Date: Fri, 22 Feb 2002 20:06:32 +0000
From: Java Biscuit <javabiscuit@hotmail.com>
Subject: Back to the Playground, finale

This is a story involving boy/boy, teen/boy, male/male
graphic sex and not intended for reading by minors. If
you are underage, or this type of material is illegal where
you live, please stop now, and go read something else!

This is a completely fantasized story meant only for the
purpose of pleasurable reading. It explores themes which
some readers may find offensive or disturbing. It's not
meant to encourage unsafe, unprotected sex, or to
condone sex with minors.


Feedback: javabiscuit@hotmail.com


Back to the Playground ~ Finale


by Biscuit


Technically speaking, the damn thing wasn't a dress.

I was jumpy as a cat, and shivery, in spite of the
flickering gas fire burning in the room's antique
fireplace, staring at the clothes I was about to get
hitched in.

There wasn't a soul who could have calmed me
down but Helen was doing her best. So strange, in
a way, that she should end up being the one to hold
my hand, so to speak.

Efficient as ever, it was Helen who found the
beautiful guest house, with eight distinctive suites
and a grand Victorian parlor, to host our wedding.
In essence, we'd rented the entire place, occupying
a Boston brownstone hotel for Christmas and the
wedding.

Helen had been corresponding with the owner
since fall, coordinating the room rentals, locating
the Unitarian minister, hiring the caterers. You
name it, she did it. With her own brand of anal
retentive attention to detail, that made me feel like
a blithering, scattered fool by comparison, she had
once again produced brilliant results, on my behalf.

We'd been out to my family since Skyler moved in
with me. Impossible to hide it. I won't say they
embraced it with open arms--they didn't. But the
lectures were few, and in time the boy that they'd
seen as an odd part of my life for so many years,
became ingrained in their minds and hearts as part
of our family.

At eighteen, a sophomore on scholarship at NYU,
Skyler turned heads like a model on a runway, a
fact to which he seemed unbelievably oblivious. He
was adorable in an unstudied way, more concerned
about his burning ambition to study veterinary
medicine than how he looked walking out the door
in the morning. On the other hand, why worry if
you look like he does?

Trent and Daryl were there for the wedding, along
with my sister, and both of my brothers. It was a
turning point for all of us with Greg. He'd kept distant,
seeming most comfortable with a continent between
himself and the rest of us, but Helen had insisted on
inviting him, and it turned out to be a good thing.

The four of us were together for the first time in
fifteen years,  since our mom's funeral. Only Helen
could've made it happen.

Greg wasn't with Marvin anymore. His current guy
was a hell of a lot more likable. An accountant, Jeff
was as straight laced as my brother, but very sweet,
and touchingly eager to see him renew contact with us.
We were all grateful to Helen, in the end, for bringing
us together. Odd, how often that happened. For all that
he was whipped, I'd come to appreciate what Karl had
found for himself with her.

If anything, what the kids in my family had in
common was a craving for stability. Lisa had yet to
find it. She was with yet another guy. He seemed nice
enough, but God only knows what he looked like. I
still didn't dare lay my eyes too long on any guy she
dated.

Trent's mom, and Charlotte were both there, too.
Charlotte was with the latest love of her life. She'd
fallen for a woman this time around, Josie, a karate
teacher whose class Charlotte took. Her foray into
being a lesbian seemed to suit her. They'd been with
each other for two years by then. I liked Josie okay,
though Skyler was cautious around her. You couldn't
really blame him, with Charlotte's track record.

The final guest at my wedding was Roger Carr,
my tailor/dressmaker, and now, after way too many
fittings with me on the verge of hysteria, a close
friend. To both me and Helen. He and his lover David
were there, a pair of dark haired, dark eyed, costume
designers from Toronto. They were trying to make
some kind of name for themselves in New York. I
found it hard to believe that my wedding outfit was
going to be a selling point for their portfolio.

"You're spacing out," Helen said. "Did you do your
nails like I told you?"

The key to wearing stockings, she'd said, was making
sure there was nothing rough to snag them on. Good
God. Was I really going through with this?

She'd taken us on, typically, like clients, sitting us
down for talks about what we wanted for the wedding.
Skyler did most of the talking, with me begging them,
"Simple, keep it simple."

"Clothes," she'd said, at one of our meetings, and I'd
stared at her, dumbly.

"I've always dreamed about Brandy wearing a wedding
dress," Sky said, straight out. Helen's eyes had gotten
wide, and I'd come dangerously close to snorting coffee
through my nose.

Karl Jr., a pushy squirt of seven, had laughed out loud.
I shot him a look like I'd strangle him and he shut right
up. I swear to God, looking at my nephew, I couldn't
conceive of ever having felt desire for a seven year
old kid. Yet memories of Skyler, at the same age, were
as hot for me as ever. Maybe it was some kind of incest
taboo kicking in, or just the passage of time, but the
thought of my nephew and sex in the same breath was
about the biggest turnoff I could imagine.

Skyler was smiling at me across Helen's table, the same
table where he'd used to do his homework after school.
He was looking at me like he was picturing me in the
gown. I shook my head.

He shrugged and said, "That's okay, you don't have to."

But Helen had gotten the message, and like I've said,
she was nothing, if not efficient.

Now I was trying to roll a pair of white silk stockings
up my goose-bumped, freshly-waxed leg, with Helen
overseeing the operation like a mother hen. I was losing
my nerve, big time, wondering why on earth I'd ever
agreed to appear in public like this, even if it was only
in front of a handful of friends and family. Not everyone
who would see me knew me well enough to know that I'd
never worn a dress before in my life. There were
caterers, florists. The minister and his wife. The guy
taking photographs, and his assistant.

Helen had hired him, and I don't think any one had
shown up without a video camera. The couple who owned
the hotel, truly wonderful and more than helpful, would
also be there.

"Well, you've definitely got the legs for it," Helen said.
She'd said it to me before, and would say it again, in a
vain attempt to make me feel better. Steady as anything
those hands of hers when I faltered, fastening the top of
my stocking to the belt for me. Jesus.

By then Helen had seen me in every state of undress
and all I felt was gratitude for the the help. She must
have thought I had the world's smallest dick the way it
hid in her presence. On my wedding day, Christmas Eve,
as Skyler had always envisioned, my cock was in major
retreat, hiding in my satin panties.

Men wear kilts. That was Helen's solution to the matter
of a wedding dress. She announced it to me the day I
met up with her at Roger's studio. Kilts?

Yeah, well they don't usually wear ones made of pleated
white satin that barely cover their asses! God, how Roger
and I fought over the length of that thing. He said I'd
ruin it if it extended more than halfway down my thighs.
What guys actually wear under kilts is a still a mystery
to me, but I'm damn sure it isn't lacy slips, stockings and
garter belts.

Helen had brushed out my hair herself, until it shone,
and made a few thin braids here and there that she'd
woven little bits of flowers into -- they'd end up later,
scattered through the bed. Then, without warning, she
whipped out her makeup case and my eyes bugged out
in horror.

"Shut up, and purse your lips," she said, though I hadn't
gotten a word out yet, her hand in a firm grip on my
jaw before I could even gasp out a protest. "No one will
even see it," she assured me, dabbing my mouth with
tinted glossy shit. She dusted my eyelids and cheeks with
God only knows what, and then blew in my face to set
the effect.

At least no one suggested I come tripping up to the altar
in a pair of heels. The boots were okay. I told myself
I'd dye them black and be able to wear them with jeans.

The slip was a sexy thing, the blouse was filmy and
dripping with lace so delicate, they'd forbidden me to
touch it for fear I'd rip something. Heaven help me if
anything started to itch.

Roger appeared to check on our progress. He ignored
the daggers shooting from my eyes and studied me with
a proud critical eye. At least he'd brought me a drink,
complete with a straw. He wouldn't even let me hold
the glass, afraid I'd spill something on my outfit.

They'd done me up good. Looking at pictures, after
the fact, I was amazed. You'd never think the angel
in those photos was muttering obscenities under his
breath. Skyler's got a wedding picture framed on his
desk. I wouldn't be surprised if he had a few more,
stuck together from heavy use, hidden in the back of
the drawers.

"You're perfect. Exquisite," Roger said. Then, like an
afterthought, "Everyone's waiting."

I hate scotch, but I sucked down a slug of it, gasping
from the burn. When the burn faded, there was a nice
warmth spreading through my chest.

"I've got to pee," I said.

"You can pee later." Helen's tone brooked no argument.
She nudged me in the direction of the door.

I'm sorry to say that most of my thoughts of Skyler
that day were bleak, resentful, bordering on angry.
It was his fault, I swore to myself, that I was about
to parade like a clown down a grand staircase, on my
brother Karl's arm, with my snotty nephew following
us, scattering flower petals. Oh God.

I'd told Helen, in no uncertain terms, that they
were out of their fucking minds if they thought I'd
waltz in to the tune of "Here Comes the Bride."

"Of course you will," she'd told me.

I'm not the bride, I'm not the bride, I chanted to
myself like a mantra, shaking like a leaf when the
time came. My brother Karl held his arm out to me
to descend the grand stair that wound down through
the heart of the hotel. Over the years, how many
times had our eyes met in silent sympathy as we did
Helen's bidding? Meeting his kind eyes then, seeing
him smile, I suddenly saw my father in him.

I hardly remembered the man. He'd died when I
was eight years old, somehow launching me into the
arms of a rough, almost loving, kid of twelve named
Josh. I rarely thought of my father, unless forced to
by my shrink. But there was something, a shred of
memory, and I saw him in Karl. Fuck it all, my eyes
started tearing up.

"It's okay," Karl whispered to me. "You'll get
through it."

I'd have killed myself before asking him if I looked
all right, but he must have known I was panicking.

"You look ... great," he said. "I feel really proud."
God bless him.

The only thing I'd gotten my way with was the
veil. Absolutely. Fucking. Not. What a fool I was
not to listen to Helen.

When I felt all those pairs of eyes on my face, I
realized what a disastrous mistake I had made.
There's a mighty good reason for a bride to wear
a veil, and dear God, what I wouldn't have given
for a scrap of cloth to hide behind. Too late. I had
to brave it out with my naked face.

Then I saw Skyler. God damn him. Breathtakingly
handsome in his sleek white suit. I admit it. Every
second of torture was worth the look on his face.

So what if I was done up like a Scottish Hostess
Cupcake and the draft from the front door was
whistling up my legs? Skyler was eating me up
with his eyes, like I was the best thing he'd ever
seen in his life. It was all I could do then, not to
melt on the spot.

A blur. All I really remember was hiding my
hard dick with the bouquet of flowers and the
clinch at the end of the ceremony. I was soaking
my silk panties when Skyler squeezed me and got
a good taste of my flavored lip gloss.

The best part, of course, was after. We partied
and posed and we ate and drank. Roger begged
me, at one point, taking a glass of red wine from
my hand, to go upstairs and get out of my duds
before I trashed them, you know, indiscriminate
scratching of itches, and swilling of drink. I said
sure. The look on Skyler's face was priceless when
Roger made to follow me up, saying he'd help me
out of the clothes.

"I don't think so," my groom said, laying his hand
on Roger's shoulder. Roger blushed as red as the
wine he'd snatched from my hand.

"No, well,  of course," he muttered.

Poor Roger. The pretty little things he'd created
for me were in a lot more danger up in our room
than at the party. Skyler could have carried me over
that threshold on his cock. All he wanted was to
crush the satin in his hands and start fucking. The
kilt disappeared in a Highland fling across the room
and my delicate blouse just escaped getting torn to
shreds.

Well, I didn't start a craze of gay weddings in kilts,
but I made good on the dreams of the one guy who
mattered.

Now we have Christmas for our anniversary. Makes
it easy not to forget the date, not that I think Skyler
ever would. He's not made that way.

Marriage doesn't mean much to me. Skyler does.
You can do like his mom did, marry all over the
place and what does it matter? The truth is, I made
my commitment to him a long, long time before.

The wedding was just another milestone along the
road for me. For him it was an end and beginning.
He'd made it through the treacherous days of his
childhood, far from idyllic youth. I think that's why
it was so important to him, like a Jewish bar mitzvah,
or graduation ceremony; the day he announced to
the world that he'd become a man. Skyler shed
childhood like a butterfly emerging from a stifling
cocoon.

The day I commemorate in my heart, is one that can't
even be pinpointed on a calendar. Mid July, hot sun
through the branches of big leafy trees. Me kneeling
beside Skyler, taking off my tee-shirt and tying it
around him to hide his wet shorts. Carrying him in
my arms that day was a procession that nothing in the
wedding could equal. I mark that day as the start of
loving him.

I love the man he is now, but I've never forgotten
the boy that he was. Now and again, I see glimpses
of that kid, in his eyes, in the pout of his bottom lip,
and it makes feel like crying. I want to crush him in
my arms, reassure myself that we really made it
through all those anguished years.

Well, we did. City kids who turned into bumpkins.
The place where we live used to be a small farm,
in a town called Truro at the end of Cape Cod. Our
cats and dogs are our kids, I guess. Skyler's a soft-
hearted vet who makes house calls and brings home
strays. I never say no, I just order more bags of
wholesale kibble.

He works at a clinic a few towns over and pulls out
of here in a truck every morning. More handsome
than ever, the welcomest sight in the world, driving
over the hillside home in the afternoons. I still love
to feed him and pet him and fuck him. It's private
enough out here, that I get him to pose for me, bare
assed out in the overgrown garden. I've got a mighty
crop of weeds that sprout flowers, like clockwork
for me every spring. I paint pictures of them, of him,
and our burgeoning furry family.

Every once in awhile I get a batch framed and put on
a show at one of the coop galleries in Provincetown,
the infamous gay resort, next town over. I learned
well from Helen. It makes life better to be near people
like ourselves. That blending in thing. Provincetown
sizzles in summer and satisfies what's left of the urban
impulses; restaurants, galleries, and occasional strolls
through a crowd rich in pairs of guys.

Skyler, still steady as the sun and shining more
brightly than ever. What can I say about a man who
still watches me take my shirt off like he's going to
see something great? Who thinks I wash lettuce so he
can stand behind me and rub his cock against my ass?

His latest wet dream is a renewal of our wedding
vows in the warmth of summer. A kind of flowery
extravaganza set in our garden, with dogs and cats
dancing around our feet. Of course, it features me
in something filmy and white.

I got myself a skimpy camisole at the local thrift
shop last week, and I paraded around on the back
porch, hoping to sate whatever lust he was building.
It only whet his appetite for more.

I groan every time he brings it up. Part dread, part
desire, since his hand is usually wrapped around his
hard dick by the time the subject comes up; his eyes
dreamy with a vision of me as some kind of garden
sprite he's fertilizing with his seed.

I'll break down, I know it. Helen is restless with Karl
Jr. at college, the kid hardly spends a moment at home
in the summers. She's been casting around for some
kind of project. It's the least I can do for her, after all
that she's done for me.

And what can it hurt to say, I do, again. After all,
it's the God's honest truth.