Date: Fri, 26 Nov 2004 20:25:43 EST
From: Pijito52@aol.com
Subject: "Fifteen" - Chapter 7

Good to be back.  I've missed my guys and, candidly, I've missed
corresponding with readers.  Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder, I
guess. I'm not sure if this latest installment is worth the wait (it ain't
no Halo 2), if you know what I mean), but as always, I've tried to be
honest, funny, and at least marginally sexy.

Old readers: unless you have one of those photogenic memories, you'll
probably need to work your way through the previous chapter to get a fix on
things.  I don't offer any recap, deleted scenes, or bloopers.

New readers: at the risk of alienating you in a big way, I suggest that you
read the whole damn thing straight through. Chapter 7 will make a lot more
sense this way.

As always, let me know what you think - pijito52@aol.com


Fifteen

XVIII

	"You've never had a naked dream?" Billy asks.  "I only have about
four different dreams, and one of them's the Naked Dream."
	It's 4:30 in the afternoon and we're finishing the world's longest
nap.  The TV's on with the sound down.  Oprah is interviewing a really fat
woman who hasn't stopped crying since the first commercial break.  The
camera keeps cutting to the studio audience, and most of them are crying,
too.  I've found that I can listen to Billy, even answer him coherently,
and follow the silent drama simultaneously.
	"The Naked Dream is weird, Aidan.  I think it's, like, symbolic."
	"I'm sure it is.  All dreams are.  At least Freud and Jung told us
they were."
	"Well, I wonder what Freud would make of this one. Check it
out. I'm in my bed at home, naked, with a morning woody that needs
attention. No news there.  Then all of a sudden, these guys from school
burst into my room, and without telling me anything, grab the four corners
of my bed and pick it up with me in it.  I can't find my voice to scream,
and I can't seem to move anything except my eyes.  They march me in my bed
all the way through The Glade, neighbors waving at us as from their front
porches as if we were little kids on bikes.  They carry the bed all the way
to the steps into the Whittier Building at school, and set the bed down
between the pillars.  Then they pull off the covers and leave me there for
all the world to see.  I've still got a boner, but I can't even roll over
to hide it.  But that's not the strange part."
	"Of course that's not the strange part, Billy.  You always have a
boner.  It's part of your charm. You've always got a boner.  I don't think
it's symbolic." I lean over to kiss him, but he pushes me away.
	"Shut up, Aidan.  Let me finish," he says, but he's not really
angry, just on a roll.  "The strange part is that everybody I know, like
all my friends and teachers and these freshmen with enormous backpacks, and
that Jamaican janitor who sells reefer to the stoners, they're all walking
past me like I'm invisible, you know, like there's not this naked kid in
his bed with a boner on the school steps.  I'm so embarrassed, but they
just walk on by.  Now what's that shit?  It's like a nightmare only I can
see.  I wish somebody would say something, like, 'nice dick, Nolan,' or
even 'Mr. Nolan, I want to see you in the office,' but no, nobody says
anything, nobody even gives me a dirty look."
	"Billy, it's not serious. I promise. It's obvious."
	"Yeah?  So what's it all about?"
	"Nobody sees you because you're this amazing wizard with magical
powers."
	"Fuck you, Aidan," he says, and he pops me in the stomach through
the covers.
	"No, I mean it.  You've got this psychic force field around you.
Nobody can see you and nobody can touch you.  Except for me."  With that, I
fling back the covers, and there he is, naked and hard.  "You see?"  I grab
the little soldier and kiss him on the helmet.  "It's not a dream.  It's
not symbolic. At least, not for me."
	Then the phone rings.
	"Don't get it," Billy manages to say.
	It rings two more times, and I think to myself as my heart makes it
way back down my throat that I've never heard a more distressing sound in
my life.
	I put my finger to my lips, and warn Billy with my eyes to stay
still.  "Hello?"
	"Mr. Granger?  This is Mercy at the front desk.  Sorry to bother
you, but we've got a little problem."
	"Uh, this isn't Mr. Granger.  It's Anthony.  His son."  Billy is
confused.  Who the fuck is Anthony?
	"Oh, I'm sorry.  When do you expect him back?"
	"I don't know.  When he gets out of his meeting, probably."
	"I see.  Could you leave him a message, please?  Tell him to stop
by the front desk when he gets in.  We just need to run the credit card
through again."  She chuckles, the soul of amiability.  "The night manager,
Hassan, spilled coffee all over the Wednesday receipts."
	"Okay," I say, wondering if she can hear the grinding of my
thoughts.  "I'll tell Dad as soon as he gets in."
	"Thanks so much," she says, still chuckling over spilt coffee, and
hangs up.
	"Anthony?  Who the fuck is Anthony?"  Billy's boner is long gone.
	"It's a long story.  I was going to tell you, but I guess I got
caught up in the moment."
	"So?  You got some 'splainin' to do, Aidan."  He's not exactly
laughing.
	"I know.  But we gotta get out of here first.  They'll be calling
again soon."
	"No.  I want to know what's going on.  Are we fucked?"
	"I don't know yet.  I just know we can't stay here much longer."

XIX


	We're sitting on a bench by the Aquarium, eating subs.  The eight
o'clock sun sits like a runny egg yolk on the horizon. Neon from the nearby
shops crackles in the stillness.  Billy hasn't said much since we slipped
out of the Days Inn.  I haven't said much either.  I need to think again.
It's like I forget how to think when I surrender to Billy. And right now,
that's not going to cut it.
	"Billy?  Mr. Granger is the man who got us the room."
	"Yeah, I figured that much.  I just don't know if I want to know
why."  He looks at me with eyes so blue and earnest they'd coax the truth
out of the Devil.  "Antho-ny."  He hangs on the last syllable for effect.
	"We needed some place to stay.  A base of operations.  So I did
it."
	"What did you do, Aidan?"
	"I told him I needed a room.  I told him I couldn't pay."
	"And you just, like, walked up to this stranger and said, 'excuse
me, sir, would you get me a room?"
	"Sort of.  Except that I showed him my dick first."
	"Of course.  That'll do it every time."  I'm not the only cynic on
the bench.  "And what else did you do with your dick?"
	He's not making this easy.  Jealousy is alien territory for both of
us.  "Let him suck it.  Which he did badly.  I couldn't even get it up,
really."
	"Oh, that's okay, then.  Sure.  No harm, no foul."
	"Don't be pissed, Billy.  I did it for you.  That's what I told him
before he left. 'I did it for Billy'."
	"So I should be grateful.  My boy fucks a total stranger the first
day of the honeymoon.  But he's taking one for the team."
	"I didn't fuck him.  He just wanted to look, I think.  He was even
more awkward than I was.  Once he saw me, all the heat went out of the
room.  I scared him."
	"Don't flatter yourself, Aidan."
	"C'mon, Billy.  I need to be honest with you. I'm way past lying at
the moment."
	"So.  Go on.  Don't spare me.  You were about to tell me that some
random dude paid $150 to look at your dick for a minute.  His fat old body
was oiling up the sheets.  The sheets we've slept under for two nights.
Gross."  He stands up all of a sudden, then realizes he has nowhere to go.
	"He wasn't fat, Billy.  He was sad.  I felt sorry for him."
	"Fucking Father Teresa.  Great boyfriend I have."
	"Billy.  That's the way I am.  I'd make a shitty whore, if you want
to know the truth."
	"You couldn't get it up?  Really?  That must have been awkward."
	"He didn't know what to do.  I think it was his first time.  I
think he has a wife and a family and watches CSI."
	"What did he say when he saw it?  Your dick.  Your dick that I
thought was mine."
	"He was impressed, I guess.  He probably wasn't expecting it.  I
mean, jeez, I don't even understand it, why I got it and why they want it.
But ever since we hooked up and you told me I was beautiful, I've almost
started believing it."
	"Believe it.  I'm pretty much hating you at the moment, but believe
it.  You are beautiful.  And you come with benefits. I'm going to be
fighting off every size queen on the planet."
	"It doesn't matter, Billy.  I'll give up my dick to get us a room.
I'll give up my dick to save us.  But I won't give up my heart.  That's
yours.  You know that, don't you?"
	"I guess. Pretty corny, though."
	"We've got to get out of Baltimore.  We're pretty conspicuous."
	"I just want to go back to the room.  I want to crawl back into
bed.  I don't care about Mr. Granger, or Anthony, or any of that shit.  I
sweat you, Aidan Maguire.  It's fucking weird.  I must be in love because
I'm not thinking straight.  My fucking brain is fried.  It's oatmeal.  I'm
afraid to close my eyes.  I'm afraid this is another Naked Dream, and when
I open them, you'll be gone."  We're sitting on a bench outside the
Baltimore Aquarium.  The sun has pretty much set. Ribbons of neon stripe
the empty harbor. Billy takes my hand and guides it to his heart, pounding
in his chest.  It's the most intimate thing either of us has ever done, and
the tourists just walk past us, past two boys touching in the twilight.
	"Look at us, stupid motherfuckers," Billy says.  "What now?"
	"Time to get lost again, I guess."
	"Where?" Billy wants to know.  I'm back in charge.
	"If I knew, we wouldn't be lost now, would we?"
	"You've got a point.  I'll just shut up and follow.  It must be
hard being so smart."
	"It's brutal, believe me.  I'm so smart I know that I don't know a
goddamn thing."
	"Far away?" he posits.
	"How far away is the Middle of Nowhere?"
	"Pretty far, I think.  Is there a bus?"
	"Yeah, I'm sure there is.  Let's go, Billy."
	"Let's go, Aidan."  And suddenly, he starts skipping.
	"That's subtle, retard!" I shout, but I'm laughing, and for just a
second I let myself think that we're okay, and that there's some place out
there for two young faggots on the run.

XX

We're curled up together on a nearly empty Greyhound, two hours out of
Baltimore, somewhere in West Virginia.  I looked into New York and I looked
into Boston thinking that's where runaways always run, where they can
disappear on a dime, where there's cheap food and possibilities and crowds
of people equally lost.  But then I told myself that was too obvious, that
our parents would probably think to look for us there, having been urban
children once themselves.  It's dark back here, just some floor-lights
along the aisle.  Billy's had my dick in his hand for about 15 minutes,
just caressing it, playing with the foreskin he's never had.  It's not
really intense or anything, more playful than sexy, and unless he decides
to go to work with his mouth, I'm probably safe to think.  We have tickets
to Louisville.  I've never been there of course, but it sounds all right.
Billy says he thinks it'll be like Asheville, where his cousins live, and I
ask him if that's a good thing, and he shakes his head and laughs.  "If you
like hillbillies," he says, "but it's got mansions and stuff."  Louisville
might as well be Latvia for all we know, but I'm guessing there's plenty of
places to hide.  "What day is it?" Billy asks, still clutching my dick.
"Saturday night.  Why?"  "I thought so.  It just doesn't feel much like
Saturday."  I wonder if he's thinking what I'm thinking: that suburban boys
can't fathom a life without Saturdays.  All of a sudden, here on some
anonymous interstate, it occurs to me that we have no training for this.
It's like the "Survivor" episode they'll never show, the one in which the
rich boys from The Glade have to get by in the big city without cell phones
or credit cards.  "How big is it, Aidan? I'd really like to know."
"Louisville?  About half a million, I think."  "No, stupid.  Your dick.
Your pe-nis."  The way Billy says it, it sounds like something you wouldn't
pick up with a Kleenex.  But pick it up he's done, displaying it like an
offering at mass.  "You're not going to believe this, Billy, but I've never
measured. I swear."  "Bullshit. You're right.  I don't believe it.  I
measure everything.  My biceps are 14".  My chest is 38".  My room is 12 x
16.  My dick, measuring from on top is 6.35", 16 centimeters, totally
normal according to stats."  "Gosh, Billy, I'm learning so much about you.
Like that you're O.C.D. And commendably hung.  Well, I guess I already knew
that."  "So, how big is it? Really. Don't dodge. You can tell me. Inquiring
minds want to know."  He's stroking and it's growing, and this just isn't
the place.  "I tell you what.  Once we find a place to stay, I'll go to a
Wal-Mart or something and buy one of those sewing things, you know like a
tape measure.  And I'll let you measure me. You can measure to your heart's
content. It'll be my Welcome to Louisville present.  And if you're really
nice, I'll let you make one of those do-it-yourself plaster mold things,
like on the porn sites.  We can put it on the mantle next to the photo of
our retrievers, not that we're going to have a mantle. It'll be a
conversation piece. Oh my God!"  "What, Aidan?" Billy asks, working in
earnest. "You don't like what I'm doing?"  "No.  I like it.  I really like
it.  But tomorrow's my birthday.  I almost forgot my birthday."  "Sweet
sixteen, eh?  It's not all that different. It's not."  He abruptly pulls
away from me and goes quiet.  He does this all the time.  Goes into a
little room in his head, locks the door behind him. Locks me out for a bit.
My mom must be freaking.  She's huge on birthdays, a real ceremony
junkie. I see Byron standing by her side, massaging her shoulder,
reassuring her, but not convincing her that I'm all right, wherever I am.
I wish I could call her, tell her I'll be back soon enough, but they've
hired a detective, I imagine, and they've tapped the phone, and even if
they haven't, I don't think I'm brave enough yet to tell them I'm in love
with the neighbor kid on Sunnymeade, the blond boy whose uncle died on
9/11, and it's not just a phase, and I think if I didn't have him, I'd just
give up, and all the toys in the world would break.


XXI

	Louisville.  Shit.
	Even at 10 in the morning, the bus station is scary.  I can see
right away that D.C. hasn't cornered the market on derelicts.  A hundred
bloodshot eyes staring at Billy and me, hyenas at breakfast waiting to
pounce.  The waiting room is vast and bright.  The residue of detergent
can't mask the musk of travelers with nowhere to go.  Looking around, I
wonder where all the kids are.
	I'm trying to figure out what to do.  Wide-eyed, taking it all in,
Billy waits for me to decide.  He won't go near the bathroom, won't even
test the video arcade.  He pulls his knees into his chest, terrified.
	We have $376, cash.  Not a princely sum, but enough to get a clean
room for a couple of nights, except that where the clean rooms are, they
don't let sixteen year old boys pay cash.
	I saw a movie on TV once that chronicled the tribulations (I like
saying stuff like that, it's so History Channel) of a teenage runaway.  At
the beginning, she looks like the lost Brady sister, all blond and bubbly.
But before the first commercial, she's been mugged and drugged and sold
into sex slavery.  She bonds with this other runaway, and after they finish
with their johns and give the money to the black pimp, they curl up
together on a mattress in some abandoned building and read "Little Women"
by flashlight.  This is supposed to signal that they're not really whores,
but lost innocents.  I remember that scene really well.  It was stupid at
the time, but now, surveying the waiting room, looking at all the
sketchballs looking at us, I'm longing for my bedroom and my Rolling Stone.
Sixteen, I am, but at the moment I feel a little young for my age.
	"Where do we go now?" Billy ventures.  The hum of the place is
getting to him.
	"I'm not sure.  It's like I've got a bit part in this movie and I'm
trying to remember the script.  It's not like I've ever done this before,
Billy."
	"Can we get a room?  I'm like a total baby, but I want to sleep."
	"I don't know.  Mr. Granger got us that room in Baltimore.  But you
know what I did."
	"You did it for me, Aidan.  It's okay.  I'm good with it."
	"You could do it, too, Billy.  You could do it for me."
	"I don't know.  I'd do anything for you, I think, but I couldn't do
it without you."
	"Maybe we could tag team.  Just kidding."
	"You really think so?"
	"Just kidding."
	"I could get into that - if it was you and me."
	"Billy.  It was just a random thought."
	"I know, but. It would be pretty awesome, you and me teaming up."
	"Awesome. Frodo and Sam, only naked. But don't forget the
sketchball.  Or the camera dude.  Or however the thing works."
	"Right.  It was just a random thought."
	And then it dawns on me that there are no random thoughts when
you're running.  All is fair.  By any means necessary.  You're not a maggot
if you're trying to survive.  Billy doesn't see the eyes all around us,
staring.
	"Do you want to go home, Billy?" I am dead serious.
	"No.  No, no, no."
	"I don't know if we can get away with this, Billy.  I really don't.
We can go home and fight things there.  What does it matter if they hate
us? It's easy and there's food on the table."
	"No, Aidan.  No.  Never."
	"You sure?"
	"Never.  Not yet."

XXII

	It doesn't take long.  A man with a ponytail smoking a thin cigar
follows us into the Denny's down the road.  He's been watching us in the
waiting room.  But then, so has everybody else.  I guess the movie's
beginning.
	I don't say anything to Billy, who's lost in a stack of pancakes.
Our little chat seems to have revived him, given him new resolve.  Billy is
hopeless, I know, and this just makes me want to protect him even more.
	The man's at the counter, sipping coffee.  He's actually pretty
cool looking, about 30, handsome in a cowboy kind of way.  He's clean,
well-nourished, bears no visible scars.  If he's a pimp, he's not from
central casting. But he's definitely looking at us, and I'm sure as I can
be that he wants to say something.
	A few minutes later, the waitress comes by, coos a little songbird
"thank you, boys," and looks over to Ponytail at the counter.  "Looks like
it's your lucky day, guys.  Kenny's picked up the tab."
	Now Billy's catching on.  "Jesus.  Did you tell him it's your
birthday, Aidan?"
	"Nope.  I think he's an admirer."
	"You mean a sketch?  Fuck, Aidan, that didn't take long."
	"We don't know.  Maybe he's just a Good Samaritan."  I hesitate to
add that he was at the bus station, and that we never asked for help.
	Kenny smiles at us, gives us a little thumbs up.  We could get up
and walk on out of there, but I decide instead to smile back.  Billy's just
watching me.
	Then Kenny gets up, sidles over, pulls up a chair next to the booth
like he's meeting old friends.  "Kenny," he says.  "How's breakfast?"  He's
got all his teeth and he smells clean.
	"Thanks," I say, aiming for cool and non-committal, not sure that's
what I'm getting.  No handshake, in any case.
	"Good," Billy says, not quite looking up. There's still something
fascinating about the uneaten orange slice.
	"Where you guys from?" he asks.  "I saw you in the bus station, and
you looked a little lost."
	"Baltimore," I say.  "Hagerstown, really, but nobody's ever heard
of it."
	"Well, you got to be from somewhere, I say.  I'm from Berea,
myself, and that's got to be smaller than Hagersville."
	"It's Hagerstown.  In Maryland."
	"I see.  None of my business, but what brings you to Louisville?
I'm guessing it's not grandma. And you're way too big to be jockeys."
	"We're FBI agents," I tell him, always the wiseass when I'm
freeballing.  "Tracking a serial killer."  I put my index finger to my
lips.  "That's on the Q.T."
	"Oh, I see.  Nice disguise.  The teen thing really threw me off."
Kenny's not rattled in the least.  He's a smart sketch, I'm thinking.
"Does Agent Johnny there talk?" he asks, smiling at Billy.
	"That would be Bobby," I say.  "Be careful.  He's lethal."  Billy's
not smiling, but he's breathing okay.  Still not talking, though.
	"So where do y'all G-Men stay when you're in town?  Or is that a
secret?"  Kenny's hanging in there, no sign of letting us go.
	"Well, we're not really at liberty to divulge."
	"I see.  Well listen, I'd give you my card, except that I don't
really have a card, mostly because the business I'm in, well, we don't
carry cards.  That's Bobby, right?  What's your name?"
	"Anthony."  Billy kicks me under the booth.
	"Okay, Anthony, so let me be blunt.  If you guys wrap up your case
and have a little free time, I've got some work for you.  Easy, and the pay
is, well, GS-14. No taxes, either."
	"Right.  We're Feds, remember.  We don't sell drugs. That would be
a conflict of interest."
	"Of course not.  Of course not. Neither does Kenny.  I'm in the
Creative Arts field, actually."
	"Creative Arts.  Whatever.  Look," I say, sounding tougher by far
than I would have thought possible, "thanks for the breakfast, but this is
getting a little awkward.  What do you want from us?"
	"Some light modeling.  A couple of hours.  Five hundred.  No W-2."
	"And what would we be modeling?  It's too early for the Fall
Collection."  Billy's squirming like a kid who has to pee, but I plant my
hand on his thigh and apply just enough pressure to let him know that I'm
in control.  At least I think.
	"Well, since you ask, y'all would sorta be modeling yourselves."
	"I thought so.  I thought so."
	"Listen.  It's easy work, Anthony.  In and out in an hour and a
half. No contact.  Bobby can come along, or he can wait here."
	"Bobby comes along.  We work together.  We come together."  I can't
believe what I've said, but Kenny slides right past it.
	"Cool.  Bobby looks great, and we're not sure yet if we're going to
be shooting stills or loops."  I nod like the Master Negotiator, but I
don't have a clue what he's talking about.  "I gotta know, though.  You're
18, right?"
	"Right."
	"We need proof on file."
	"Proof?  I'm afraid we didn't bring along our passports."
	"Okay, so you're 18.  Sometimes you just got to trust a man. Great.
First election, right?"
	"Yeah.  So it is.  Listen, Kenny.  If we do this and it all works
out, can you get us a room somewhere?  Just a couple of nights.  Some place
clean is all."
	"Done."
	"Thanks."
	"No problemo, monsieur."  Still no handshake, but the deal has been
made.  I'm feeling kind of sick, actually, a little feverish, my balls
shrinking back into the inguinal canal.  What in God's good name am I
doing?  Not that I should ask God at the moment.
	"Kenny?"  It's Billy, and he's staring a hole in our guest.
	"What do you know?  He talks!  Must want to discuss the contract."
	"Please don't hurt us," Billy whispers, just a breath or two short
of tears.


XXIII

	Kenny gets us a room at a place called The Shedrow, which he says
is some kind of racehorse term.  He hands us the keys, and in a gesture of
great modesty or supreme confidence, waits outside to let us put away our
backpacks and wash up.  We take care of business in silence, but there's no
question we're going to go through with the deal.
	The "studio" is about 20 minutes out of town - just a big room in a
farmhouse about half a mile from the highway.  Two German Shepherds are
running loose in the field out back so I know people live here, but I don't
see anybody right away.  I keep thinking: this place is too pretty for a
murder.  Kenny tells us to sit tight for a minute, and that he'll be back
with the plan.
	The studio is full of Kliegs, mirrors, backdrop cloths in red and
gold - the real deal, as far as I can see.  There's a big couch in one
corner and a king size bed jutting out from underneath the gold backdrop.
Adjacent is a bathroom with a shower, two terrycloth robes hanging on the
door.  It looks clean.
	"You okay?" I ask Billy.  "Is this too weird?"
	"It's a little late for those questions, Aidan.  And it's Bobby,
remember."
	"It'll be okay, I promise.  We'll just do what they ask and Kenny
will take us back, and then we can sleep and figure things out."
	"You're amazing.  You're fucking amazing.  Just hang on to me,
okay?"
	"Whatever happens, Billy, it happens with both of us.  You said it
earlier: you'd do anything for me.  And you wouldn't do anything without
me.  The weirder this gets, the more I want you to think of me, think of
what we've done, think of those times in the shelter."
	A man comes in with a couple of high-resolution digitals and a cam.
He barely looks at us as he attaches the cam to a boom by the side of the
bed.  He's about 60, bearded, dressed in a blue jumpsuit.
	"Where's Kenny?" I venture.
	"I don't know.  I think he went to do some errands.  I'm
Vernon. You Anthony?"
	"Yeah.  This is Bobby."  Billy nods.
	"You're great looking fellas, but I suppose you already knew that."
	"Thanks, I think."
	"Listen, this doesn't have to be awkward, really, though I don't
blame you for feelin' that way.  This is business, sure, but it can be fun.
Just pretend I'm not here and you'll be fine, you know."  All the while,
he's turning on lights, arranging things, keeping his hands busy.
	"Anthony, Bobby: I want to take some shots with your clothes on.
Just smile, make faces, act natural, you know."
	Billy starts mugging right away.  It comes less easily to me.
Vernon isn't exactly spry and graceful, but he fires away indiscriminately,
full of complements, full of encouragement, like we're goddamn Tyra and
Naomi.  Out of nowhere, Billy grabs me and pulls me to him and plants a
kiss on my cheek.  He's getting into this.
	"Great," Vernon says for the 20th time.  "You boys like each other.
That's gonna make this just great.  Now, one at a time, take off your shirt
and your shorts.  Tease the camera, come on.  They like attitude."
	So we do it, and we pause with our t-shirts over our heads, and
Billy and I stick our tongues out, then we're standing there in our
underwear, me in boxers, Billy in briefs.
	"Beautiful.  Great.  You guys are fuckin' beautiful.  Anthony, you
got to eat a little more, son, but y'all are hotter than hot. They gonna
cream their jeans."
	Cream their jeans?  Sounds like something Billy's hillbilly Uncle
might say.
	"Well boys, let's get to the money."
	Okay.  Money time. Billy peels off his briefs, turning his hips
away from the camera, feigning modesty by covering up his dick, which as
expected, is rock hard.  Vernon monkey-jumps a couple of steps to get him
from the backside.  Billy raises his arms in mock ecstasy, flexing his
biceps and crunching his abs, looking straight into the camera.
	"Bobby, that's just great.  Super, really.  Come 'on babe, let's
get a close up of that cock of yours.  Nice.  Real nice. Y'all are doing
fantastic."
	Then it's my turn, only I'm not doing so hot.  "Come on, boy,"
Vernon urges.  "Nothin' to be ashamed of.  We all got 'em."
	"Come on, Aidan," Billy says, forgetting that I'm Anthony, smiling
broadly like this is just exactly what every boy should be doing on his
16th birthday.
	I slip off my boxers.  My dick is hanging limp and innocent.  I
raise my palms and shrug my shoulders as if to say I'm sorry, it'll get
bigger, when Vernon whistles like a sailor and says, "Jesus, Joseph, and
Johnny Wadd, whatever do we have here?"
	"Anthony's huge," Billy offers.
	"I'll say.  This is horse country, but I ain't seen a cock like
this on a boy in a coon's age.  Lordy!  I'm gonna have to get out the
wide-angle.  Come on, Anthony, skin that bad boy back."
	This flattery isn't exactly working.  I know I'm supposed to flash
hard, but the mirrors are everywhere, and I can see my ribs, and there's a
pimple on my butt, and my purple eyes are raccoon-ringed.
	"Yeah, Anthony, that's a great big ol' cock.  A Secretariat.  Work
it now.  Great!  Supersize it!"  So I work it, and I get a little rise from
the friction, but it's just not doing what it's supposed to, and the whir
of the camera is making me dizzy, and I want to crawl in a hole and die.  I
close my eyes, jacking furiously, and still nothing, nothing, nothing.
	Then I feel him take hold.  I open my eyes and he's kneeling before
me, caressing and kissing my dick, wedging his tongue under my foreskin -
the prelude to a blowjob.  And at last it grows, bigger and harder than
ever.  My dickhead emerges from hiding, proud and red and swollen, then
Billy engulfs it.  Vernon has put down the hand-held and he's on the cam,
and I realize before Billy does that we're in a movie now, and somehow the
notion amps me like nothing I've ever imagined.
	We go to the bed.  We roll around it, oblivious, delirious, in a
country far from Kentucky, beyond consciousness or decency, at the outer
limit of desire. Suddenly Vernon's not in the room any more, and we're all
alone, and there's no room and no bed any more, there's not even oxygen,
just sweat and skin and love past words.
	I'm licking him all over, my tongue a lapidary polishing onyx.  I'm
biting his ears and his nipples.  I'm burrowing in the smoky gulch between
his thighs.  Without a care in the world, I'm prying open the little hole
and licking it clean, jamming my tongue as far in as I can.  My boy is
bucking, writhing, burning, his every moan a plea for clemency.  But I
won't stop, and when I feel the surge, when I feel that he's going to
explode, I turn briefly to the camcorder, look blankly at my reflection in
the lens, and grab hold of Billy's dick.  I only have to kiss it once and
it's spurting, a steaming glob splashing my forehead, another my cheek, and
four, five, six, seven pearls running down my chest, and when his dick
finally stops twitching, it's like Billy's died in my arms from a joy that
kills.
	But he's alive, and he knows what he wants now, and I know what I
want and will always want until it's my turn to die.  He scooches down to
the edge of the bed, eyes still closed, then pulls me briefly on top of
him.  He whispers to me that he needs me in him, and just loud enough so
the cam can hear, he tells me that he loves me more than life itself.
	There's lube, of course, in a tray on the bed stand.  I slather my
dick, now engorged beyond recognition, and tell Billy to open his eyes.  I
want the face he sees before I enter him to be full of love.  I want him to
feel my dick as a balm, that we are joined at the heart.  There is nothing
more to say.
	"You might want a condom," a disembodied voice suggests.  Kenny's
back.  I wonder how long he's been here watching.
	"No condom.  He's the only one."
	And then they're gone again, and it's just me and Billy.  I'm drunk
with desire, but I'm not stupid.  I know I'm going to hurt him, but I know
he'll only love me more thereafter.  I place my dick at the doorstep.  I
push in the head, and Billy winces.  I push in deeper, feeling the suction,
the paradoxical vacuum, as he tries vainly to expel me.  Then it's in all
the way, and we stay like that for an eternal instant, waiting for joy to
take care of the pain.  Then I'm fucking him, slowly, methodically, back
and forth, never fully retracting, but neither plunging to the hilt.  It's
wonderful.  I could do it forever, but every time I pull back, the friction
on my dickhead makes me shiver a little, and I know it's not going to be
long before I cum.  So I just decide it's now or never, and I pick up my
rhythm and Billy picks up his rhythm and we're moaning in thirds, his tenor
and my baritone, and when I'm certain I'm going to blow I think first I'll
fill his ass with my love, then I think again, and this time I pull all the
way out and I start firing hot bullets onto his chest, then squeezing every
little cumdrop out of my raw and beaten dick.
	Somehow I have the strength to say, "Turn off the goddamn cam,
please," before I melt onto the bed and grab Billy and start sobbing.
	"I've never seen anything like that in my life," Kenny says to
Vernon.  "Never."
	"Fuckin' amazing, all right."
	"You kids were great," Kenny says.  "Me and Vern are going to leave
you here for a bit.  You can get cleaned up.  I brought you a couple of
beers if you like.  Sometimes they like beers.  Oh, and there's $600 in
twenties in an envelope on the coffee table."
	"What did we just do?" Billy asks when they've left.
	"I don't know.  I don't know."
	"We're not right, are we?"
	"I don't think so.  What did we just do?"
	"It hurt, Aidan."
	"I know."
	"But it was great."
	"Yeah," I say, "it was, how did Vernon put it?  'Fucking amazing'."
	"Aidan, you love me, don't you."
	"I love you so much I'm going to start crying again."
	"Oh, that's okay.  We're just big babies, you know."


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