Date: Sun, 6 Jul 2014 12:34:41 -0700
From: will mccullough <willlnyc@yahoo.com>
Subject: Weaning Your Boy the Alternative Way, a Dad's Story - Chapter 3

DISCLAIMER: The following story is a work of fiction.  It contains erotic
homosexual incestuous themes between adult men and minors. If you are a
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................................



WEANING YOUR BOY THE ALTERNATIVE WAY, A DAD'S STORY

-- CHAPTER 3 --


In life, nothing is ideal. You plan, you execute those plans, and then you
find it turns out so differently than you had thought it would. Winners
learn to accept this. There is always a way a loss can be exploited for a
gain you never saw coming--you know, it's the lemon/lemonade maxim--just
keep your eyes open and don't stop taking chances. You throw enough shit
against the wall and some of it will finally stick. Believe me, it will,
you just have to look for why some of the pieces fall.

When Max's strange ways began showing themselves, my first impulse was to
think about where I had gone wrong. He was still so young, my first thought
was that my most glaring mistake was to have had him in the first place. I
found myself resenting my own child for my own mistake. Simply put, he was
The Mistake. Each one of his abnormal behaviorisms verified it. This son of
mine was a living anomaly, a mistake of nature. The futility in which I
tried to reshape him into that of a normal boy only hardened my
contempt. The character taking form in him became a piercing argument
against my errors in judgement. Had I been too young to have a child? Had I
chosen the wrong wife? Had my professional life become too demanding? All
these questions constantly rang in my head as I watched Max becoming an
unfit son.

By the time Max was twelve months old, my marriage was already
imploding. The woman I loved and chose as my wife and mother for my child
had become a toxic waste-case before me. Her downfall was swift. Sure, now
I can see the writing had been on the wall from the beginning. She; the
intelligent and creative beauty, the woman who understood sides of me like
no one ever had before or since, the woman who thought I was the man to
save her. Yes, I should have seen it. It's the kind of thing in the
business world I would have seen coming a mile away and steered clear. But
I'm human and I make mistakes like everyone else. And Jean--well--how do
describe such a woman?

Max clings to my leg as I write this. The mysterious, strong need from his
father for something essential--essentially something which I cannot find
within. "It's OK, little buddy." I muss his silky hair with the palm of my
hand. Your mommy isn't here to love you. Is this the essential thing
missing--maternal love? Is this the thing a man cannot give? But at least,
you have a parent. You indeed have a roof over your head. Every material
need will be provided. You will have the best schools, the best
neighborhoods--the best father figure to set an example of how to succeed
in the world. As I watch him, I am really scared for him. He has everything
but a sense of love. How will this pure, innocent boy ever love himself if
he doesn't feel loved? And try daddy does to mend this. But the more I try,
the more I feel him disappearing from me. Max is mercury, amorphous. His
pretty exterior is tangible, but underneath he escapes my grasp. The Max I
try to grab on to and shape resists the Max I touch. I look into his
darting eyes for clues for where Max is. He is supple, soft, yielding,
fragile. Paradoxically solid. Unbudging, unyielding. He is breakable and
unbreakable. I feel if I try to bend him he will snap. His four-year-old
limbs reach out to me--me, his father, his only salvation--with this
hungry, selfish, willful need that is never satisfied. I hold him close to
me. Feeling his muggy breath on my neck with its faint, lingering smell of
apple juice while his little hands clutch hard at my shirt.

"Max, no. Daddy is writing." I know there has to be the capacity somewhere
for love. Surely--but everything had moved so fast. Jean started going
A.W.O.L. only three months after she gave birth to Max. She was going to be
the lover in our family. Everything was going to be perfect--she, being the
wise and understanding lover, the nurturer who brings out the best in
everyone she touches. And I, being the provider and the protector. The
equation immediately started smashing itself to pieces once we moved to
Connecticut. And as for my son Max? I simply was not prepared for it.

So here writes a thirty-four-year-old man who, for the first time in his
life, is completely stumped for answers. Being in this position doesn't
come easy to a man like me. I'm the man people go to for answers. I'm the
man who cuts through the bullshit and has the quick solutions. Already at
my age I employ senior businessmen at the peek of their careers who gladly
answer to me. I'm not stroking my own ego here--it's just the way it worked
out. I always make sure I've placed myself in a position with options. Yet
here I am getting tripped up by the most basic of institutions, fatherhood.

Max is, well--since he is my son, of course I cannot help but value him as
such. He appears the perfect little boy in gallery-after-gallery of
Facebook pictures I post; little Max eating his first birthday cake, in our
pool swimming at the age of two, in his Spider-Man costume watching his
favorite movie "Happy Feet." But there is another Max behind those
pictures, the one whom perhaps, other than his father, only his nanny Ana
had initially glimpsed. He has become a willful child. On the one hand, he
seeks constant nurturing--this is the shy, sweet, hesitant, quiet and
watchful Max. His big, grey eyes searching my own with a pleading look
which often, once his immediate needs are appeased, will then cast quickly
aside with the glimmer of a secret coup. I fear what he will become,
sensing all the subtle ways he stubbornly resists adulthood. Put a pen and
paper in his hand, the boy can entertain himself throughout the whole of an
afternoon. It's uncanny this boy's focus, once absorbed by something which
comes intrinsic to him. But pull him outside himself and it is like he
freezes with a quiet anxiety.

Until Max, I have always told myself what a natural I am at successful
mentoring. But when witnessing the many failed attempts with my own son, I
realize I've never mentored someone so ungrateful. In contrast, my business
colleagues actively seek out my council and therefore feel indebted to me
for my mentorship.

Max, my greatest failure, is a continuum of disappointment. He maintains
his campaigns of bed-wetting and refusing to drink anything unless it comes
from a bottle. The little fucker resents every one of the strategies I
employ to pull him from the infantilism in which he dearly holds.


* * *


So welcome to my new life with a son named Max. It is an unusually balmy
Saturday afternoon in early May and six of my New York buddies have come up
to see my new Greenwhich spread, play a game of Cutthroat to inaugurate the
basketball hoop I just put up for the occasion and have a visit with my
four-year-old son, a walking emblem of my failure at marriage and
fatherhood, still soiling his pants and sucking on a pacifier. It's the
first time in a while I've swallowed my pride and had my main peeps around
to see Max.

Hours ago, they had all finally arrived and now, reliving old times on
Chrystie Street, each one of us is trying our best to dominate the
court. But my Max-for-a-son is right here in the mix, which means--as
always when he's around--his behavior becomes a constant interruption to
any kind of normalcy, and in turn the favorite and frequent topic of
conversation. The day becomes all about Max, making it impossible to enjoy
what should be a simple reunion with friends.

"Bro, you kind of suck at being Mommy, huh?" says James, met with an
appreciative chorus of laughs when I am again trying to shut up Max's
incessant crying, stopping our game for the fifth time.

 "One day my brother couldn't take it any longer and just threw the damn
milk bottle in the garbage and that was the end of it," says Duane, looking
at me with a certain curiosity intoned with undisguised relish, as if he
has just discovered in me a newly uncharted weakness.

"Dude, Max is cute but you seriously have to do something about that
diaper. I think he shit his britches again," says Bucky at which point it
had become clear we should stop trying to hit hoops and put an end to the
game for good.

Later, after they had gone back to their New York City lives, reverberating
in my head were their words. James and Chad--back to catch the Graveyard
concert. Duane--back to his new wife. Rafael--back to Bank Street to join
his newborn daughter and his perfect wife. Bucky--for more drinks and
probable coke somewhere in Brooklyn. Their chiding voices continued as I
stood there alone a little buzzed from the weed, looking out over the lawn
in the darkness while finishing a cigarette, a witness to my new future
life.

My best friend Ben, however, always the last to leave, is still down in the
kitchen where I had left him, eating leftover pizza, talking to some dude
on the phone. I walk through the dark house back downstairs to join him to
find that my son is now with him. Of course the little deviant is no longer
in bed but instead fully awake and gyrating like he's possessed to the
rhythms of A$AP Rocky rapping on the stereo system.

"Hahaha, Max is a little freak on the dance floor. Go get jiggy with it,
son, hahahaha," Ben says.

I can smell that He has been smoking more weed even though I told him not
to do it in front of Max. Ben gets off the stool glassy-eyed and starts
dancing with him.

"Crank that shit, bro!" (meaning the volume) "Oh, sorry, I keep forgetting
about my mouth, I mean... crank it up. Your boy is pimpin' here--aren't
you, Max, brother?"

Little Max, in the camouflage pajamas, has his arms raised from his
sides. They have become wings as he now moves across the floor like an
airplane. The flight course he has set includes intentionally bumping into
Ben and me in its loose figure-eight pattern. I'm not quite feeling the
scene, but trying to be cool with it, I turn the volume up just a bit and
go over to the refrigerator and open another beer.

Coming out of the speakers:

" `Cause I'm always talking fly shit, fashion be the topic.  That's why all
these hoes wanna hop and jump on my dick.  Then she looked at me and said
how lower can your eyes get?  Let me know who's chipping in this before I
cop it."

I'm standing there watching my son Max cutting loose in a wholly unfamiliar
way. It seems a part of him which has all this time laid dormant is being
unleashed tonight. There is none of his usual watchful hesitation. Around
my friend, he has become uninhibited, a willing participant.

"I've never seen Max buggin' so hard. He really likes you, Ben." It comes
out of my mouth before I realize it and as soon I hear my voice above the
music, I wish I hadn't made the statement. The weed is making me feel
paranoid, or just kind of weird with everything.

"It's `cause he needs to hang with a real homie, ain't that right, son?"
Ben grabs my beer and takes a big swig.

I go get another beer as the track ends and "Touch It" by Busta Rhymes
comes on.

"Touch it, Bring it, Pay it, Watch it, Turn it, Leave it, Stop, format it."

I had decided to turn off the stereo after the one track ended and take Max
back up to bed where a boy his age should be at this hour. But now, I
think--for better or worse--this might be in some way good for him. I mean,
he seems unusually... happy, one could even say. Besides, I reason, the
dancing will probably tire him to the point he will finally go to sleep. I
like seeing Max bonding with someone besides his nanny. If there's anyone
who's my main bud, it's Ben. He may not be a father's first choice for the
kind of man he'd like to see his own son look up to. Ben smokes too much
weed. He is pretty much a trust fund fuck-up. But at the end of the day,
he's one of the most decent guys a person could ever meet. He's probably
the only friend of mine with whom I can talk about the deep personal
stuff. He knows the real story about Jean--way more than anyone else. He
knows about most everything I've been going through, all except my
increasingly alarming situation with Max. Ben may be a very open-minded
person but there's private stuff I'm certainly not about to go sharing with
him. Like I know there are things about himself he doesn't talk to me
about. Actually, it makes perfect sense Max is connecting with him. When it
comes down to it, Ben is still a kid himself.

Ben is now copping the move of his idea of a gangsta stance. He is looking
down at Max with this ice-grill expression on his face. His hips are thrust
forward. The words continue to pour out explicitly filling the room:

"When I come, I be doing it and doing it well.  Then I beat up the coochie
and be making it swell."

Little Max has a crazy grin on his face. He is grabbing some fabric of each
of Ben's pants legs in his fists and is swaying back and forth looking up
at him. I'm sitting down, realizing I'm pretty toasted but feeling pretty
good.

Ben looks over at me and winks and pulls my son up in his arms. "Come 'ere,
you crazy fucker."

"Come on, dude, watch your language--please!"

"Bill, I'm so sorry. I keep forgetting. Seriously though, it's not like
Max's not hearing about `ho's gettin' banged and sh-stuff." Max is now
clutched against Bill's chest with his legs wrapped around his waist as Ben
begins spinning around.

As the track fades out I go over to change the playlist. Jean's playlists
are still all over iTunes. More than half of them are hers. As my eyes scan
down through them all, trying to decide the right thing to play, it feels
like she is in the room gently mocking me. One of her selections would
probably be the perfect choice to chill me out but I can't find it. Nothing
feels right and I want to call it a night. So instead, I simply hit the
pause button and everything is stilled. I turn around and find Max has
Ben's middle finger in his mouth sucking on it. Each of their gaze is
mutually locked while my son continues to suck it. Ben apparently seems OK
with what is happening for his eyes are glued with interest to my son's
mouth while he methodically slides his bony digit slowly in and out between
his lips. I am momentarily frozen in place while I think of what to say. I
can feel a trickle of sweat running its way down the back of my neck.

"You ready for your milk, monkey?" I hear my voice trying to sound natural
breaking the silence in the now very silent room.

The kitchen counters are strewn with empty shot glasses and beer cans,
dirty plates, pizza boxes, an uneaten salad and Max's carton of
milk. Through the windows I can see the pool lights are on. The pool and
the tree branches above glow blue.

I move quickly for Max's bottle in the dishwasher.

I hear Ben say in a slightly blurred voice, "I think your son thinks my
finger is a..." then pausing to give the thought more consideration before
he continues stammering, "Max... I think... he thinks my finger is a like
a... tit. He must be a titty-man like his old man, dude."

His eyes seek mine out for the safety of an agreement.

"He always does that when he's getting sleepy, it just means he's ready for
his milk and then bed. Don't freak out, bro."

I make an attempt at a chuckle. My palms are damp as I'm screwing the top
back on Max's bottle after filling it with warm milk I just microwaved.

"It's cool, you're just thirsty, right, baby boy?" Ben says. He then leans
in and plants a loud kiss on his forehead. Looking back at me, "I love this
cute little freak!"

Max snuggles into Ben. I'm kind of amazed how Ben is acting so
indifferently towards Max's freakishness. But my wariness of having people
around my son for extended periods of time is intensifying as each minute
passes. I have to get him to bed as soon as I can manage.

"Yes, Max is a big boy now and needs to drink from a sippy cup, not a
bottle, right son? You're not going to be drinking from a bottle much
longer are you little guy? "

Max looks into Ben's face as I hand him the bottle, "Daddy doesn't like me
to drink from my bottle anymore. He's mean."

"Daddy isn't mean, he loves you and knows what's good for you. Hey
bonehead, after you drink your milk, you want to go up and show Ben your
T-Rex? Ben, let Max down, he's too big to carry, you're getting tired of
holding him, surely."

Then Max says coolly, audibly, "Ben's not tired, He's strong." I watch as
he feels up Ben's bicep like he does mine. "He's got guns like you, daddy."

With mounting stress, my mind is becoming occupied with the feat of finding
ways to make light of each new surprising situation as it presents
itself. So I down the rest of my beer, place it on the counter, then with
exaggeration swagger comically over to the two of them and flex my bicep.

"Now feel this, son. See? Ben's got nothing on your dad. These, my boy, are
guns. Not like Ben's. His are like a little girl's."

And actually, it is the truth. It's kind of unfair to compare my buddy's
physique to mine. Ben's a party boy, but me? I've always worked hard on my
body, from mixed martial arts fighting to boot camp training, like
everything I put my mind to, I'm proud of the results. I'd be lying if I
said I wasn't.

As Max starts feeling my fully-flexed sixteen-inch bicep, I pull him off of
Ben's lap who's now sitting on the stool and swing my boy back to his
feet. Ben gives me a smirk.

"Yeah, whatever. I got muscle where it counts," says Ben.

He continues to look at me with that smirk on his face but his eyes are
studying mine like he's picking up on something. Ben always has this way
when he's getting loaded -- his facial expressions and words often weighted
with intimations. He thinks he's got it all figured out and starts reading
into everything.

Max leans back over into Ben, sucking on his bottle and rests his head on
Ben's thigh, with his eyes glazed like they always do when he's sucking
like he's getting high from it. I'm getting more beer for Ben and myself
when I realize Max's little hand is resting on Ben's crotch, kneading it
like a kitten does when it nurses.

Ben looks at me and lets out a surprised laugh. "Jesus, what the fuck?
Hahaha."

"No, Max. Stop that." I yank him away and turn him to face me. I crouch
down so I'm on eye-level. Max, be careful where you touch people. People
don't like you to touch them there." I grab my crotch. "Here, Max. This is
a person's private area, we don't touch other people there."

Max blurts out, "But Daddy, you... you..." And then his eyes tear up and
the waterworks commence.

Ben, always the peacemaker, interjects, "It's nothing, kid. Don't worry
about it. It's all good. You didn't know, buddy." Ben looks at me, his head
cocked, like I'm the one, not my son, who has crossed a line. "Bill, he's
just a kid. Whatever, dude. It's cool."

I grab onto both of Max's arms. "No, it's not cool. You don't do that
son. It's alright, you didn't know. Daddy's not mad at you."

Max is blubbering, tears streaming down his face, looking up at Ben, trying
to catch his breath between sobs.

I pull him up into my arms. "Okay, buster, that's enough. Time for bed. Ben
wants you to introduce him to T-Rex up in your room. It's OK, monkey-monk,
don't you want to show Ben your T-Rex?"

I'm searching Ben's face, my eyes round, trying to display disbelief of the
weird thing my son just did. "Yo, grab those beers and let's take Monkey up
so he can show you his pet dinosaur. Max, stop your crying, nobody is
mad. You're our bud. Let's go up and show Ben your new dinosaur."

Holding him, I can now smell the giveaway trace of urine. Of course--I was
expecting it. When Max gets upset he pisses himself to get back at me. I
don't say anything, I just want to get Max to bed--out of sight. Again and
again, Max demonstrates to myself and whoever is around the strangeness of
what our relationship is becoming. It's like he's on a mission to humiliate
himself and fuck his father up.

"Actually, Ben, I'm going to give Max a quick bath, so stay down here and
roll one up. I'll be back down in a minute after I put him to bed. Let's
go, buddy."