Date: Tue, 14 Jan 2003 10:23:10 -0500
From: Taylor Siluwe <taylorsiluwe@earthlink.net>
Subject: "Grandma's Hands"  Part 7

Grandma's Hands
Copyright  2002 by Taylor Siluwe
Part 7

Louis Carrera, a.k.a. Little Cee, a.k.a. Louie absently scratched his ass
as he stood naked in front of his desk staring at one of the flat screens.
He sipped his coffee and waited for the stats to register.

On one screen,
a scrolling marquee screensaver announced . . . Little Cee's House,
while on the other a tracking program was running. In a moment, some
numbers appeared on the screen denoting activity over the last 24
hours. He leaned closer and a broad grin took over his features.

"Yes!" he shouted, almost spilling coffee into his keyboard. It wouldn't
have been the first time. According to the figures, BoyNet.net had
acquired seventy-nine new subscribers. Seventy-nine! After a week of
limited activity, the new figures were great. Apparently his recent
optimization, search engine marketing efforts and his ingenious deal with
BoyMagoa sleazy rag which publishes a few pictures of his models in
exchange for free advertisingowere paying off big-time.

"Ka-ching!" he yelled, imagining gold coins falling from the sky.
After years of teaching himself the intricate details of designing,
optimizing and maintaining commercial sites, he'd finally gotten his own
site off the ground. Who needs college when you have the internet?
Only three months since its debut, Boy Net was well on its way to
being a financial success. The cyber-sex biz was a multi-billion dollar
industry and, unlike his other entrepreneurial activities, legal. He
dropped to the mahogany stained wood floors and did push-ups in
triumph. When he reached fifty, he put one arm behind his back and
continued.


"Pain," he chanted, ". . . is just weakness leaving the body." He
switched arms and continued his mantra. When he was spent, he stood
and admired himself in the mirror. His long black hair, usually in a
ponytail, was wild about his shoulders. His muscled though lean and
diminutive physique glistened with sweat. He smiled.


He took great pride in taking care of his body. Scattered about the loft
were various workout equipment, which also worked as props for
some of his photo shoots. His loft doubled as a studio and since he was
the only official employee of Boy Net, all the profits went straight into
his pocket. By his twenty-third birthday, he would have the car that he
always felt he deserved; after all, he has always been a Ferrari type of
guy.


He'd heard long ago that in order to achieve success or to reach a
certain height, first you had to imagine it . . . or rather, pretend you are
already there. For a few years he'd given just that . . . the perception of
success. His cavernous loft was an example, though avoiding eviction
and maintaining his status quo had been a private monthly battle. Now
the dark clouds were beginning to part and he felt like celebrating.


His bare feet slapped across the cold floor. Next to the stereo was a
large wooden box, in which various pharmaceuticals resided: bottles of
ecstasy, Viagra, speed, and baggies full of hydro and cocaine. It was
mainly for nervous Boy Net cherries leery of getting raunchy for the
camera. Although, as his eyes glanced over the collection, he
remembered the time he and his business partner, Kyle, had tested the
potency of the X together.


Fuck Kyle. He wasn't as large as he liked to think, but he'd soon find
out. Louie shook the thought from his brain, grabbed the hydro and
rolled a fat joint.


As he smoked it, he stood in front of the mirror again. Try as he might,
he just couldn't seem to gain weight. His slight 5' 6" frame and long hair
combined to give him an almost feminine look, which he
overcompensated for by being aggressive and short tempered. Not that
he was fearful of anyone, because aside from his self-taught cyber skills
he was also a black-belt in Jeet Kune Do. A life-sized poster of the
master of this discipline, Bruce Lee, hung beside the mirror. Louie
mimicked the pose exactly, minus the slashes and trickles of blood. He
wondered how Bruce felt about puffin' trees?


As he considered this the buzzer rang. He glanced at the clock. Only
eleven. A shoot was scheduled for later in the afternoon, but maybe one
of the principles had arrived early. They always wanted to hang out
before and after, possible trying to get on his good side. He didn't
object. The buzzer rang again, insistently this time.
He slipped into a pair of red, white and blue Tommy lounge pants and
answered the buzzer.


"It's Sonny."

He didn't recognize the name or the voice, but he buzzed him up
anyway. He lit an incense cone on his desk while he waited, the scent of
sandalwood mingled with the pot. Glancing at his `To Do' list, he ran a
finger over the names of the young `models' he expected to arrive this
afternoon. No Sonny.


He walked over to the large metal door to greet his guest. Disengaging
the lock, the door slid noisily on its track revealing the dusty corridor
beyond which lead to the elevator. Almost on cue, the elevator opened
and out stepped a lanky kid who Louie instantly recognized. He was a
hustler who had agreed to pose awhile back. He'd signed a release
saying that he was eighteen, but Louie didn't believe him. But the kid
was mad cute with these haunted large almond-shaped eyes that played
well with the camera. So fuck it. `Your Honor, he said he was
eighteen!'

Sonny swaggered up with hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans and
said, "Hey you. I would've called, but I lost your number and just took
a chance." He smiled then looked at the floor.

Louie had seen that smile before on many faces. The kid wanted
something and would probably do whatever it took to get it.
"Sonny. Haven't seen you in a minute," Louie said, patting him on the
shoulder, "C'mon in. Where you been, kid?"

"Uh, around."

Louie didn't know very much about Sonny. But he looked good and his
clothes were new so he clearly wasn't living on the street. He didn't
look drugged out or anything either, though his eyes looked more
haunted than usual. Something was on his mind. He watched Sonny
stroll into the loft, glancing around and trying to appear casual. He
wondered how old he really was as he closed the heavy door. The lock
engaged with the distinct sound of a dungeon being sealed.

"So, Sonny, what's on your mind?"

Sonny turned and asked, "You got anything for the head?" The
question was rhetorical because even with the burning sandalwood
incense, the air was heavy with the pungent hydro. Unless he needed
something else?

"I might be able to find something," Louie said, lounging on the ratty old
sofa that he'd found on the trash. He stuck his hand beneath the
waistband of his lounge pants, idly playing with his meat as he studied
Sonny.

Sonny just stood there, hands still deeply entrenched in his pockets,
eyebrows almost knitted together in the center. His physique was
similar to Louie's but he was taller, maybe 5' 11''. Long torso and
broad narrow shoulders, pants several sizes too big barely cinched on
his thin hips so that they slipped down to the curve of his ass and hung
precariously there. If he wanted to, he could wiggle his hips a bit and
they would drop to the floor. He was not muscular, but with the tiny
waist and broad shoulders he had the perfect V shape that Boy Net
subscribers loved so much. Louie had taken a few snapshots before,
but now he wanted more. A full spread including several location shoots
. . . someplace tropical . . . his new subscribers would like that. He had
to think big now. There was nothing like a little nubile beauty in a
paradise setting . . . Booty and the Beach. He had been thinking of
taking a short trip to the Caribbean to clear his head and to forget about
that asshole, why not make it profitable?

Kyle. Wouldn't he just shit a fireball if he got a picture post card of
Louie and Sonny skinny-dipping in a private lagoon with a caption that
said, `Wish you were here, but you're too busy being you.' Louie
smiled at the thought. Mixing business with pleasure can be awesome . .
. fuck what'cha heard.

"Is that where you keep it?" Sonny asked, his eyes gesturing toward
Louie's crotch. His mind had wandered a bit, and at some point his
dick had turned into a pole which was now making a visible tent in the
loose fabric.

He looked at Sonny. "Is that what you came here for . . . to get high?"
Louie smiled, not at all embarrassed by his erection. After all, they were
both in the sex business so what's the big whoop? He wiggled it a bit.

"Naw, but," Sonny fidgeted, "Shit's kinda fucked up for me right now.
I had to get away from home. I don't wanna . . . ." His words trailed off
and his eyes returned to the floor.

"Sit down," Louie ordered, patting the sofa with his free hand. Sonny
cut his eyes from the floor to Louie and stared for a second, and then
strolled over and sat. "So you were saying something. You don't wanna
what?"

Sonny shook his head slowly, seemingly lost in several thoughts at once,
hunkered low in the cushy old sofa. "I just . . . I don't know . . . my life
is real weird right now. I just don't . . . I don't wanna . . . you know."
He cut a quick glance in Louie's direction.

"Go home?" Louie finished the sentence for him, "You don't wanna go
home?"

Sonny sat quietly then said, "Yeah, that. And I don't wanna talk about
it and I don't wanna think about it. I just don't wanna think at all." He
turned to Louie, "You know what I'm sayin'."

Louie nodded, "I think I do." Looking into Sonny's sad eyes, his
stomach gurgled a bit and he was surprised when he had to look away.

"Look, Sonny, you know what I do for a living, right?"

"Yeah."

"And you wanna chill here for awhile?"

"Yeah."

"Uh-huh. Well, nobody gets a free ride," he returned his gaze to Sonny, "You know what I'm saying?"

"Yeah. I understand. That's cool."

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen, I told you already."

"When were you born?"

"Uhh . . . ."

"Don't fuckin' lie to me. How old are you really?"

Sonny lowered his head, "Seventeen."

"Don't ever lie to me, Sonny. Lying would be the worst thing you could
ever do, you feel me?" Kyle invaded his thoughts for a nanosecond . . .
that muscular, dread-locked son-of-a-bitch.

"Yeah, I feel you. I'm really seventeen, you wanna see some I.D.?"
Sonny rummaged in his pocket and produced a driver's license. He
was telling the truth. He was almost eighteen.

"Are you in school?" Louie asked, passing the license back.

"Just graduated."

"College?"

"Nah, high-school."
Louie smiled, "I meant are you going to college?"

"Oh, I don't know," Sonny ran his fingers through his curly black hair,
obviously annoyed by the interrogation but knowing he has no choice
but to deal with it. Louie wondered about his heritage, he wasn't all
black. His exotic facial structure and hair hinted at an island ancestry . .
. possibly Haitian or maybe even Dominican. ". . . maybe one day, but
not now. I just need to make money right now."

"Where are you from, I mean, your family? You look like an islander."

"My mom was from Trinidad."

"Was? Did she pass?"

Sonny hesitated then nodded.

"Sorry to hear that."

"Ain't no thing, I ain't really know her."

Louie's mind wandered again. Yeah, he would look great naked under
a palm tree holding a coconut, maybe even squatting over two of them,
as if they were elephant sized testicles. Louie nodded and mumbled,
"Nice, very nice."

"Huh?"

"What? Oh, nothing. Over there by the stereo, there's a wooden box . .
. go get it." Sonny went and returned with it. "Put it down," Louie said,
gesturing toward the coffee table. "Now open it."

Sonny opened the lid and inspected the contents, "Daymmnnn!" He
picked up a bottle with about thirty pills in it, "What's this?"


"X . . . you ever drop it?" Louie inquired.

Sonny appeared lost in thought for a moment, then said, "Naw, I uh . . .
, no never." He quickly put it back and picked up a baggy with a large
amount of cocaine in it. "Is this . . . ?"

"Look, before things get crazy, let's get some shit straight, alright?"

"A'ight."

"Yes, that's blow, help yourself if it'll make you feel better. But if you
wanna stay here for awhile then that means you work for me and you'll
do what I tell you to do . . . whatever I tell you to do. Are you with me
so far?"

"I gotcha."

As Louie talked, Sonny opened the baggy, sniffed it
tentatively and then stared at it as if he didn't know what to do next.
Louie realized that he was wondering just that and reached into the box,
retrieving a tiny vial with a spoon attached. He filled the vial from the
baggy, as Sonny held it watching every move with a look of wonder.
He put the baggy back in the box and closed it. Holding the spoon to
Sonny's nostril he said, "Take a deep sniff."

Sonny did. They repeated the procedure with the other nostril. Sonny
slouched back on the sofa again, this time not looking at the floor or his
hands. He stared straight ahead with a blank look on his face which
slowly morphed into one of slight surprise, but then it softened, his eyes
half closed and a tear leaked down his cheek as if all his internal
pressed was trapped in that tiny globule of salt water and had finally
been released. Sonny literally sighed further down into the sofa.

"You okay, kid?" Louie asked, sliding closer and wiping away the tear.
His cheek felt like warm silk and he noticed Sonny's unusually long
eyelashes. Sonny nodded mechanically and a slight smile appeared.

"I've got a shoot scheduled for," he glanced at the clock, "Soon.
You're gonna help out with it. These guys, they think it's all about them,
but they just don't know. They try to act tough and shit, like they don't
enjoy a good stiff dick up their ass every now and then. Don't let them
intimidate you. You're here with me and they're just passing through,
right?"

Sonny's head lolled toward Louie and their eyes met. He was no longer
in a daze but he was clearly feeling no pain. Louie traced a finger over
his featuresothe bushy brows, the thin nose and little pink lips. Sonny
didn't seem to mind being touched. Louie leaned in and kissed him
lightly for the very first time, "You're here with me now, right?"

"Right," Sonny kissed him back, "Whatever you say, kid. I'll do
whatever you say."

As they kissed slowly, softly . . . almost absentlyolips pinching and
grabbing without tongue involvementoLouie realized that that was just
what he needed to hear. He needed to finally be the one in control. He
was no longer Kyle's boy . . . now he had one of his own. And even
though it had come about suddenly, Sonny had made more of an
impression on him at their first meeting than he'd been willing to admit
to himself. Seeing him saunter down the hallway toward him, it all came
back. He was so beautiful. Not just handsome or good-looking, he was
fucking beautiful. And even better, he wasn't conscious of his own
beauty. He was the type of guy who you wanted to kiss slowly . . . like
this . . . for a very long time. He was the type of guy who could almost
make you cum just by touching his lips to yours.

Almost.

Louie gripped Sonny lightly by the back of his neck, applied gentle
pressure and Sonny went down without resistance. Louie pulled the
drawstring of his pants, pulled the loose cotton down and freed his
erection.

Louie didn't want to think either. He didn't want to think about Kyle or
why that bastard never seemed to see how he really felt about him.
Always taking and taking but never giving anything in return. Yeah, he'd
give you the long hard one whenever you wanted it, but nothing else. All
the years they'd known each other, they never had a quiet, intimate
moment on a cushy old sofa, lips pinching and nibbling without tongue.
It was always wham, bam, thank you Little Cee, now go out and make
that money. Yeah, he'd moved Kyle's drugs long enough. His days of
being a distant unappreciated number two were over. Kyle would learn.
And those dreams that Kyle had for opening his exclusive health club,
ironically called, Club Narcissus, were already in the toilet. Louie was
just waiting for the appropriate moment to flush. That cold-hearted
muthafucka was gonna gag.

He ran his fingers through the curly-haired, slowly bobbing head.
Thoughts of Kyle faded away and were replaced by Sonny's angelic
face. Sweet, not so innocent and clearly up to something Sonny, had no
idea who he was dealing with. Louie had been schooled by the master
of all manipulators. So whatever game the kid was planning to run,
Louie was sure that he would see it coming miles away. But if that
failed, he would drop-kick Sonny's beautiful ass clear into another
state.

He cleared his mind of all thoughts, and said, "Wait. Take your clothes
off. I wanna see you."

Sonny sat up, "A'ight." He took several sniffs from the vial and began
to undress. His eyes turned glassy, his expression euphoric.

"Then I'm gonna fuck you. You don't have problem with that, do you? `Cause I won't do anything that you don't wanna do."

Sonny stood there in his boxers, his erection poking through the
opening. Another tear rolled down his cheek. Louie wondered about it,
but only for a moment. "Whatever you want," Sonny whispered as if it
were only half-true, "Like I said before." He started to remove the
shorts.

"No, don't. Leave those on for now. You look so sexy like that. Oh
wait, don't move." Louie popped up and came back with his camera,
snapping pictures from all angles. He removed his lounge pants and sat
wide-legged on the sofa still holding the camera. "Okay, take them off
real slow, then come here and get back to what you were doing."
As Sonny did as he was told, Louie clicked away recording every
moment for posterity.

-----------------------------------------------------------------


Little Man was leaving, said he had to do some shit and would be back
later. Zeke was glad the kid was gonna be out of his hair for awhile; his
presence was a distraction that he found difficult to overcome. His
sweet little body was literally a dream come true, almost like a lethal
narcotic. He'd never indulged in the fruits of a youthful male before, or
any other male for that matter, and had he known how intoxicating it
would be, he would have done it way back when during his first go-
round as a budding man. Now, with Little Man rummaging around in
the living room looking for his missing sock, he could force himself back
into reality and try to deal with this situationosolving Rachel's riddle.
Reality. How exactly does one get back to reality when circumstances
are so very unreal?

`Sonny will know.'

What the fuck did that mean? The boy was so freaked out by this
whole thing that Zeke doubted if he would ever come around
completely. Sonny was totally disrespecting his authority now, not that
he ever really gave his old grandpa much credit for knowing what's best
for him. Zeke sat heavily at the kitchen table, lit a cigarette and
considered this.

He was partly to blame for Sonny running wild. At his age, it is tough to
. . . or rather, it was tough to work up too much passion for anything.
He just basically gave Sonny advice, and then sat back in his chair, `let
go and let God' as he liked to say. Now it seems that by `letting God'
he'd allowed Sonny to drift into prostitution and pornography and Lord
knows what else. The possibilities made him sick to his stomach. And
how could he not have known that Little Man had been sleeping in
Sonny's room, night after night, right under his nose. He wracked his
brain but still couldn't come up with one memory of ever suspecting
such a thing. He had sensed that Little Man was somewhat `sweet', but
he'd never taken it a step further. Not once did he even consider that
Sonny might be wrestling with that same demonothe one that Zeke
himself had managed to subdue for his entire life, though not without
great effort and constant vigilance.

There was a time though, when the demon damn near killed him.

Benjamin Tyler.

Zeke shook his head and smiled sadly. His mind hadn't strolled down
that lane in decades. After all these years, thoughts of Benji still made
his stomach swim. With Benji came thoughts of the big white house and
the magnolia trees. He remembered the swing on the porch which he
wasn't supposed to use. He remembered the huge kitchen with its flurry
of activity, where he would sometimes help his mom chop vegetables
for dinner.

"Not so big, baby, Mr. Steve don't want no big peppers in his stew."
His mother would say, having no idea he always did it wrong on
purpose. "No, no, Ezekiel, Lord help me. Let me do it. Why don'cha
you go find Mr. Benjamin, see if he need some help wit' somethin'."

`Mr. Benjamin' was the fifteen year old son of the owner of the house,
Steven Henry Ignatius Tyleroa real estate baron who also owned half
the county. His mom was the live-in cook/maid and his father was the
butler. Zeke had grown up in that house and was the same age as Benji.
Despite their obvious differences and to the chagrin of most people,
black and white, they were friends.

"Okay, Ma," Zeke said almost too eagerly, hopping off the stool and
weaving his way through the rest of the kitchen staff and out into the
garden. Mr. Steve was giving a dinner party that night and everyone
was on edge. His temper was notorious. One slip up, for most of the
staff, and it would be their last day on the job. His mom and dad
however, had been their since forever and had a special relationship
with Mr. Steve. They remembered when Benji's mother, Miss Evelyn,
was still alive. Zeke's mother always described her as a `good white
woman'. Maybe Miss Evelyn was so close to his mom because they
both gave birth to their only children about the same time. Two
bouncing boysoone rich, one poor . . . one blond-haired and blue
eyed, one curly dark-haired with large almond eyes . . . both beautiful.
All babies are beautiful, until life makes them ugly.

Zeke made his way quickly through the garden, being chronically in a
hurry, leaping over various tools carelessly left lying about by Marcus
the gardener. He turned the corner like a shot heading for the front of
the house and crashed into Marcus.

"Whoa, whoa . . . where yous goin' so fast? Is the Klan at'cha?"

Marcus said, lifting Zeke easily off his feet in an uncomfortable
embrace. Zeke squirmed and Marcus smiled. The gardener was large
and muscular from a lifetime of heavy lifting, and his breathe always
smelled like tobacco and corn liquor.

Zeke hated Marcus and was a little afraid of him. He'd heard nasty
things about the hulking gardener, and cringed whenever he touched
him. He was cringing now as Marcus's rough hands clutched him in a
very curious way under the boughs of a large Magnolia.

"I gotta go. Mama said to get to Benj . . . uh, Mr. Benjamin." Zeke
pleaded as Marcus slowly lowered him to the ground.

"Your mama a good lady, raised a fine boy," Marcus said in his
gravelly tone, still holding Zeke close. The scent of tobacco, liquor and
sweat was overwhelming. He patted Zeke on the butt a few times and
squeezed. Then he lowered his voice. "Yes sirree, yous a fine lookin'
boy." Zeke continued to squirm and Marcus' smile broadened
displaying stained teeth.

Zeke looked around Marcus, said, "There's Mr. Steve," and waved.
Marcus broke away as if Zeke had suddenly become a rattlesnake, and
Zeke took off for the front. He leaped over the wooden railing
surrounding the front porch which ran the length of the grand house.
Zeke didn't realize how lucky he was to live there; it was all he'd ever
known.

One of the help, a young woman with tired eyes and a rag wrapped
around her head, sneered at him as he blew past straight into the foyer.
She paused her sweeping of the porch long enough to cast a side-long
glance of appropriate distain at Zeke, though she surely knew better
than to express anything. One word from either of his parents and she
would be out of a job.

Zeke instinctively slowed, lowered his gaze and contained his eagerness
when he approached the marble staircase. He had the run of the place,
but knew not to attract undo attention to himself. He always had to
appear to be on his way to do something, on an errand of some sort, a
tiny mission which had trickled down to him from Mr. Steve. He was
there yet he wasn'tototally `incog-negro'. It was just an ordinary day
in 1935 Georgia, with everyone knowing his or her place.

At the top of the stairs, he turned right, walking past several other
servants busy polishing silver and anything else that needed to shine. No
one looked at him. They lowered their heads as he passed. They knew
where he was going. Mr. Benjamin's rooms where just ahead beyond
the mahogany double doors. Zeke was about to knock when he heard
Mr. Steve's booming voice seep through the crack.

"You'll do like I tell ya, boy. Your mama's not around to coddle ya
now, God rest her soul, so I plan to make a man outta ya. Ya need
toughenin' up. Always out to the lake with that little darky trailin' behind
ya."

"But I like Zeke!" Benji's voice. "He's my best friend!"

"Ya make new ones at West Point. Real ones. Ya can't spend ya life
fishin' with that colored boy. That's jus' the way it is. I didn't make the
world; I jus' live in it." The door opened and Mr. Steve looked down
at Zeke, whose fist was frozen in mid-knock. "Oh, hello Zeke, we jus'
talkin' `bout ya." He placed a hand on Zeke's shoulder and turned
back to his son without waiting for a reply. "See, ya got ya coloreds,"
squeezing Zeke's shoulder as if for emphasis, "And they smart enough
to know their place. Then there's us regular folks, and we know ours.
This i'nt up for discussion Benjamin Tyler. I pulled a lotta strings.
You're goin' and that's the end o' it." Mr. Steve didn't talk much like a
white man. Zeke always thought that was pretty funny, though he dared
not say it.

"How you today, Mr. Steve? That's a fine suit ya got on. Ya look just
like the president of the United State o' America." Zeke smiled broadly
and glanced across the large room. The four-poster bed loomed in the
center. Benji was standing next to it in his long underwear. Benji
cocked his head, crossed his eyes and flopped over onto the bed as if
Zeke's phoniness was deadly. Zeke knew Benji hated it when he
kissed his father's ass, but couldn't help himself. It took great effort not
to snicker.

Mr. Steve straightened his portly torso, making his shoulders a little less
round. "Uh, thank-you Zeke, uh, well, keep this one out of trouble
today," pointing at Benji who was still dead on the bed. "He's off to
school soon." Benji groaned loudly.

"Yessir, Mr. Steve. I always take good care of Mr. Benjamin, yessir!"
Benji went into convulsions.

Mr. Steve cut a cold look in his son's direction, "Pay no mind to my
foolish son, ev'rything's a joke to him. Life's no joke, boy! Once I
learned that, I worked my way up from nuttin' to sump'in', jus' like
that," he snapped his sausage-like fingers. "Zeke here is smart `nough
to know that life's no joke. Right, Zeke?"

"Yessir, Mr. Steve, you right about that, I sho' do!" Benji's convulsions
subsided and he was just dead again.

"Dad," Benji's muffled voice rose from the pillow his face was buried
in, "You're so full of yourself. Could you get out now? I have things to
do."

"Zeke," Mr. Smith said turning toward the door, "if he should fall outta
the boat or sumpthin', don't save `im." Having said that, he strolled
through the door and slammed it behind him.

Benji's platinum blond head instantly popped up. "Lock it," he
ordered.

"I'm way ahead of ya," Zeke said, already turning the key. He went
over and plopped on the bed also. Benji immediately jumped up,
straddled Zeke and began smothering him with a pillow. Zeke laughed
beneath the goose down death-mask.

"Told ya I'd kill ya if you ever kissed Shit's fat ass in front of me again."
Benji said, loosing the battle with his own laughter for a second. He'd
nicknamed him Shit, once he realized that Steven Henry Ignatius Tyler's
initials said more about his father than anything else ever could. It was
also the reason why he loved telling the man that he was full of himself.

Benji removed the pillow and looked down at Zeke. Zeke's laughter
subsided. The late summer sun flooded the white room through its many
windows, and sheer white curtains billowed on the breeze. A ceiling fan
moved lazily above the boys as Benji remained straddled over Zeke, his
red union-suit unbuttoned to his navel. With the sun in his hair, his pale
blue eyes piercing like a pitch-fork, his narrow frame pressing on
Zeke's mid-section, Zeke's mouth grew dry and the blood rushed from
his head as if it were summoned elsewhere.

Benji's paleness frequently left him dumbstruck, but now, haloed in
sunlight, he reminded Zeke of a ghost . . . or an Angel in his drawers.
Zeke felt the bad thoughts coming.

"Why do you do that?" Benji asked, one hand crossing his chest and
resting on the opposite shoulder. There was sadness in his eyes, a
sadness Zeke had never seen in blue eyes before.

"What?" Zeke asked, not to be funny but because he hadn't heard the
question.

Benji licked his lips and turned his face toward the window
resting his chin on his hand, squinting against the blinding sunlight.
"You know what I mean. You only talk like that when he's around.
Why do always put on a show for `im?"

"'Cause he likes it. I coulda said, `good mornin', Shit', but he might not
`ve been happy wit' that." Zeke laughed but Benji just shook his head
and rode the wave. He was in a serious mood today. Zeke tugged at
his union-suit, another button came undone, and asked, "So you goin'
to school?" Zeke's eyes cut to the tiny translucent hairs which appeared
below Benji's belly button.

"Grrrrrr," Benji grumbled, "Like hell I am. I don't wanna talk about it
anyway." He bounced once as if to put a period on his sentence and the
subject. Another button broke free of its captor. He was prone to
tantrums and Zeke knew that he would discuss it no further. Little Shit
had spoken.

They remained that way in silence for awhile, Zeke following his gaze
through the window and out to the huge sunflowers blooming on the rise
in the distance. Mr. Steve owned all that land out there, even those
flowers.

"It's a shame to own a field of sunflowers and not go wanderin' in `em
every now and again, don'cha think, Zeke?" Benji said as if reading
Zeke's mind. "Shit don't see none o' that though. All he cares `bout is
pretendin' he wasn't born on a hog farm."

Zeke remembered playin' hide and seek in there once; Benji's white
hair kept giving him away. He was feeling strange about the position
they were in, but didn't want to say anything. Benji really wasn't heavy,
but his body heat was making Zeke sweat. And he was having those
thoughts. The ones he was gonna go to hell for. Then Benji moved a bit
and those thoughts rushed to his mid-section and he began to swell. He
would have prayed that Benji didn't feel it, but the Lord probably
wouldn't be too happy about that.

Benji bounced again, still staring out the window. "Are you listenin',
Zeke? You sure had lots to say wit' Shit in the room. Yessireeee, Mr.
Boss Man!"

Zeke had to laugh at that. Benji rode the wave again, but this time at
least he smiled.

"You think it's always gonna be like that?" Benji asked, looking down
and piercing Zeke with those eyes.

"Like what?"

"I mean, why did they free ya, only to keep treatin' ya like slaves?"

Zeke pondered the question for a moment. His momma told him that
`men like Mr. Steve wants us to be happy all the time so's he can feel
safe. So then maybe he won't get ground up glass in his stew.' But he
couldn't tell Benji that.

"I don't know, Benji," he said.

"I mean, what's the big deal anyway? Black, white, yella, they all jus'
colors right? What makes one better than th' other?" Benji kept staring
at him as if he expected some pearl of wisdom to roll out of Zeke's
mouth. However, it was dry as day old bread and there were no
precious stones in there.

 "Uhggggrrrrr," Benji grumbled again and
shivered, "How can you stand it? Folks treatin' ya different because
your skin is darker? That i'nt right, is it?"

"No, I reckon not." Zeke didn't know what else to say. Then a thought
occurred to him. "Maybe one day when you gets old you can change
things. Make it so's colored and white folks live together, and no body
better than anybody. Make it so's people like you and me can be
frien's wit' out nobody goin' cross-eyed or pitchin' a fit." Zeke smiled,
becoming lost in the fantasy web that he was spinning. Benji smiled too
and a tear sparkled in his eye. "Make it so's we can be up to the pond
fishin' and I wouldn't have to act like I's jus' there to carry stuff fo' ya."
"Like my big, black buck," Benji added, laughing now showing rows of
teeth miraculously whiter than his hair, the sadness momentarily put
aside.

"Make it so's we can go swimmin' and . . . ." Zeke stopped as if his
mind had thrown a spring.

"And what?" Benji whispered; his laughter dissipating.

There were no words for what Zeke wanted to say. Though he was far
from the smiling illiterate that he portrayed for Mr. Steve and all the
other `Mrs' in Macon County, one day there would be words in his
vocabulary to express his desire at that moment to just be free.
Completely freeofree to be Ezekiel Sinclair. Free to be with Benji
without having to hide in the brush whenever some white citizen of the
county happened upon the boys skinny-dipping in the pond, their fishing
poles lying unused by the waters edge. It was difficult to express the
mixture of joy and fear he felt when they were alone like that, in that
place, cool water caressing their bodies, summer sun warming their
souls, while at the same time nervous to the core that someone might
catch them. Someone might see a naked white boy frolicking with a
naked colored boy, giggling like lovers. But they wouldn't see
innocence and beauty and love because their minds were set and closed
to the possibility of such things. They wouldn't see two young people
who just weren't totally complete without the other. They wouldn't see
the bond that Zeke and Benji shared. It was buried too deep inside, like
an extra beating organ, and their superficial eyes refused to peer past
the surface, past the skin, past their complexions, past their sex. What
they would see was something vile, abhorrent, sinful . . . dirtyoas if
Zeke's nakedness was somehow a defilement of the saintly, angelic,
platinum haired prince of the manor . . . Macon County's own, `Little
Lord Shitleroy'.

But all he could say now was, "Ya know, jus' swimmin' and stuff."

Benji nodded slowly as if he'd once again read Zeke's mind. "Well, I
say screw `em, screw `em all. I don't care, I think you've got beautiful
skin, the most beautifulest skin I've eva' seen." Benji extended a hand
and stroked his cheek as if to reassure himself that his statement was

true.
A shiver raced from Zeke's cheek down the length of his body. Benji
smiled.

"Do ya like my skin?" Benji took Zeke's hand and placed it on his
chest, holding it lightly there, and then slowly taking it on a figure-eight
tour from left nipple to right and back again.

Zeke couldn't answer the question because his swelling had become
painful. It throbbed uncontrollably. Benji smiled again, his eyes closed
and his pale fingers laced with Zeke's brown ones. The hands traveled
downward now, over Benji's stomach with it's spoonful of baby-fat.
He tilted his blond head back. As the bi-colored fingers rigidly glided
down like ten narrow erections, his body lengthened and the fat sizzled
away. Benji's breathing deepened; the translucent hairs below his navel
stood at attention. The fingers were moving up again, pausing to circle
an undeveloped chest muscle and then proceeding up Benji's neck and
along the jaw line . . . pausing to inspect the tiny crease in his chin,
which made Zeke think of Benji's butt glistening with pond water.

While there, one emboldened brown finger broke away from the pack,
grazing back and forth over Benji's pink lower lip . . . the one which
protruded and trembled before one of his notorious tantrums.

Zeke was having difficulty breathing, his chest laboring in short gasps.
Suppressing the urge to grab Benji was causing his muscles to twitch.
There was a need in him clawing its way out. He desperately needed to
do things with Benji, though he didn't what those things were.

He thought he only needed to touch him. But now that he was, it wasn't
enough; the contact only made the need stronger, his head spin and his
stomach ache. He felt like he was dying and the only way to save
himself was to touch Benji more, get even closer than he was right now,
to squeeze into his long red underwear with him and stay there.

Benji opened his eyes and looked down at Zeke. "What was that?" he
whispered.

"What?" Zeke whispered back.

Benji made a tiny circle motion with his hips. Zeke throbbed again.

"That. Didn'cha feel that?" Benji leaned down close to Zeke, cheek to
cheek, and whispered, "If I was a girl, would ya do it t' me?"

Zeke nodded, still incapable of words. He wasn't exactly sure what
Benji meant by `do it'. Then he remembered when they saw two dogs
acting strange once, one on the other's hind parts. Benji told him they
were `doin' it'. So he guessed he was expected to do the sameoclimb
onto Benji's hind parts, pump really fast for three seconds or so, and
then walk away and lick himself. He didn't think he could do that last
part.

Benji was almost inaudible when he asked, "Wanna pretend? I won't
tell nobody, I swear."

Benji made the decision for them both like he always did. He began to
wiggle out of his union suit, freeing one shoulder then the next and
pushing the red cotton down to his waist. "Take those overalls off."
Benji ordered as he rolled over onto his back, lifting his hips and
removing the union suit completely and kicking it to the floor. Now he
sprawled out over the patchwork quilt, wearing the suit he was born to
wear, and watched Zeke undress.

When Zeke stepped out of his overalls, his erection stood out in front,
so rigid it angled up slightly toward the ceiling. Benji eyes were locked
on it. He sat up then crawled to the edge of the bed and looked more
closely at it as if he'd never seen one before. Benji looked up at Zeke
and then back down to his thing. Then he looked up again, his watery
eyes had a drowsy quality now and a faint smile tugged at his lips. He
licked them. His mouth began to open and he slowly went down again,
closing his eyes as he descended.

Zeke didn't know very much about this sort of thing, but he was pretty
sure what Benji was about to. But as gross as it was, who was he to
stop him? The excitement over what Benji was about to do had Zeke
visibly trembling and on the verge of passing out. The sharp intake of
air, that wheezing gasp which assaulted his ear was the only thing that
kept him on his feet, the only thing that plucked his mind from that
dream web he'd woven where everybody was the same and whatever
you wanted to do was okay. That simple sound from the far end of the
room reminded him of many frightening realities in an instantothat he
was black and the naked boy bent before his bobbing erection was as
white as they come . . . that he was a servant's boy about to about to
engage in an act, which must be a sin, with Macon county's angelic first
son . . . that if they were caught, he'd be deader than a Christmas
turkey come New Year's.

He turned his head and was reminded of another terrifying fact. Mr.
Steve was a crack shot. But as the man stood there in the doorway,
face beet red and fat cheeks quivering, the rifle slipped from his hand,
hit the floor and discharged with a nerve-shattering bang.

"Wake up," a familiar voice said, shaking his shoulder.

Zeke jumped up, eyes wild, "Benji!!" he shrieked.

"Who? Calm the fuck down, dawg, it's just me, Little Man." Malcolm
said, looking amused. "You fell asleep. I know you wasn't dreamin'
about that stupid dog from back in the day. Was you?

To be continue ....

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