneath lower lids and grinned.  "If you choose
to do more, I can handle it." His grin grew to a smile as he returned to
the kitchen counter and began emptying the bags of groceries.

"It's just . . ." Owen began, causing Lucas to stop and look up, when he
didn't continue.

"It's just, we don't want to do anything which would cause you pain."  He
hurriedly continued.  "You've done so much for both of us . . ." He
hesitated, not knowing how to continue.

"We don't want you to feel any worse than you already must, havin' me here,
n'all," Sam finished.  Owen mutely nodded agreement.

Lucas shook his head in exasperation.  "Guys, if I felt I was going to be
hurt by seeing you two together, I wouldn't have asked Sam out for a
visit."  Lucas knew, just as did Owen and Sam, that the statement wasn't
entirely true.

"But you . . . care for Owen."

"Say what you mean, Sam.  I love Owen, just as you do."  Sam bowed his
head, while Owen chewed on his lower lip.  "But," Lucas continued, "I also
know that Owen does not love me."  He held out a restraining hand to
prevent Owen from saying anything.  "He cares for me a great deal, but he
doesn't love me, not as he does you.  I know that.  He's always told me
that . . . no matter what . . . he would never stop loving you."  Lucas
looked away for a moment as Sam took Owen's hand.

"I may not . . . like it, but how he feels is no surprise.  The whole
. . . situation . . . is as difficult for me as it is for you.  Still, I
can live with it."  He looked at Sam.  "The thing you have to figure out is
if *you* can live with how *I* feel about him."  Lucas grinned, turning to
Owen, who was turning his head from one man to the other, his mouth open
slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't quite figure out
what.

"Sorry, Cowboy," Lucas smiled.  "We're talking as if you're not in the
room."

Sam smiled broadly, turning to Owen.  "Cowboy?"


----------


Abigail slowly looked around the corner into the living room where her
mother sat knitting a sweater and slowly rocking in the family heirloom
rocking chair.  Bea looked up and smiled.  'She's lost so much weight,'
Abigail thought.  'Pops is doing this to her.  Not having Jonah and Owen
here doesn't help, either.'

"C'mere, dear," Bea said, in voice that only hinted at her once
laughter-filled voice.  "I want to tell you something."  She lowered her
voice.  "Is your father nearby?"

Abigail shook her head.  "No, he's gone off to town."  She sat on the sofa
and curled her feet beneath her, idly toying with a stray length of yarn as
she watched her mother continue to knit.  'She must be making a sweater for
Owen,' Abigail thought.  'That's his favorite shade of blue.'

"The doctor delivered two Christmas cards, one from both of your brothers."

"Owen?" Abigail asked, leaning forward, the stray strand of yarn forgotten.
"Is he okay?  Is he still living with his friend?  Will he be able to visit
soon?"  She sank back into the cushions of the sofa and seemed to deflate.
"I miss him, Mama, and Jonah too, but probably, I miss Owen more.  He's
been away longer."  She sighed.  "I miss 'em both, real bad."

"Me too, dear," Bea answered, tenderly resting a hand on her daughter's
arm.  "Both boys send their love to you and Opie.  They're both doing well.
Owen's still staying with his friend, Lucas.  The doctor told me that Sam's
gone to visit, for Christmas, 'cause Owen's been feeling bad since his
place burned down."  She sighed.  "I wouldn't expect him to come home any
earlier than when school's out, next summer, and then only if he can afford
it."

"Why's everything have to be the way it is, Mama?  So . . . much of a mess
. . . no one happy, everyone having to walk on pins and needles, afraid to
say anything?"

"I can't answer that, Sweetheart, but I've 'bout reached a point where the
three of us women, you, Opie, and me are gonna be leaving it all behind.
Things . . . have got to be better someplace else."  Bea stared into the
distance, imagining a place where she could hear her children laugh.

"That's what Owen thought, Mama.  That life had to be better
. . . someplace else."  Abigail paused a moment, lost in thought.  "I
wonder if he still thinks so."

Beatrice recalled her son saying how much he missed Riverton, and wondered
if she, too, would find life elsewhere, not what she hoped.  'Can that be
why I'm avoiding making a decision?' she thought.  'At least, I *know* what
to expect here.'  She looked out through the living room window to the
trees beyond, imagining another place . . . any place.  'Out there
. . . somewhere . . . I'm not sure what life would be like.'  She shook her
head.  'Coward!' she chided herself with a crooked smile, as Abigail looked
up, her attention drawn by the slight motion of her mother's head.


----------


Sam pointed to the clothes he would be wearing to Lucas' parents house for
Christmas dinner.  "Y'sure I'll look okay?  I mean . . . they're rich.
Everything'll be all fancy."

"We'll be fine," Owen grinned, sitting on the edge of the rumpled bed and
patting the white sheets at his side.  Sam, naked and still warm from the
shower, looked younger than his nineteen years.  Like Lucas, he was
slender, with dark hair, a ready smile, and laughing eyes.  At the moment,
his penis hung limp, arching out over his full scrotum, the same as Lucas'.
The thought caused Owen pause.  'Do I feel what I do for Lucas, because he
resembles Sam?'  He blinked, banishing the thought, to be considered at a
later time.

"I was afraid, the first time *I* went over there," Owen explained, hoping
to ease Sam's fears, but Lucas' folks are nice people, as is his sister,
Allison.  You'll be fine.  They're real down-to-earth, and won't do
anything to make either of us feel like we're dumb country-boys."  Sam's
mouth twisted into a crooked smile as he leaned closer and snaked an arm
around Owen's naked waist, resting his head on Owen's shoulder.

The photograph of him and Owen was propped up on the nightstand at the
bed's side.

"I'm glad you still have that photograph I gave you . . . the one with us
standing in front of the bandstand last Independence Day," he murmured,
close to Owen's ear.  He glanced toward the bedroom windows, and beyond,
where the wind had died, leaving behind slowly falling snow, which seemed
to be illuminated by the lights of the nearby high-rise buildings and
streetlights.  Sam brought Owen's hand to his lips and gently kissed the
smooth skin.

"It's all I've had of you," Owen murmured.  "There were times, that picture
helped me keep my sanity.  It has been a tie, back to you, and to Riverton
. . . everything I've known all my life.  It's important for lots of
reasons, but mostly 'cause of you.  You've always made me feel good."

"Me, the photo, and Lucas."  Sam could feel Owen nod once.  "Yeah, I
guess."  Both men lapsed into silence.

Sam took a deep breath.  Now was the time to tell Owen about him and Jonah.
"I've had some personal dealings with helping someone else maintain their
sanity and sense of self-worth."

"Oh?"  He could feel Owen shift, his long fingers tightening slightly as
they linked with his.

"I've got to tell you that I've learned a lot about your family while
you've been gone."  Owen became deathly silent.  His breathing seemed to
have stopped as he waited to hear what Sam might have to say.  "I've
learned how you were beaten . . . sometimes because of your dealings with
me."  Owen's grip loosened; he heaved a rough sigh, but remained silent and
didn't pull away.

"I've learned how you refused to let your father see you cry, and how Jonah
doctored you, and held you . . . like I'm holdin' you, now."  He could hear
Owen swallow.

"Jonah . . . he told you these things?  Why?"

Sam nodded once, focusing on the snowflakes outside the darkened room.
"Jonah was hurting, too, Owen.  We began talking about you, and before
long, he was tellin' me things I'm pretty sure he never told anyone else,
not even you.  He was in pain and had nowhere to turn.  I don't really
believe he intended to turn to me, but I happened to be there, and he was
in need."

"Oh," Owen murmured.  "Is Jonah okay?  Pops isn't beatin' him or anything,
is he?"

"No, your father isn't beating him, though there are other ways than
beating to abuse someone.  Both you and Jonah were abused, you know?  Both
of you are still hurting because of what was done to you."

"But . . . is he okay?"

Sam nodded.  "Owen."  He took a deep breath.  Now that he'd gone this far,
he needed to finish what he had to say.  "You and Lucas have been living
together, giving support to one another."  Owen nodded.  "Well, your father
threw Jonah out of the house."

"What?"  Sam placed a restraining hand on Owen's forearm, preventing him
from standing.  "Shh.  He's okay.  Jonah came to live with me."

The two men sat in silence for a few moments; then Owen slowly stood.  He
inhaled deeply; then exhaled slowly as he began to wander aimlessly around
the bedroom.  "That bastard," he muttered.  "It's not enough that he gets a
kick out 'a abusin' me and Mama; he now has to start-in on Jonah."  Owen
continued his pacing, ending at the large window overlooking the park.

He threw up his arms.  "Fuck!" he shouted, at the top of his lungs,
dropping his arms to his side as he pivoted to face Sam.

"I . . . I . . . always thought that . . . somewhere . . . deep inside that
man, that there was some little bit of goodness.  I was blind, Sam
. . . blind!"  He ran his fingers through his hair.  "What could I have
been thinking?  I've always wished with all my heart that, if I tried hard
enough, if I did everything he asked, that he might come to love me."

He threw his arms out again, a sign of his helplessness, as he pivoted back
toward the window.  "I was so damned caught up in wishin' things for myself
that I never even . . . considered . . . that he might *not* have that
kernel of goodness buried somewhere inside.  I knew he was treatin' Mama
bad . . ."

Owen flopped onto a chair, absently hooking one leg over an arm of the
chair and looking both disconsolate and angry in equal measure.  "Damn," he
muttered to himself.  Sam watched as a muscle jumped in Owen's jaw.  "I've
been a fool."  He looked toward Sam, still sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I've been a *fool*!" Owen shouted, heaving himself out of the chair.  He
crossed the room to stand before the window, seeming to take comfort in the
slowly falling snow.

"Well, no more," he vowed.  "That man can rot in hell, as far as I'm
concerned.  I'm done with him!"  He turned back to Sam.

"But, Jonah!"

Owen crossed the room and sat down on the bed, looking into Sam's eyes.
"Jonah's okay?  Y'sure?  That man hasn't been beatin' him, or anything?"

'That man,' Sam thought to himself.  'Not, Pops.'

He shook his head and freed himself from Owen's grasp, taking his friend's
hands and trying to radiate a sense of calm.  "Jonah's okay.  He was
hurting in a different way than you.  Y' see, he didn't even *realize* he
was hurting.  He thought that *you* were the only one, and your Mama, of
course."

"Mama," Owen's eyes widened.  "Mama's doin' okay?  Don't hide the truth
from me Sam," he warned.  "Is Mama okay?  She sounded all worn out when I
spoke to her at Thanksgiving.  I sent her a Christmas card, but I haven't
talked to her."

"You bein' gone, and now Jonah . . .  it's been hard on her.  She's
somethin' like you, Owen . . . afraid to admit that *that man*, as you call
him, is not the man she married.  I'm assuming she loved him, once.  It's
plain to see that, now, she's not in love; she's more afraid of him than
anything."

"Afraid?"

Sam nodded, bowing his head.  "Jonah says that he thinks she's just waitin'
for your father to beat her.  Doctor Johnson has been lookin' in on her,
tryin' to find ways he can help out."

Owen nodded.  "Jonah told me, in one of his letters, to send the doctor
anything I wanted Mama to have.  That's what I did with my Christmas card."

"Jonah gave his card to the doc, too."

"But, Jonah's okay?  Truly?"

Sam nodded.  "Yes, in fact, he's probably better now than he's ever been in
his whole life."  Sam linked fingers with Owen.  "Jonah's still doin'
really well in school.  He's working with the McKenzie's, to help out both
on their farm and on my folks'.  He's vowed not to go back to help
. . . your father, but since it's winter, that hasn't been an issue yet."
Sam grinned.  "Jonah's just itching for it to be spring so he can begin
planting things.  He's always tellin' me that he wishes he could grow
things year-round.

"Owen," Sam said, tightening his fingers.  "The two of us . . . he and I
. . . are like you and Lucas.  Jonah needed me to tell him that he is a
good person, that he is worthy of being loved, and being cared for.

"Owen, we've slept together.  We've had sex."

"Oh."  The room seemed hushed.  Even the traffic noise, already muffled by
the snow, seemed subdued even further.  Sam waited for a reaction; then
went on.

"I told him not to develop feelings for me, because you already have my
heart.  I told him I can only give it away once, and that I'd done that
with you when we were fourteen, that first time in our meadow.  Remember?"

"Jonah's gay?"

"I don't really know if *he* knows what he is.  What he *is*, is desperate
for affection, to be held and told that he's a good person.  He needs
someone to listen to him, to be gentle with him.  He's a fragile person
. . . just like you."

"And . . . has he . . . fallen in love with you."

Sam tried to shrug.  "He's fallen deeply in *like* with me, and I feel the
same about him.  I can say that I care for him deeply because he is your
brother, and because he is a wonderful person.  I love hearing him laugh.
And yes, I have enjoyed the nights we've shared together."  He tightened
his grip on Owen's hand.  "I've enjoyed those times, but that doesn't mean
I love him.  Not like you, at least.  If things were different, I *could*.
But, things aren't different, and I can't.  I love you.  End of story."

One corner of Owen's mouth twisted into a crooked grin.  "I don't recall
ever hearin' Jonah laugh."

"Well, he does now," Sam chuckled.  "Sometimes, he seems almost drunk with
laughing.  It's like he's lettin' it all out."  Sam paused, wondering if he
should continue.

"Owen, I think he's feelin' good and laughing because he feels *free* of
your father . . . something you still haven't accomplished, even with the
realization of what sort of man he really is.  Jonah's somehow been able to
cut the ties to the man."  He leaned closer, welcoming the warmth of Owen's
naked body.  "I don't really know what it'll take for you to cut *your*
ties."

"You saw me a minute ago, Sam.  You don't think I've cut the ties, as you
say?"  Sam leaned his head against Owen's shoulder.  "No.  You've *begun*
to make the split with him, but you haven't yet.  You'll know when you
have."  He smiled.  "You'll probably begin actin' all silly, laughing and
stuff."  He chuckled.  "Then, I'll have *two* laughing men on my hands."

"So, you really do understand about Lucas and me?" Owen flopped onto his
back, relief radiating from him in waves, any thoughts about his father
pushed aside to be dealt with at a later time.  "You have no idea how I've
worried if I was doin' the right thing, if I'd be hurting you by being with
Lucas.  I haven't hurt you, have I?"

Sam rolled onto his belly, halfway across Owen.  "No, you haven't hurt me.
I would be upset if you and Lucas had never gotten together, because you
were afraid of hurting me."  He scooted upward until he could look into
Owen's eyes.

"Damn, you're sexy."  He pushed one of Owen's arms over his head and
nuzzled the blond hair in the armpit.  "You smell good too."

"Things . . . haven't gotten too complicated for you?  I mean *our*
relationship has always run pretty smoothly, but now we've sorta brought
Jonah and Lucas on board."

"Complicated, yes, but you're wrong about one thing."

The corners of Owen's eyes crinkled, and his mouth curved into a bemused
smile as Sam teased one of his nipples with his tongue.  "And, what am I
wrong about?" he asked, running his fingers through Sam's hair.

"I'm only having a relationship with *one* person - you.  Lucas and Jonah
will sort themselves out."


----------


"Ohh, Bail," Corey exhaled, sinking into the cushions of a tattered
armchair in his apartment's living room, his bare legs sprawled in front of
him.  Bailey sat on a bar stool, marveling both at the nearly naked man
sitting only a few feet away, and at the changes in himself.  He wondered
if Lucas or Owen would recognize him, or realize how instrumental they had
been in his transformation.  Of course, Corey was mostly responsible.  The
man who seemed so carefree was now suffering a bout of insecurity, faced
with meeting Bailey's parents for Christmas dinner.

Bailey's brown loafers, not the most reasonable footwear for winter, were
far less formal than what he would have chosen in the past, but they, along
with the rest of Bailey's outfit, would be more in keeping with the clothes
Corey had at his disposal.

Bailey amazed himself.  'I've never cared about the feelings of another
person, before meeting Corey.  In fact, I'd have purposely over-dressed for
whatever occasion I was to attend.  Now, all I want is to make Corey feel
comfortable.  I want him to be happy.'  He amended his statement.  'I still
want to look good, of course.  I just don't want to stand out; a peacock
among a . . . flock . . . of perfectly respectable . . . chickens.'  The
barnyard allusion was also new, courtesy of Corey.  He grinned, having
momentarily forgotten the distressed man who was now pacing to and fro
across the room.

"I swear!"  Corey took a deep breath, turning toward Bailey.  "I'm going to
hyperventilate and screw things up for you.  Your folks are probably all
set to question me about my childhood."  He made a face, reflecting a past,
which did not appear to have been as happy as Bailey would have thought.
After only a moment, the sad look disappeared.  "I know my folks . . ." He
paused, cleared his throat, and continued.  "Southern folks would do the
same to you.  They'd know everything about you before you even realized it
was happening."  He flopped onto the forlorn sofa and rested his head
against the back cushion, then suddenly sat up, this time a stricken look
on his handsome face, his voice rising.

"Oh damn!  Some ancestor of mine probably killed one of yours in the War,
or something!"  He flopped back onto the sofa, his bare legs stretching in
front of him.  "I *knew* something would go wrong!"

"What war?"  Bailey hooked the heels of his loafers on the bottom rung of
the barstool's support and looked on, half amused at the show being played
out in front of him.

"The *Civil War*, for pity's sake!  That's *the* war to us Southerners!
And here you are, as Northern as they come.  My great-great granddaddy is
spinning in his grave, as we speak, just 'cause I'm talking to you!

"And there's my *accent*!"  He covered his eyes.

"I'm dead meat.  Your parents are gonna hate me . . . a Southern boy
. . . a *working class* Southern boy, falling for their one-and-only son!
What'll we talk about?"  He grimaced.  "I'll be as interesting to them as a
pocket on the *back* of a shirt!"

He raised one bare arm, exposing the dark hair of an armpit, and sniffed.
"I probably smell bad, too!

"Bail!" he wailed, raising his arms high, then letting them fall limp at
his sides.  "I can't do it!  Don't make me . . . please!"

Bailey heaved himself off of the barstool.  "Corey, you're worrying
yourself sick over nothing.  Believe me," he laughed, intercepting the
worried man during his next transit across the room.  He nuzzled Corey's
armpit.

"I love the way you smell.  All clean," he added, quickly.  "I love your
accent, and your stories."  He kissed Corey's neck.  "I think you're an
extremely sexy man."

Corey snorted.  "My willy has to be flapping in the breeze before anyone
could possibly call me sexy, and trust me, Bail, I am *not* planning on
getting nekkid in front of your parents."  The corners of his mouth
twitched, amused by the thought.  "I only let Big Ben out for you."

"Big Ben?"  As usual, Bailey was finding it difficult to keep up.  Corey
waved the question aside as another thought struck him, causing him to
cover his eyes.

"Ah geez.  I've corrupted their boy with my kinky ways."  He pivoted,
turning his back on Bailey, the muscles of his buttocks flexing beneath the
stretched fabric of his white underwear.  "They're gonna hate me!"  He
looked over his shoulder in alarm.  "You haven't told them about stuff we
do, have you?"

"What?  Of course not!"

"Well, I don't know what to expect," Corey responded, seeming slightly
relieved.  "My grandmama, Luella-May.  You remember her?  She's the one who
dances?  Well, when she started getting senile, she went through a horny
teenage phase.  'Bout embarrassed my sisters' boyfriends to death.

"How big's your pecker, boy?" she'd ask, in her grandmotherly voice."  It
was all Bailey could manage, not to burst out laughing at Corey's rendition
of his grandmother's question, complete with high-pitched voice.

"My folks aren't likely to ask you that question, I assure you," Bailey
managed to say, without laughing.  "At least not at Christmas dinner."

"Oh geez.  Dinner!  I won't know which fork to use!  You probably use all
sorts of extra, fancy utensils I've never heard of.  And, if I have any
wine, I get horny; so no wine," he moaned, holding out a hand in warning.
"Hell, I tried to pick up a waitress once, after having one beer.
*Imagine*!  Me picking up a woman!  She didn't have very big boobs, so I
tell people that's my excuse," he added, in an aside.  "She would have been
a half-decent looking guy," he mused, half to himself.  "But . . . a
woman!"  He shuddered.  "Remember . . . no wine.  None!

"Water's good though," he continued.  "Nothing happens if I stick to
drinking water.  But, you'll have fancy glasses, of crystal or something.
I'll probably drop one!  Oh, your parents will hate me for breaking their
good dishes.

"Let's call and tell 'em I've contracted malaria, or something that's
really catchy."

"It's winter, Corey." Bailey shook his head, amazed at the depth of his
friend's discomfort.  "You need mosquitoes for malaria."

"Frostbite, then.  I've frostbitten my toes and can't walk.  Tell 'em I'm
dumb as a stump.  I went out in the icy weather for a barefoot walk through
the park.  They'll believe that.  After all, I'm from the South.  We're all
one can short of a six-pack.  Besides, someone in my family probably killed
someone in yours.  That's it!  Frostbite!  That's the excuse we'll give
'em."  He paused.  "My poor toes," he groaned, glancing toward his feet
where he wiggled his toes, almost as if he were checking to see that they
weren't frostbitten.  "Most likely the poor boy'll lose 'em all, then he'll
never be able to meet the family."

"Okay, Corey."  Bailey threw him his heavy knit turtleneck sweater.  "Get
dressed and stop talking.  You've just given a performance of a lifetime.
Now, it's time to get dressed.  Your toes are fine.  You *smell* fine.  You
won't break anything.  We won't give you wine.  We won't ask if I have any
relative who fought in the Civil War.  We won't tell them I love licking
your asshole, and I swear I won't tell them about Big Ben.  So, get
dressed.  My parents will love you as much as I do, so quit worrying."

Corey paused, the sweater hanging about his shoulders.

"You love me?  How can you?  Do you really?"  He paused.  "You *do*?"  His
throat seemed to tighten, as he sank to a dining room chair, his sweater
only half on.  "A guy says he loves me, and he *means* it.  A Northern boy
loves me!"  He smiled.  "And he's a top man, too!  *Aaand* he's handsome,
with a beautiful smile, and he's learning to relax and laugh."  Corey
sighed.  "I am so lucky!"

He looked up suddenly, concerned at Bailey's silence.

"Bail," he asked, stepping close, and resting a bare arm across the quiet
man's shoulders, while the sweater twisted to cover a portion of his chest,
and the other arm.  "What's wrong?"

Bailey swallowed in a tight throat, then smiled.  "You never once
. . . just now . . . mentioned money, or my car, or clothes, or anything
I've always thought of as important.  You . . . you said you like things
about *me*, not things I possess."  He gulped a breath of air.

"Of *course* I'd be talking about you.  Those other things are nice, but
they don't mean much to me.  I've never had enough money to have a fancy
car, or stylish clothes and stuff, but when the man I care for smiles and
laughs, *that's* what makes me feel good about the world."  He rubbed a
hand over Bailey's shoulders.

"You've gone most of your life not realizing what's really important, Bail.
Believe me, I know what that's like.  Sometime, I'm gonna have to tell
. . ."  He paused, compressed his lips, and gave a slight shake of his
head, then wiped a finger over one of Bailey's cheeks.  "Poor Bail," he
murmured.  "No one's ever loved you for yourself, have they?"


----------


"Maxine, leave me alone!" Jonathan groused, giving the approaching woman a
scowl guaranteed to send anyone running.  Not Maxine.  She seemed oblivious
to the angry cloud hanging around the man who was swiftly walking down the
sidewalk.  "I said I don't want to talk to you," Jonathan repeated, looking
straight ahead.

"Well, it don't matter," Maxine responded, still not deterred.  "I'm just
tryin' to be a good neighbor 'n all.  Y'know, concerned about the boy,
Jonah, shackin'-up with that good-for-nothin' Bridgers boy, Sam.  Y'know,
it's not healthy for two young men to be livin' together."  Maxine puffed
on her cigarette, then coughed, blinking a couple times when Jonathan
stopped walking and turned to her.

"What Jonah does or does not do is no concern of yours . . . Maxine, or
mine neither.  He is on his own, so neither of us has any business meddlin'
in his affairs."  He lowered his voice.  "Do you understand me?  Stay out
of my family's business, woman."  He glanced at a passer-by who was doing
her best to ignore the two people standing in the middle of the sidewalk.
"Most everyone else in this dirt-heap of a town would say the same thing,
if they had the nerve, or if they thought you might listen," Jonathan
finished.  "So . . . go away and bother someone else."

"Jonathan!" Maxine huffed, at a loss for words.

"That's my name, now quit followin' me; quit spreadin' rumors about my wife
and my son.  Just . . . just . . . *quit*, Maxine.  I don't want to see
your skinny carcass."  He made a shooing motion with a hand, dismissing her
as he turned and continued down the sidewalk, leaving her behind, wondering
what had just happened.


----------


"Hey!" Sam giggled, quietly, jumping as Owen crawled up behind him and
kissed his bare buttocks.  He batted Owen's hand away.  "We're supposed to
be getting ready for the big dinner at Lucas' folks' place, y'know; not
fooling around in the bathroom.  Besides, the shower's running, cloudin'
the place up.  We'll be all shriveley, or somethin'!  Besides, Lucas might
come home."

Owen continued to crawl forward, making low animal-like sounds, as he
nuzzled Sam's scrotum, backing the giggling man against the glass shower
door.

"Shoot in my mouth, Sammy," Owen begged, sitting back on his haunches and
opening his mouth, making puppy-dog eyes at the naked man in front of him.
Let me taste your sperm.  Piss on me.  I wanna be covered in Sam."  He
nuzzled the hairless scrotum, after briefly sucking on Sam's growing
erection.

"Y'sure?  Piss?"

"And sperm," Owen answered, crawling into the shower and waiting, still on
his knees.  "C'mon!  I've never done this kinda thing before, but I'm
getting all hot, thinking about feelin' your piss splashin' against my
skin."  He rubbed one hand across his bare chest and began playing with
himself with the other.

"You're hot 'cause of the hot water of the shower," Sam laughed, stepping
into the large enclosure.  He stood in front of Owen, spreading his feet
wide and began to slowly masturbate himself.

Owen reached behind himself and began fingering his exposed butt hole.  He
glanced at Sam.  "I swear, I can still feel some of the load you left in my
hole earlier this morning."  He removed his finger, then sucked on it,
making lewd slurping sounds, loud enough to be heard over the sound of the
splashing water.

"Not possible," Sam answered, in a shaky voice.  Seeing Owen, on his knees
begging, less than a foot away, was more exciting than he would have
imagined.  "It's not possible, 'cause I sucked it all out.  Remember?" he
asked.  Owen smiled.

"Yeah, sure tasted good, too.  Nothin' like tastin' second-hand sperm."  He
licked his lips.  "'Course, tastin' it directly from the source is good,
too," he added, leaning forward and attempting to suck in, first, one of
Sam's testicles, then the other.

"C'mon, Sammy," he urged, masturbating himself furiously.  "Lemme taste
it."  He held out his tongue.  He knew Sam was as close to an orgasm as was
he.  When they were together, it never took either one long to climax.
"Gimme your stuff," he begged.

Sam rested the head of his cock on Owen's extended tongue and stroked a
couple more times.  The first blast of jiz, when it came, was so forceful
it caused Owen to flinch in surprise.  Sam saw him swallow.  The second
shot coated Owen's tongue and began to slide off the tip, as Owen's own
orgasm washed over him.

Sam felt Owen's sperm splash against his ankle; then watched as a second
spray landed on his foot with a hot splat.  Owen immediately leaned forward
and began licking Sam's leg and foot, slurping up his own sperm while
licking across Sam's toes.

"Still want my piss?" he asked, holding onto his softening penis.  Owen
nodded and made an encouraging sound, continuing to lick Sam's bare foot.

Sam tried to relax; something not easily done with Owen licking his foot.
'I wonder what inspired him to *this*,' Sam wondered, as his flow began,
washing across Owen's bare back and hair.

"Holy . . ." Owen smiled brightly, when Sam was finished, once again
resting on his haunches and licking his lips.  "That was so great."  He ran
his fingers through his soaked hair, then licked it.  "You taste 'bout as
good as you look," he grinned.  "We gotta do some *more* of that," he
grinned, accepting Sam's hand to help him stand.  "Though maybe next time I
should use knee pads or somethin'."  He grinned, as he pulled Sam close,
wrapping him in an embrace.

"My wonderful friend," he murmured, alternately kissing and licking Sam's
neck and face.  "My Sammy.  You are so incredibly exciting."

"Y'know something?" Sam managed to say between kisses.  Owen silently shook
his head, which was now buried in Sam's armpit.  "I really do hate to break
this up, but we have to shower and dress, yet, and I have to use some of
that gel-stuff to make my hair stand up."

"I bet *I* can make something stand up," Owen teased, tenderly fondling
Sam's limp cock.  He wiggled his eyebrows, his white teeth flashing.

"You already have . . . twice . . . this morning alone.  Do you want Lucas
to come back and find us frolicking on the floor of his bathroom?"

"Don'care," Owen mumbled, while sucking on one of Sam's nipples.  "I'm
makin' up for lost time," he added.  "And fulfillin' my fantasies."

Sam gently pushed Owen away.  He reached for the bottle of bath wash and
squirted some onto Owen.  "Well, Lucas might not mind, but I'm sure his
folks' will be put-out if I show up with limp hair with you standin' next
to me smellin' of piss."

They both turned as Lucas opened the door and shouted.  "Aren't you guys
done yet?"

"Hey, Lucas," Owen shouted, beginning to scrub at himself with a foamy
sponge.  "You're gonna have to show Sam how to make his hair stand up."

"I thought seeing you naked might do that," Lucas laughed, dodging the
foamy sponge.

"I can make other things of Sam's stand up, but *you're* gonna have to work
on his hair.  We wanna look all pretty for your folks."

"Yeah, well hurry up with the shower.  I'll get your clothes."

"I wanna wear the black turtleneck," Owen shouted over the sound of the
water.

"It makes you look like a reanimated corpse," Lucas shouted.  "You're so
pale."

"I'm blond!" Owen shouted.  "All blonds are pale.  Huh, Sam?"

Sam merely shrugged and smiled, intrigued by the interaction of the two
men.  It was surprising, though, how much a simple change of how Owen said
his name meant.  'When Lucas, or anyone else is around, I'm Sam.  But, when
we're making love, I'm Sammy.'  He sighed.  'I love it.'


~ to be continued ~


Thank you for taking the time to read my work.  I *always* welcome your
email and enjoy hearing your thoughts.  If you would like me to send you a
pic of the character(s), please ask.

My other stories on Nifty include:
Phalen  (located in the Gay College Section)
Phalen - Finding Happiness   (Gay College Section)
Phalen - Reputation and Honor (upcoming)
Chris   (Gay College Section)
Leith   (Gay College Section)
Owen   (Gay College Section
Wesley   (Adult Relationships Section)
Jess (Gay Incest Section)
Travis (Gay Incest Section)

I hope you enjoy them all.


Roy Reinikainen
roynm@mac.com