Date: Sun, 19 Dec 1999 14:05:04 EST
From: Theatre83@aol.com
Subject: ALL FALL DOWN, Prologue / Chapter 1

                DISCLAIMER: The usual disclaimer applies...

                NOTE: This work is complete fiction; characters, events,
places, et cetera, are all fictious and come from my imagination.  Thank you.

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                                ALL FALL DOWN
                                        by: Jes

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PROLOGUE.

    I now reside in a two-story Victorian house, restored by myself and my
dear friend Shelly.  I am twenty-two years old and live in this house by
myself with my dog, Rosie.  I have never told this story to anyone except
Officer Manton of the Turnerville Police Department, and he swore on his
mother's good name not to tell either.  The case was never taken to court; it
was settled outside of court, thankfully, where attention could not be drawn
to it.  I haven't spoken with Officer Manton in several years...I received a
letter from his wife, who also knows about the incident, now that I think
about it, telling me that he had been shot in the chest while performing a
routine stop outside of the Wray Township...I haven't heard from Officer
Manton, or his wife, since her last letter, and I have been to afraid to
write back fearing the worst may have happened.  Inside I know that he has
died, and that his wife hasn't written me to tell me.  I should check up on
it.
    But now I am telling you the story, in complete detail; I shall hold back
no secrets, nor will I "soften" any parts of the story to make it more
pleasing.  This is my story.


ONE.

    Simon looked into my eyes as he drew his card hand closer to his face.
"Got any Queens?"  He smiled slyly at me, seeing if I had caught the pun
intended with his question.
    "Other than you, no," I said.  "Go fish."  He drew a card from the pile.
    "Fuck," he said quickly in a harsh rasping whisper.
    "Got any Threes?"
    "Damn.  How'd you know?"  He handed me two cards and I added them to my
two and placed them face down on the table.  "I'm tired of playing," Simon
breathed.
    "You're only tired because you're losing.  If you were winning, you'd
want to play until the very end."
    "That's not true."
    "Simon, I know you...It's true."
    "So what if it is?"  He leaned forward over the table and placed his
forehead against mine.  We stared into each other's eyes.  Slowly we leaned
in and our lips pressed together.
    "I love you," I said.
    "I love you, too," he replied, kissing me again.
    I had met Simon at school; he sat next to me in Algebra II.  We passed
notes back and forth to each other, and our sexuality just seemed to come
up...We both came out to each other and both confessed that we had had
crushes on each other for some time now.
    His hand came and cradled my head, and our tongues wrestled with each
other; he let out a soft moan as my hand slid down his back and up again.
    A door opened downstairs: "I'm home!"  It was my mother, home from
shopping at the local supermarket.  "Come help me, boys!"
    My mother knew that I was gay; she also knew that Simon was my boyfriend.
 Simon lived in my house; his parents, when they discovered that he was a
homosexual, kicked him out and told him to never show his face in their
neighborhood again -- he was dead to the family.  So, he came to live with
us, where my open-minded mother instantly agreed and hugged Simon, crying; he
was a part of the family, now.
    "What'd you get good?"  I asked, racing down the stairs and into the
kitchen where my mother was unloading the brown paper bags.
    "Oatmeal pies for Simon, Kraft _Cheese_ and Macceroni for you," she said.
 Since I was little, I've always called macceroni and cheese cheese and
macceroni; why?  I don't know.  I always have, and I haven't changed yet.
    "Great!" Simon cried.  He secretly opened a box and took one out.
    "Hey," I said, going over to him and wrapping my arms around him.  "Those
are for after dinner."
    "One?  Please?"
    "No," I said; we kissed.  My mother smiled at us; she loved us -- truly
loved us...The fact that I was gay had no hindering on her undying emotion
for us.
    "Okay, boys, go wash up.  Dinner will be ready at five o'clock sharp --
don't be late.  You know how your father hates to have dinner any later than
five."
    Father.  A word that, when mentioned around me, now, makes me gag.  I had
no love for my father; a drunk who abused my mother ruthelessly, then acted
like the perfect couple outside of the house.  My mother was the
stereotypical abusee, giving the, Oh, I accidentally ran into a door in the
middle of the night; how foolish of me! excuses that others accept, secretely
knowing that something deeper and more evil lies beneath the response that is
given with a pained smile.  My mother pleaded with Simon and myself not to
tell anyone -- I begged HER in return to let me.  She couldn't live like this
forever; but she would.
    Simon and I ran up into my room and closed the door.  Everything had to
be ship-shape when my father was around.  Myself and Simon had to be clean
and dressed nicely.  I took off my shirt and tossed it into the laundry
basket.  Simon whistled and I looked at him and smiled.  He was sitting on
the bed and I pounced on him, pinning him down.  We kissed passionately; his
hands exploring my back.  He undid my belt, then my jean shorts, and pushed
them off of me.  He rolled over on top of me and rubbed his butt on my
crotch.  I moaned softly.  I took his shirt off of him and undid his jeans.
Now we were both clad only in our boxers, or six inch dicks tenting out.  He
took my right nipple into his mouth and licked and sucked on it, occasionally
biting it; my hands played with his hair.  My head leaned over and looked at
the clock.  4:30 PM.
    "Shit, Simon," I said.  He sat up.
    "What?"
    "We have to be ready in thirty minutes.  Go take a shower; you stink!"  I
laughed.
    "Oh, you're one to talk, you rotten pig!"  We kissed again and he trotted
into the bathroom, leaving the door open.