Date: Fri, 05 Mar 2004 19:46:21 -0500
From: A. Cheshire Cat <kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com>
Subject: Who Needs Bryan

If you would like to comment on this tale, kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com
is how to reach me. I just whipped this up after a few months of writer's
block and it took about 30 minutes, tell me what you think.

Who Needs Bryan
By A. Cheshire Catt
March 5, 2004

I'll say I was about ten or so when this took place. Stereotypically, of
course my mother was out of the picture; she was in a trailer park somewhere
down south selling crack from her purse. My brother was gone too, always one
step ahead of the law, warned never to come home I had a feeling I'd never
see him again. My father and I lived in a small bungalow on a road by the
river and the nearest neighbor were friends of his, their son came over from
time to time to watch a movie or something with me.
I was a scrawny little guy, all my bones showed, and I had a mop of brown
hair that always seemed just a bit too long to be stylish. I didn't wear the
best clothes, I didn't have the coolest toys, but I wasn't a nerd or
anything, I was just a bit of a loner. Really, the kid down the road, the
neighbor's son, Bryan, he was my only friend. I didn't care. I think my
father worried though, I think he thought I was destined to be a creepy
geek, always picked on and bullied for money.
And oh yes, the topic of money, I mean, how did we live? My father worked
for a small real estate firm in town, he wasn't rich, he wasn't one of the
big wigs, nor did he actually ever sell houses. He lingered around the
office all day, answering questions trying not to stick his neck out, and
then he'd come home and make supper for me. He was good to me, I loved him,
he loved me, and he gave me everything he could. A great sadness permeated
our place though, like the shadows from the tall trees outside, always
something damp and dark was lingering in our house. It was his boredom. I
wouldn't truly appreciate his situation until I someday had a very dull job
and had to go through the mundane rituals of everyday living with a sense of
nausea.
Our routine at home was simple. During the summer holidays, as it was at the
time of this story, I just stayed at home all day and watched television,
doing the odd jobs that my dad said I could handle. This was to earn my
allowance. It wasn't much of an allowance but the nickels and dimes gave me
the sense of freedom that as a young man I needed. When he'd come home I'd
have made sure the house was clean and that his beer was ready for him. We
watched the news and ate supper out of a box. After supper he'd say I could
Bryan over and I'd call him, and if he was home he'd come, sure, my Dad was
super cool in his opinion: because he smoked weed. Bryan often thought that
simply sitting in the same room as the man smoking the joint was like
smoking it himself. Dad never let me smoke it, I had no desire to smoke it,
nor did he have any intention of giving it to Bryan, despite the young guy's
curious, if not zealous staring. And we'd watch television for a while and
then Dad would say, "That's it kids, I'm off to bed. Don't be too late going
home Bryan."
"Sure thing," Bryan would always say. He'd stay. We'd try to find something
on television with a little bit of nudity and then drool over it in
fantasies until finally boredom and time encountered us and sent him packing
and me off to bed.
Then, one night, things started to change.
When Dad got home he seemed exhausted from the heat. He was distractedly
shifting in his seat and avoiding eye contact with me. I asked him if there
was anything wrong, over and over again, but the only thing I got from him
eventually was more or less a command to bring Bryan over.
I called up Bryan and he started coming over. Dad sat in his chair and
complained about the heat. No, we hadn't gotten an air-conditioner. When it
got hot in the depths of summer, the living room, our house, the area got
entirely thick with humidity and it was almost unbearable. He started
itching and I couldn't help but watch him. He seemed frustrated and finally
removed his shirt and sat at the end of the couch, sort of lounging. I told
him I'd get one of the fans from the bedroom. I was all about pleasing my
father, I loved him most of all when he was happy, and when he was happy
with me he would give me a little smile that said so much.
When I arrived in the living room with fan in hand, he had stripped to his
underwear, white jockeys. He was tan, he often went down to the beach to lay
about in his thong and get a crimson tan, but outside it was something
different than what it was in the living room: in the small hot room it
seemed like he was revealing something to me.
I plugged in the fan and the blades began purring and sighing and a breeze
fell on his chest. He gasped, and the noise he made startled me and I
jumped. He smiled that smile that I love.
"Are you nervous, you seem all jumpy tonight little guy."
"No, not really."
He decided then to roll his joint. "I was so hot," he declared.
"Are you better now?"
"Almost."
I have to say it was most curious "almost" I'd ever heard.
Bryan came in then, without knocking as usual and upon noticing my father on
the couch in his underwear he calmly said, "Wow, are you hot sir?"
"Aren't you -- or do little boys not get hot?"
	Bryan was older than I was, he was probably about thirteen, be didn't need
to be called a little boy anymore. He kind of laughed, but he couldn't take
his eyes away from the pile of weed on the coffee table.
I offered Bryan something to drink and got him a Coke in the same breath.
When I got back he was sitting at the other end of the couch, which was so
weird. He always lay on the floor with me, bellies down, butts wavering up
in the air.
I turned the channels and found some sitcom, probably the Cosby Show or
something ridiculously ironic like that. I ignored my so-called friend and
my father because I felt like they were only paying attention to each other.
All I heard then was, "Do you want some?"
"Sure."
I rolled my eyes and felt like pouting, but I was being a man about it. I
was, after all, a whole whopping ten. I listened to Bryan coughing and
everything, laughing hysterically after only a puff.
"You smoke like a pro little guy. Son, do you want some?"
"No Dad." I couldn't believe he'd let himself stray from his routine so much
in one night. What next I wondered?
I sternly watched the television but I kept getting distracted by the banter
of the hyper-chatter of one stoned Bryan.
Dad kept telling him to calm down and just watch television, but it seemed
that was the last thing he wanted to do.
I was so angry with my father, I couldn't believe he'd ruined my night.
Suddenly Bryan said, "I'm hot too. Can I take my clothes off like you?"
"Uh, sure, just don't tell your mom or dad."
"As if I'd tell them about this."
He fought with his shirt, tugged off his pants, as if to be quickly the same
as my father. I hated him now too. He sat there on the end of the couch and
laughed at everything the television said to the point that I nearly
snapped.
I looked up once or twice when things went quiet to see Bryan staring at the
television while tickling Dad's ankles. Dad was looking at Bryan in a weird
way. The air was electric, but then it was calming down.
"See, bud," my Dad suddenly said, and I looked at him, "that's why it's not
as cool as he thought." I looked over at Bryan who'd fallen asleep in his
underwear. Dad said he'd call Bryan's parents and tell them Bryan was
spending the night. He told me to haul the kid into my room and put him
under the covers and sleep with him in his bedroom, so as to avoid
disturbing Bryan.
I whined, but then I decided it would be fun, and his room was so much
cooler than mine, so I got a little excited.
In about twenty minutes I was standing in the door to my Dad's room. The
house was dark and quiet, there was only the thick heat and the technical
wheeze of the fan and a spray of cool moonlight across his white sheets. He
said from the pillow, "Come on, don't be shy."
I hopped across the room, rubbing my tired eyes, and climbed in. I could
smell his cologne and the weed and the sweat from his lower body. He told me
to take of my clothes because I would be too hot tonight. I hesitated. He
laughed, "Don't make me take them off you." He didn't wait though, he
grabbed at the wait line of my pjs and tugged them down. I laughed too
because it tickled. He fought, I squirmed, and soon I was naked. He said,
"Now, isn't that better." I sighed, yawned too.
"I love you Dad."
"I love you too Bud."
He leaned over and kissed my forehead. I reached up and grabbed the hot,
rough side of his jaw, and it all seemed so natural then, I can't even
explain it, he just kissed me on the lips. I loved him and that's all there
is to explain about it.
He pulled away.
He touched me then in my private spot, he grinned in the darkness, my little
pecker had gotten hard like a knitting needle. In his hands, so big and hot
and foreign to that part of me, I ached for something more. I bean grinding
him like a cherubic demon, and he threw his arms around and pulled himself
onto me. He told me to touch him like he had touched me. My small hand could
barely grip his big cock, but I distinctly felt that it was all wet.
Instinctively I licked it all off my hand. He started jerking his pole under
the sheets, but being as curious as I was I threw the sheets off and stared
at him pulling on his massive, dark, uncut meat.
I went down to kiss it, he groaned. "Lick it boy." He stopped jerking
himself and let me put tongue on it, it was super hot, I put my lips around
the searing, juicy head and sucked. He cringed. "There's so much we can do
together son, I love, I will show you what love is."
"Who needs Bryan anyway?"
"I love only you son, don't worry about it."
He jerked his meat more and more while watching me copy him. I wasn't about
to blow a load but that would only take about another eighteen months. When
he came, it shot up into my face and went in my mouth. I jerked my cock for
him like I was about to do the same. He told me to relax, hushing me,
getting up to get a wash cloth and laughing a little. Then, once back in
bed, he lay next to me and I felt safe and cool in the wild heat of that
summer night.