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a Novel by Varkel
Fall, 2001



Chapter 7:  A New Friend and an Old Enemy


I looked up from Dell's letter to Clara, who was reading a
newspaper, and told her, "I can't believe this!  I'm scheduled
for three seminars."

She met my gaze.  "In what?"

"Electron Resonance Measurement, Gravitational Diffraction and,
of all things, Medieval Political Structures.  Jesus Christ!"

"Would you prefer Mohammed?"  She smiled.  "Dell wants you
well-rounded."

"Hmph!  I called upon J.C. in desperation.  At least Dell didn't
saddle me with that!  But Clara, I've already published two
papers on ERM, Gravitational Diffraction is a chimera, and only
one political rule existed in the Middle Ages: you either killed
your liege or obeyed him."

A look of fondness settled on her features.  I have come to
recognize that.  It means she is forgiving me for some masculine
gaff.  She said, "Timmy, I love you when the little boy shows
through."

I bristled.  "What little boy would know about this?  Why do you
call me that?"

Alice, writing something in her notebook at the desk, commented
acidly, "Because you're whining."

I whirled to glare at her.

"He also gave me three seminars," she continued, "so calm down.
And I added Russian 101."

"I shall not calm down," I groused.  "Maybe you can learn
something in your Russian class, but it's ridiculous for us to
attend these seminars -- or any other, for that matter.  The true
purpose of academic seminars is to teach you to write rigorous
scholarly papers.  How many papers did I publish, 38, 39?  And
you had over 30, plus writing half of the ones that were in my
name.  This is a total waste of time.  If we concentrated on our
theses and their defense, we could be out of here in a few
months, a year at the most, with doctorates.  But these damned
seminars will add another year."  I turned around.  "Where's that
phone book?"

"Why?" asked Clara.

"I'm going to make another appointment with Dell.  I need to tell
him a few things."

I started across the room but halted when Alice produced a Bronx
cheer.  I stared at her incredulously.  "You mean you _want_ to
waste an extra year?"

She sighed.  "Tell him, Clara."

"Tell me what?"

"Something females seem to understand better than men -- some men,
that is.  Which are you bucking for, a paper that says 'PhD,' or
the chains of a slave?"

"The _what_?" I asked in astonishment.

"The government won't call it that, but it's what you'll be."

Clara said in a reasonable tone, "She means, don't call so much
attention to yourself, Timmy -- and to her, of course.  Suppose
you do convince Dell that a dissertation alone is enough to
justify your doctorate.  He may be arrogant but he's no dummy.
The same is true of others, corporations, government agencies,
who watch the graduate rolls.  He and they will understand that
you could have done this only for your _second_ doctorate.  It is
impossible to go from high school to a defensible dissertation
without learning how to write and defend one.  They don't teach
that in high school, you know.  How could you possibly explain
your success?  You will attract a lot of attention, Timmy,
especially the unwelcome kind.  Is that what you want?"

I stared at her.  "Can't we just disappear off their scopes?"

She sniffed.  "Then why bother with degrees?"

Of course we needed the degrees for their conferred credentials.
Scientific papers, proposals and inventions would not be taken
seriously in their absence.  I drew a deep breath and sat down.
"You do have a point," I admitted.

"Don't look so woebegone," she suggested, still with her fond
smile.  "It might even be fun.  I'm sure you'll enjoy the irony
of criticizing the work of your seminar fellows, any one of whom
could throw you out the window."

"Yeah," I agreed with the start of a grin.

"Come here and make us both feel better."  As she spoke, she
popped the blouse off her shoulder.  Her tit flopped out, nipple
jiggling.  Obeying with alacrity, I declared, "Maybe I'll
organize a seminar on Mammary Magnetism."

Alice stood over us enviously.

"I have another," Clara noted, freeing the second.

"Your first datum," the girl observed as she sank beside us: "the
inverse square law does not apply."

If so, that's the second datum.  The first is that tit-sucking
satisfies the soul.

* * *

High ceiling Arlington Commons overflowed with the noontime
crowd, mostly graduate students.  Here and there at tables and
standing in line were older persons, probably faculty,
distinguished by their more careful attire.  I was alone and
hungry after a leisurely morning stroll through the quads, having
often paused to reminisce about events here of my previous career
that were yet to occur.  I waited patiently for my turn at the
steam table and finally turned back to the hall bearing a tray
with a grilled cheese sandwich, tomato soup and a glass of milk.
The long tables, generally full of diners, some eating from paper
bags, offered just a few isolated unoccupied seats.  I chose the
nearest one and sat down, unmindful of the people around me.

I heard a soft, feminine voice exclaim from across the table,
"Surely you're not an early entrant."

I looked up to regard the girl sitting opposite.  She had a long,
clear face that was pleasant rather than pretty.  Well-brushed
auburn hair fell to the shoulders of a prim, light green gingham
dress whose sleeves partly enclosed pale, slender arms.  She
smiled at me revealing an upper row of even, white teeth.  She
was taller than I, judging from the way she sat in her seat and
the length of her arms -- perhaps much taller.  Her breasts were
not large, though they thrust noticeably in the front of her
garment.

"Or perhaps you're just visiting," she added in a friendly voice,
speaking with authority as older girls often do to young boys.

I returned her smile.  She was scarcely twenty, I thought, most
likely an undergraduate.

"Actually, I'm here to earn a PhD in physics," I responded with a
mouth half full of sandwich.

"Are you indeed!" she replied with a slight, tinkling laugh,
incredulous.  "And I thought I was a young one!"

"Young one?  For what?"

"For graduate school, of course.  I'm already writing my
dissertation and I'm just 21."

She had a most remarkable, interesting face when she spoke.  She
seemed to employ every facial muscle and formed her lips around
each word.

"I'll beat that," I said smugly like an impudent boy.  "I hope to
finish before I'm 15."

"Really!"  She chuckled.  "Imagine that!  And what will your
thesis describe?"

I shrugged easily.  "Have to get through a few dumb seminars.
I'll do the thesis next year.  But I know its subject:
_Implications of the Einstein-Podolsky-Rosen Paradox_."

"Paradox?  That sounds like _three_ doctors to me!"

"Huh!" I sneered at her pun.  "The paradox is that protons can
apparently communicate a changing spin state to each other
instantly though light-years apart, while Einstein's Theory of
Relativity asserts that no message can travel faster than the
speed of light."

Her eyes twinkled.  "And you think you've found out something
about it that no one else has, right?"

"I know I have.  What have _you_ found?"

"You mean, what's my dissertation on?  Its title is, _The
Semiotics of the Gothic Language_, which sounds ordinary enough,
I'm sure you agree.  But in fact it's a sneaky way to propose a
revival."

"Gothic?  That's a dead language, worse than Latin!"

"Exactly.  But it had some wonderful features that we've lost.
Like a special plural for common nouns that meant exactly two of
them."

I shrugged.  "If you say so.  Have you interested anyone else?"

She shrugged.  "My mother.  She's a language professor, you know.
So how will you use a PhD at, what, age 14?  Become a professor?"
She stared at me without humor, perhaps miffed by my lack of
interest in Gothic.

"I'll invent stuff, I suppose."

I slurped soup while gazing at her over the spoon, more than a
bit miffed myself by her accuracy at age guessing.  I would have
to play the little boy with this one, I concluded regretfully,
although the old man inside recognized a fresh virgin who was
ripe for picking.  I couldn't tell if my talk had impressed her,
though of course it should have.  If not, I knew something that
would!  Then I had to laugh secretly.  Share my unbelievable
secret just for a chance to get into her panties?  That too would
probably be a vain effort rich in personal humiliation, even if I
made her believe me.  I sighed, suspecting I'd have to wait
several years to conquer a bright, sweet thing like her, a girl
who could only see me for what I appeared to be: a pretty, twelve
year-old boy.

She leaned toward me across the table with the expression of an
exasperated older sister.  "You've never been to school, have
you?  Just tutors, right?"

"So what?" I replied with exaggerated haughtiness.

"Well, it tells!  I bet you have a huge IQ, but you don't have
any social intelligence at all."

"How can you be so sure of that?  We haven't really met, you
know."  I feigned an angry pout.

"I've seen plenty of your type here at Chicago, snotty early
entrants who think they know everything, though none as young as
you.  You're just a baby.  Your daddy should have sent you to
school at least part time to learn some manners."

"Like I suppose your daddy did?" I riposted vehemently.  "Well,
it didn't work for you!  I just sat down here to eat my lunch and
you begin insulting me for no reason."

She glared at me for a moment, and then a smile began to form at
the left edge of her pretty mouth.

"You're right, I didn't learn anything when I was forced to go to
that awful school.  The other kids treated me as if I smelled of
dog doo."  She grinned broadly.  "My name is Rosalind."  She
offered me a hand to shake.  "Rosalind with an -IND.  Rosalind
Cannell."

"I'm Timothy Kimball."  I squeezed the hand slightly and quickly
withdrew my own.

"Timmy?"

My lip curled.  "Only strangers call me Timmy -- and people who
are especially close."

"Especially close!"  She stifled a guffaw and then looked at me
slyly.  "Like your mamma?"

I didn't answer but assumed a superior air as if I had a splendid
secret.

"Do you have a girl friend?" she asked like a nosy aunt.

"Do you have a boy friend?" I countered.

"Sure," she laughed, "but we're not _especially close_."  Her
face softened.  "He's not, you know, like one of us."

"One of us?"

"Geniuses."

We stared at each other, acknowledging our special condition.  I
wondered how far I could go with this girl if I played upon that
shared aspect of our personalities.  The look in her limpid brown
eyes was not promising, however.  I was just a little kid to her.
I assumed she was looking for an adult genius and that before
very long, if only out of curiosity, she would let a young
professor undress her and rip her hymen.  I hoped for her sake he
was experienced with virgins.  I hoped he was a nice guy.  I was
already jealous of him.

We talked for at least an hour, exchanging our life stories,
which, predictably, were very uninteresting.  I, of course, spun
a web of lies.  She had written a masters thesis in the history
department on the influence of Ivan Peresvetov on the thinking of
Ivan IV, the terrible one.  She was very much absorbed by
languages and literature.  Before the commons emptied of its 
noontime crowd I came to realize that her experience in the real
world was extremely limited.  She had been closely sheltered by
her family, and her boyfriend, she said, "was not very
masculine."  I wondered if she had ever been kissed properly.
She treated me like a younger brother to whom she was
affectionate and bossy.  But I really lost all hope of a chance
with her when we stood to leave.  She was seven inches taller
than I.

"I live with my Aunt Clara and her daughter Alice," I said to her
as we walked down 59th Street toward her apartment on Dorchester.
It was in the direction of Clara's house.

"I didn't expect you lived in the dorms," she snickered and
tousled my hair in a most annoying manner.  "We should keep in
touch," she added.

We stopped at a corner.  It was her street.  "Come visit me any
reasonable time," she offered, pointing at a small building just
off 59th.  "I have the basement apartment."

"What's reasonable?" I started to ask when a voice interrupted
me.

"Rosalind!  I've been looking for you."

I turned quickly around and saw a young man hurrying to us.

"Harvey!"  Rosalind beamed a hello and presented her right cheek
for a peck.  "I'm sorry I missed you at the commons."

"I couldn't make it, dear.  I got held up in Fassbinder's
office."

He spoke to the girl, but all the while he looked down at me with
a certain curiosity.  He was as tall as she.

She quickly remembered her manners and introduced us.  He was
Harvey Gambel Stringer.  He had a gaunt face, beaky nose and a
prominent Adam's apple.  His manner toward her was anything but
pushy.  He did not touch her after that peck on her cheek.

"Let's go to my place, guys, and talk," she suggested, taking
hold of my hand.

I resisted, totally uninterested in further contact with Harvey.
But he seized my other hand.  "Yes, do," he said with a look on
his face that I immediately recognized.  "She knows how to make
hot chocolate."

It was almost a leer.  He was near salivating at the sight of my
pretty self.  This guy was a boy lover, whether he knew it or
not.

"No, no," I protested.  "Aunt Clara's house is not far from here
and she's waiting for me to come home."

I jerked free, turned and almost ran away, feeling very much like
a spare tire.  The old man inside was not pleased.  _You want
that pipsqueak to get her cherry?_

"Come visit, Timmy.  Promise?" Rosalind called from behind me,
but I hurried on without looking back.  What chance did I have
with a female who was a full head taller?  At least Harvey was
the right height.

* * *

"Rosalyn Yalow!" exclaimed Alice, looking up from her magazine.
"She's publishing already."

"Who's that?" I asked idly.

"Don't you remember?  She won the Nobel in the Seventies for
inventing radio immunoassay.  We consulted her on the radiation
leak in your fusi-fizz project, spent a week at her institute.
She and I corresponded for a long time after that about my flower
garden."

I faintly remembered her.  I asked, "How did she spell her name?"

"Why do you ask?  It doesn't really sound like the color."

"I mean Rosalyn.  Funny how many different ways women spell that
word!"

I looked up at her failure to respond.  She was staring fixedly
at me.

"Just how many Rosalyns do you know?"

I shrugged.  "I met one the other day who spells it -IND."

Alice asked acerbically, "You're on such good terms with a
Rosalind that she spells her name for you?"

Clara had just come into the den and slouched on the couch beside
Alice.  She grinned at me with an inquiring eye.  "So!  Is our
cock of the walk treading other walks?"

"Well," I admitted, "Rosalind and I did have a conversation.
She's 21, a genius graduate student and impressive."  I smiled
disarmingly.  "She treats me like an impudent younger brother.
But she already has a rather swishy boyfriend, one Harvey
Springer."

Suddenly Clara sat up straight.  "Whom did you say?"

"Rosalind Cannell.  I think she's from --"

"No, the boyfriend!"

"The boyfriend?  When he showed up, I bugged out.  She introduced
him as Harvey Gambel Stringer.  He's a string bean with a hooked
nose and an Adam's apple that bobs up and down like ..."  I ran
down, staring at Clara, whose face had gone pale.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Are you sure about the middle name, Gambel?"

"Well, reasonably.  I'll ask Rosalind tomorrow if I see her in
the commons."

Alice sniffed.  "Any excuse will do, eh?"

"This is important," Clara asserted.  Her gaze seemed to turn
inward.  "Harvey Gambel Stringer!  Yes, he did indeed attend
Chicago in 1947.  But it's a big school.  Could there be _two_
men here with such a name?  No, no."  She seemed to be arguing
with herself.  "Surely not two who are both tall, skinny and
hook-nosed with a prominent larynx.  What color was his hair?"

"Dark.  I couldn't really tell.  He was wearing a toboggan cap."

"And he's, did you say, _swishy_?"

I sneered.  "From his tone of voice when I was introduced, I
think he likes pubescent boys a bit too much -- whether he knows
it or not."

"My god, it must be he!"

"Friend of yours?" I asked in wonder.

Her voice grated.  "Absolutely not!"

She was adamant.  The red spots had reappeared on her cheeks.
Her eyes flashed fire at me.  Alice looked back and forth between
us in wide-eyed wonder.

I asked sympathetically, "What is it, Clara?  What did he do to
you?"

She gestured disdainfully.  "Nothing to Clara Edgeworth or Sally
Whitmond, but a great deal to Ellen Lundquist and seven thousand
million others."

Staring at her, I thought over her words.  "You mean he had
something to do with the Calamity?  Wait a minute!  You said a
man named Stringer caused it.  But ...  But that was over a
century from now!"

Her eyes glared.  "George Harvey Stringer, the all-time champion
killer of humans, was Harvey Gambel Stringer's great-grandson."

I gripped my chair arm.  "Are you certain?"

"In my last year as Ellen I made a careful study of the Stringer
family.  A secondary reason for my reversion was to interfere
with the Stringer success if I could find a way."  She took a
deep breath.  "Perhaps I've found it.  Harvey Gambel Stringer
cannot yet have fathered Maurice Stapleton Stringer."

Alice was the first to see where this was heading.  She rose to
her feet, came to sit beside the angry woman and placed an arm
over her shoulder.  "Please, Clara.  I have only a glimmer of
what this means to you, since I can't see it from the other side.
But please don't start planning anything that could harm _you_!"

Clara snarled, "I'm a woman!  What does a woman know about
eliminating dangerous men?"

"Well," I contributed in a stab at humor, "it takes a woman to
make one."

Clara stared at me with huge eyes.  Apparently my flippant remark
had suggested something.  "It takes a woman and a _man_," she
mused significantly.

"Are you on to something?" I asked.

"Maurice Stringer was born in 1978.  His son, Harvey Perle
Stringer, was born in 2036.  George Harvey Stringer came along in
2084.  These Stringer men are late begetters.  The records showed
clearly that some, Harvey Gambel among them, were latent
homosexuals.  Suppose our Harvey's inclinations were brought to
the fore.  From what I've seen around here, this is the place for
it."

Alice got it first.  "Make him a misogynist!" she declared.

Clara nodded.  "At least a man to whom women are not very
interesting."

"Brainwashing?" I asked.  Yeah, an anachronism, but I was among
friends.

"In his case more of a crystallization."

Her expression had changed.  She was almost smiling.  I had to
chuckle.  "How would you accomplish that?"

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.  "First I must meet the man.
Perhaps you could invite your new friend, Rosalind and date, to
dinner.  No, that's too intimate."

I was wondering what she meant when Alice suggested, "It's
December already.  How about a neighborhood Christmas party?"

Clara's face lit.  "A Christmas _costume_ party!  Harvey Gambel
was known to be shy and retiring.  Even self-conscious people
like costume parties.  And we'll schedule it just before the
Christmas shut-down."

"I guess Tim and I could be elves," Alice mused, "but who'll we
find for Santa Claus?"

"Don't worry," Clara responded confidently.  "If necessary I'll
hire one.  And we'll get a phonograph with some good dance music.
We can set up the hors-d'oeuvres in the kitchen and let everyone
mill around between there and the living room.  We'll also invite
half a dozen of the neighbors."

"It might even be fun," Alice suggested with a grin.  "I think
I'll dress as an Irish dwarf and get drunk.  Or maybe go even
farther."  She looked askance at me.  "If Tim means to chase this
Rosalind, I'll bet I can find me a leprechaun."

* * *

When Rosalind met me after the seminar, the sky was gray and
threatening, but it was still warm enough for a light jacket.
After our meeting in the commons we had discovered that every
other day our campus departures led us to meet naturally because
both our classes ended at the same time.  I had by now walked her
home several times.  She and I were easy with each other.  She
liked to punch and tickle me and tousle my hair.  I allowed it,
biding my time.

The storm came upon us with unusual suddenness.  Snow began to
swirl as we passed by the Quadrangle Club where Harvey worked as
a waiter, and by the time we reached Dorchester the air had
turned bitterly cold.  A near blizzard lashed at us relentlessly.

"Come into my place," Rosalind urged me, pulling on my hand.

I could not resist her offer, considering the circumstances.
Besides it was a nice, neat apartment that smelled of her.  I had
visited a couple of times over the preceding few days, and each
time the physical surroundings had in a curious way increased my
affection for the girl.  It was a one-room affair with a kitchen
nook and an attached lavatory the door of which never shut
properly.  A carelessly made bed dominated the space, along with
a couch, an armchair and a rickety table and chairs.  I thought I
recalled a male student who would eventually live there.

"Clara will worry about me," I said immediately after she closed
the door to the hallway.

"Yes.  I'm sorry, Timmy.  And I don't have a phone.  But maybe
the weather will ease up soon."

It did not.  The storm increased in such intensity over the next
hour that snow began to pile against the basement windows.  We
read to each other, played cards, wondered what to do, but after
two hours the wind still screamed and the street outside became
clogged with snow.

"You're here for the night," she eventually said, shrugging her
shoulders at me.  "Let's fix something to eat."

Despite her hot chocolate, Rosalind was not much of a cook.
Because of that and owing to the lack of provisions in the
apartment we ate noodles and cold tuna fish for supper.
Afterwards we sat on the couch, each of us at either end with our
legs drawn up onto the cushions.  We had exhausted the banalities
of our usual conversation.

"I think I'm going to have a new boyfriend," she said brightly
all of a sudden.

"But what about Harvey?" I inquired dutifully, knowing already
that any presentable male could beat his time with Rosalind.

"Harvey?  He's a friend, of course.  But he's not, you know, like
other guys."

"The problem with Harvey is that he likes other guys," I observed
sourly.

"Really, Timmy!  How could you understand anything about that?"

"Christ, Rosalind!" I exploded.  "I'm beyond pre-pubescence, you
know!"

"Still, it's not something you should talk about at your age."

"There are boys my age who do more than talk about it, as well as
guys like Harvey who are only too eager to help them."

She blushed deeply.  "I didn't realize that," she murmured with
her head turned aside.

"I know all about sex, perhaps even more than you.  Have you ever
been kissed properly?"

"Harvey isn't that sort of guy," she replied after taking a deep
breath and making an effort to compose herself.  "We shouldn't be
talking like this.  You're just a kid."

I shrugged in resignation, knowing I didn't stand a chance with
the girl.  "Who is this new friend," I asked.

She brightened.  "He's a teaching assistant in the English
department.  He's a poet."

"A poet," I groaned.  "Rosalind, those guys collect virgins and
discard them after a single use."

She sat with arms across her chest and a disapproving look on her
face.

"Perhaps," I suggested with a leer, "that's all you want in any
case."

She fumed, "Timmy, I should throw you out into the snow.  How
could you have any idea what this is all about?"

"I think I know you," I replied softly.  "And I certainly
understand what most guys want."

"You're only a child!" she retorted.  She crossed her legs
nervously, as though she suspected I might indeed know more about
the birds and bees.

I reached down and placed my hand on her calf just above the
sock.  She moved the leg away, swinging it off the couch.

"I think we should get some sleep," she declared, leaping to her
feet.  "You're small enough for the couch," she added pointedly.

I almost riposted bitterly, "Too small for you, eh?" but resisted
speaking because it might not be entirely true.  She threw me a
blanket and a pillow before she retreated to the bathroom.  I
pulled off my shoes and reclined on the couch fully dressed.  I
watched shadowy movement through the crack in the door where she
was obviously dressing for bed.  The door soon opened and she
stood with the light behind her clad in a long, flannel nightgown
that buttoned up the front.  The thickness of the fabric
concealed her form despite the light.

"Are you going to sleep in your clothes?" she inquired like a
bitchy older sister.

Without a word I stood and stripped completely.

She blinked.  "What're you doing?"

"I always sleep nude."

She did not display the least interest in my exposed flesh but
turned aside to arrange the sheets and blankets on the bed.  She
switched off the light and climbed in even as I stood next to the
couch.

"Let's hope we're not snowed in all weekend," she said with a
large yawn.

I stood naked in the cozy, dark room that smelled of her.  The
wind howled outside.

"May I sleep on the bed?" I asked.  "The couch isn't really large
enough."

When she didn't respond after a few seconds, I sank to the bed
and climbed under the blanket.  She moved her body to the further
side of the narrow mattress to make room for me, but she still
did not speak or otherwise object.  I pulled on the smallish
bedcover and she yanked it back with an angry grunt.  For a 
couple of minutes I lay quietly near her inviting warmth 
pondering the situation.  I had no thought of sleep.  I was 
convinced the delicious girl was ripe and ready to be plucked.  
After a moment I tentatively extended a foot to brush against one 
of hers, which she quickly moved away.  Her usual aroma of 
perfumed soap was particularly strong.  I cautiously moved my 
head toward her pillow to inhale the lovely fragrance close up.  
My chin brushed against her hair.  She did not move away, 
although she had to be aware of my nearness.  I dared place a 
hand on her upper arm as she lay on her side and gently kneaded 
the soft flesh beneath the flannel garment.

"Timmy!  What are you doing?" she barked abruptly and rolled onto
her back which brought the full length of her body into contact
with mine.

"I want to talk about your poet," I replied softly.

Her face was so close to mine I could have extended my tongue to
lick her cheek.  "I think it's a shame you'll be giving your
first real kiss to a stranger."

"I've kissed before.  I'm not so inexperienced," she replied in
annoyance and moved her head a further inch away.

"But it's more than that, you know," I persisted, finding her
hand with mine.  "You must be very curious about men.  Why would
you choose a stranger?  Do you feel you'd be safer that way, more
anonymous?"

She turned her head to me.  "How did you guess that?"  Her tone
was marveling.

"I feel that I know you almost completely.  As to anonymity,
haven't you learned by now that you can trust me?"

"Trust you with what?"

"Your curiosity, for one thing."

"Perhaps so, Timmy, but I'm not curious about little boys."

"You're just taller than me, Rosalind, nothing else.  How can age
be such a difference between people like us?"

I placed a hand on her flat stomach.  She seemed to quiver before
roughly brushing it aside.

She half raised her head.  "You know this has nothing to do with
intellect, Timmy.  This is something different entirely."

"How do you know that?" I replied sweetly, replacing my hand on
her soft mid section, my fingers toying with the buttons of her
nightgown.  "Perhaps physical intimacy can be intellectually
stimulating.  Surely you wouldn't want to experience your first
time with a brute."

"He's not a brute!"

"But you don't know him the way you know me.  He could be very
selfish, uncaring.  I would never hurt you.  You certainly must
understand that."

"He's an adult, Timmy.  A grown up man.  A large man in fact."

She did not protest my undoing a couple of her buttons.  My
fingers stole beneath the fabric to find the flesh of her
stomach.  The virginal softness aroused me.

"Is that a concern of yours, Rosalind?  Size?  It's surely not
something you'd want for your first time."

My hard erection pressed against her hip.  She had to feel it but
remained immobile. I was encouraged to insert a hand into her
nightgown and circle the palm slowly upwards until a thumb
brushed against the softness of a pert breast. 

"This is not right, Timmy.  You should go sleep on the couch,
before ..."

The words, spoken with a tremulous voice, carried no conviction.
Did she expect me to ask, "Before what?"  I placed my hand fully
upon the small feminine mound and felt a hard nipple tickle my
palm.  The areola puckered.  She shivered but failed to withdraw
from contact even when I kissed her cheek lovingly and licked the
skin of it.

"You know it's right.  In fact it's perfect for you," I murmured
into her ear.  "The poet would be a tawdry choice compared to me,
at least for the first time.  Maybe later for him, when you feel
more confident about sex."

I fondled the breast as I brushed my lips against her ear.

"You're just a child," she protested weakly.

"We've already been through that argument, darling.  I'm mature
enough to give you a baby.  Is that the problem?  Are you afraid
of becoming pregnant?"

"I'm at the safest time of the month," she mumbled, twisting her
torso, perhaps unconsciously, to scrape her nipple against my
palm.

"Then you should be happy at this opportunity.  Isn't it more
fitting for someone like me to introduce you to sex?  We're
special people, the two of us."

When she did not respond, I assumed she would have me, if only
out of curiosity.  I slowly removed my hand from beneath her
night gown and cautiously undid the buttons.  As the other hand
caressed her head I pressed my lips to hers for a gentle kiss to
which she responded at first tentatively and then with a modest
eagerness.  When I finished with the buttons I flipped the
garment to either side of her long body.  We continued to kiss,
although she did not seek to embrace me.  Her breathing against
my lips became irregular.  My free hand roamed her exposed body,
exploring her modest breasts, firm stomach and one exquisite,
slender thigh.

"Please don't!" she cried weakly, when my fingers probed her
moist pubic bush.

"Do you want me to kiss you there, darling?  A virgin kiss?"

"No!  No!" she protested and squeezed her thighs tightly
together.  "That's disgusting."

But she endured my mouth on an erect nipple that I sucked with
perhaps too much enthusiasm.  "Timmy, please," she sighed and
fondled my head.

I gave up the responsive breasts and slipped down between her
legs.  Women may protest but I have never known one to break the
first contact of tongue to clitoris.  Neither did she, though she
complained, "Timmy, that's awful!  Timmy --"  Her complaint ceased
with a gasp.  She opened her legs for the first time.  Her tiny
clit swelled noticeably as my tongue circled it.  Gathering my
saliva, I licked the labia apart and thrust between them.  She
groaned and her legs parted farther.

I rolled atop her, penis pressing her lower lips.

"How long have you dreamed of doing this, Rosalind?" I murmured
against her shoulder.  I was slightly frustrated by her taller
body, because I could not reach her mouth without losing my
position at the virgin opening.

"Oh, Timmy!" was her only response.

I wriggled against her in wordless encouragement.  Her legs
parted fully to either side of my body.  She raised a knee.  With
a hand on myself I ran the head up and down her crack.  Of course
she was very wet.

"Don't hurt me!" she exclaimed in a choking gasp while rocking
her hips upward expectantly.

I pushed forcefully and broke through immediately.  Her body went
rigid and she cried out "Oh!" but gave no other sign of distress.
She was very tight, even on my smallish member, which soon
tingled with pleasure.  She whimpered, a sound more of pain than
pleasure.  I did not try to last.  The excitement of anticipation
sweetened my climax, and I squirted like a schoolboy before she
could complain about the hurt.  For a while I lay between her
thighs and tongued a nipple in blissful contentment, but soon she
pushed at my body and I rolled off her.

She did not want to talk or cuddle.  Without a word she turned
onto her side facing away from me and seemed to fall sleep.  When
I touched her between the legs to feel my oozing seed, I found
her hand there before me.  I nestled myself against her and dozed
off.

In the twilight before dawn I awoke to find my new sweetheart
asleep on her back. I marveled at her young loveliness, more
captivating than most of the prettier women I had known.  I ran
my fingers lightly across her somnolent body as my boyish member
hardened.  Her eyes popped open when I climbed atop her eager for
another go.

"Get off, Timmy!" she shouted angrily. "You've already done your
job."

"So now it's the poet's turn?" I asked ruefully, sitting up.

"Perhaps, perhaps," she mumbled, getting out of bed.  "This
morning I don't know."

She was naked.  Long and tall, long and tall were redundant words
that passed repeatedly through my mind as I stared at her in open
admiration.  She looked like a runner.

"You're ogling me!" she protested loudly and turned her back.

"Do you mind?  You're beautiful.  And we're not exactly
strangers."

She looked over her shoulder and then faced me, striking a pose.

"What do you think?" she asked playfully.

Her pubic hairs stuck together with my dried semen and probably
her blood.  She had a marvelous torso, I thought, with a flat
stomach and medium sized breasts that didn't sag.  She glanced at
my nakedness, but she did not exhibit any particular interest in
my pubescent flesh, not even the rigid penis.

"I'd love to do some disgusting things with you," I said, leering
at her up and down.

"Really!"  She giggled briefly.  "You already did!"  She turned
and went into the bathroom.

After a moment I heard the sound of pissing.  She soon returned
to the room as the toilet flushed behind her.

"Get dressed now and go home, Timmy.  I don't know what you
intend to tell your Aunt Clara."

"It's still snowing," I replied.  "Let's go back to bed and enjoy
each other some more."

She gave me a sour look.  "I'm still sore.  I don't want to
offend you, but last night was as enjoyable as a dental visit."

"_All_ of it?"

She had the grace to blush.

I suggested, "Perhaps we should wait a few days before trying --"

"There will be no next time, Timmy," she interrupted me.  "Not
for us.  You'll never again catch me as vulnerable as I was last
night, although I'll always remember you as my first boy."

I had expected her to say something like that, and perhaps she
meant it at the moment.  But I was confident we would play
together again, if under the right circumstances I begged her
like a naughty boy, whether she was "vulnerable" or not.  She
would do favors for me, her fellow genius, boy companion, even if
I were physically too immature to interest her sexually.  But the
old man inside me intended to have the lovely girl again at the
earliest opportunity and fuck her to orgasm with my young body.
I would surprise her with the unexpected ecstasy and teach her
how she had underestimated me.

But one must keep his bridges in good condition.  I looked up at
her contritely as I sat on the edge of the bed.  "You aren't
angry with me, are you Rosalind?  I'm sorry if I took advantage
of you."

"No, Timmy," she responded with a grin and tousled my hair.  "I
was ready for what we did last night.  You were right about that.
I'd wanted it for a long time, but I was always afraid of the
hurt.  Now, thank god, that part is over."

I extended a hand and caressed an inner thigh high up near her
matted hair.  She stepped back out of reach, but continued to
smile at me.

"You'd better go now," she said softly.  "I'll give you some
sweaters to wear under your jacket."

She leaned down and kissed my lips briefly like an old friend.  I
was very much in the mood for another fuck, but I began to gather
my clothes.  Clara and Alice would take care of me when I got
home, freely, without any begging or seductive trickery on my
part.

Or so I thought.  "Just where the hell have you been?" demanded
Alice, nearly screaming, when I entered the front door and began
stomping snow off my high tops.

I snapped, "We've had a blizzard, in case you didn't notice."

"Oh, Timmy!"  She rushed to me, helping me out of my excessive
clothing.  "We were so awfully worried!  Why didn't you call?"

"No telephone," I responded, trying to remove Rosalind's three
sweaters at once.  Alice pitched in and tugged but looked up
wide-eyed when she held one of the garments.  "This is a
_woman's_ sweater!" she accused.

"Ah, yes.  When I went to school yesterday, it was warm.  I had
only that jacket."

"But these are _women's_ sweaters!"

"Well, yeah," I admitted.  "I had to borrow them or I wouldn't be
home yet.  Where's Clara?"

"Lying down in her bedroom.  She's been worried sick and so have
I.  Here, you're cold, aren't you?  Let me help you off with
these sweaty things.  We'll wrap this afghan around you until you
get some more clothes."

So briefly I stood naked in the living room.  Alice clutched me
to her, face buried in my shoulder.  "Oh god, Timmy, we were
beside ourselves!  Darling, are you truly all right?"

She began to kiss me, right down my chest.  Before I could stop
her she popped my shriveled dick into her mouth.  And spat it out
instantly.  Up she came, her eyes wider than I can remember ever
seeing in two lifetimes.

"You, you --" she stammered, glaring at me, unable for a moment to
speak coherently.  I knew only too well what she had tasted.

My mind froze.  I could think of only one thing to say.  "TV
isn't here yet."

"T-TV!  Timmy, how _could_ you?"

She backed away from me, stumbled over the ottoman and fell on
her ass.  I sprang forward, hand extended.  "Let me help you --"

"Get away from me!" she screamed, scrambling to her feet.  She
turned around to run away, I suppose, but found Clara coming into
the room.

She halted before the woman and asked rhetorically, "Do you know
where he's been?"

"Yes, I do." Clara replied quietly.  She stepped forward and took
the distraught girl in her arms.  Her eyes on mine were
unreadable.  She murmured, "Just remember one thing:  he came
back to us."

Alice snarled, "A dog or a horse has that much sense!"

Clara patted the girl's back.  "You've known a great many men,
Alice.  Did you ever know one worth having who wouldn't stray?"

The girl's voice was muffled but I understood her.  "Only Tim."
She began to sob.

"Really?  What about the 15 girls in Rome of whom you spoke?
What of Solayeva in St. Petersburg?"

"Oh, well, they didn't count."

"What about it, Tim?  Have you met a better woman than your two
that waited here?  Or merely a more opportune one?"

I took a deep breath.  "On the whole Earth no other woman even
compares to either of you.  I know that very well, for obvious
reasons.  Alice, what happened last night has no effect at all
upon you -- unless you insist on it."

The girl whirled around, tears streaking her face, and pointed to
my midsection.  "That's _my_ cock, damn you!"

I nodded.  "Yes, it is."

"And I want it now."

Well, that was about what I had anticipated, except ...

"Let me give it a bath first," I suggested.

She sneered.  "For an old man, you've got a lot to learn about
women."

She tore off her robe, knelt before me and sucked me in almost
fiercely.

I looked over her head at Clara.  "What does she mean?"

The woman sniffed before turning away.  "You figure it out, lover
boy."

Both of my women angry at me!  I believe it was a first.  But
Alice nevertheless gave me the quick relief I had needed.  She
didn't lose a drop of what I spewed down her throat.

What did she think I ought to learn?  I always knew females were
slightly bananas, if that was her point.

* * *

Clara bought a console "Victrola" that included an "all band" AM
radio.  Apparently FM was not yet popular, but I enjoyed playing
with the radio nevertheless.  I found transmissions in the 40
meter band from England, Germany and the Soviet Union.  It was a
huge, solid piece of furniture, surprisingly expensive, but a
necessarily stable platform for the 78-rpm musical records.  The
diamond needle had yet to be invented.  You could play about a
dozen records before the steel phonograph needle needed
replacement.

Ah, but the music!  I probably heard Glenn Miller live on the
radio the first time around but was too young to appreciate it.
Now I reveled in his stuff.  His _In the Mood_ may be one of my
all-time favorite arrangements.  We had Bing Crosby crooning and
the Andrews Sisters harmonizing.  Vaughn Monroe's velvety voice
came through clearly and nostalgically.  Alice and I danced in
the living room in the day or two before the party.  She taught
me to jitterbug, by god!  It's not as hard as it looks, not when
you're young and supple.  We both taught Clara.  She fell on me
once.  Three cheers for small women!

As planned, Alice and I dressed as elves in upturned toe
slippers, false papier-mache faces and all.  Clara shortened an
old brassiere and Alice strung it around her chest, stuffed with
a shredded sponge.  In her costume of white tights she actually
looked damn good, like a small teenager.  Of course she already
had shapely legs.  Mine weren't so bad either, or so I was told
several times, which was only the truth.

Clara hired a fat Santa Claus, who sat in the corner beside the
Christmas tree, ready for the girls we would usher to his lap to
whisper Christmas wishes in exchange for a tickle or two.  We had
a bar with beer, several liquors, mixers and even a soda siphon.
Clara had wanted to hire a bartender and waiters, but I talked
her out of it on the grounds that such an ostentatious display of
wealth would get her condemned on Dorchester Street.  We elves
could serve the drinks and the canapes.  Thinking it over
afterwards I regretted persuading her.  Ten years later, when I
had known the street so well, a very different population had
lived there.  We might have only been admired for putting on the
dog, in 1947.

Several neighbors arrived together.  Alice and I took the first
drink orders but the system immediately collapsed.  When the
guests discovered the bar set up in the kitchen, they took over
and made their own drinks.  Which suited me.  I preferred to act
as doorman anyway.  I didn't have to wait long.  The next set of
arrivals included Rosalind and Harvey.

"Glad you could make it, folks," I declared heartily.  "Come on
in!"  I turned and gave Clara a nod.

"Is that you, Timmy?"  Rosalind bent and peered at me behind my
mask.

  Her costume was that of a medieval princess with conical hat
adorned by a gauze tail.  Harvey was clad in corduroy knickers
and the boots of a woodsman.  More people crowded the steps
behind them, vaguely known neighbors motley attired, one of whom
was a policeman in uniform.

"Hi, little guy," he said affably as he reached the door.
"Remember me?  Sean O'Higgins from down the street.  I'm just off
shift and didn't have time to change, although I left my gun at
home."

Behind me Alice's voice was slurred.  "You could pass for a cop
easily even without it."  I thought she was making a joke.  So
did he.  I saw his eyes light on her approvingly.  She stepped
forward to take his hand and lead him into the living room with a
curious possessiveness.  She had been drinking.

The last to arrive was not costumed, although he wore a beanie
atop his head of kinky black hair.  He had dusky skin and vaguely
Negroid features on his grandly smiling face.

"You must be Juan," I said to the handsome Cuban about whom Clara
had spoken.  He was the guy who was expected to seduce Harvey
into faggotry, and I thought it was a good choice on Clara's
part.  The man struck me as overtly illicit and strongly
sensuous.  He leaned forward to tilt my mask up for a peek.

"My!  You are a pretty boy," he gushed, fingers lingering on my
cheek.  He gave me a lurid wink.  "I could teach you some fun
things, sweetheart, if you haven't already learned them for
yourself.  And even if you have ..."

Clara interrupted him.  "Juan!" she exclaimed in greeting,
presenting her cheek for a perfunctory buss.  "Tim here is not
the boy you're after this evening.  Let me take you to meet
Harvey.  He's in the kitchen with his princess."

She led him away, although he continued to look over his shoulder
at me.  If he was sexually attracted to pubescent boys, I
thought, he might find his tryst with Harvey onerous.

The party evolved successfully.  I remained the only person who
wandered about unengaged, sitting at times in a corner to sip
ginger ale laced with a splash of Canadian whiskey.  Alice and
the cop had disappeared, I realized after a while with some
concern.  I feared for the guy as much as for her, because the
girl could be wicked at times.  I slipped up the stairway to the
second floor, the babble and music behind me receding as I
reached the landing.  A new sound caught my attention, one that
was unmistakable in its origin, emanating from Alice's bedroom.
When I eased open her door and peered in, I saw the cop with his
pants down fucking Alice who lay half on the bed with her feet on
the floor, naked below the waist.  She held the man by the ears
and rolled her hips, grunting in time with his thrusts.

My mouth fell open.  I wondered if this was Alice's first
infidelity in our new lives.  It must have been.  When did she
have another opportunity? -- though in fact, I realized, she had
as many as I.  Our classes met at different times and if she were
discreet about it, even Clara might not know.  I also wondered
how I felt about it: dismay and jealousy, yes; anger, too.  But
this cop, O'Higgins!  He could hardly be the threat to me that
Rosalind was to Alice.  I knew from past experience that females
were capable of seeking revenge in this way.  Probably that's all
it was.

"Oh god!  Oh god!" the cop cried uncontrollably.  His body froze
in a long thrust that lifted the smaller hips clear of the bed.
With a great sigh he collapsed atop her.  She continued to squirm
and moan, obviously unfinished.

"So you want more," I heard him murmur after he relaxed somewhat.
"Let's do it again, leprechaun, but with you completely naked
this time."

He pulled her bra up.  A torrent of blue sponge bits popped out.
It was only too obvious that Alice had no tits whatsoever.

"Oh my god!" he screamed almost hysterically, jerking upright to
stand on his feet.  For the first time I got a glimpse of a wet
and oversized dick, implying another reason for Alice's ready
acceptance of it.

He stared down at the red-rimmed hairless twat, now oozing his
fluids.   "Oh god!" he declared again.   "How old are you, honey?
Oh, god, tell me you're 16!"

Alice glared up at him.  Her mouth twisted.  "I can't do that,
Sean."

"No, I guess you can't," he admitted in wonder.  "You're just a
baby!"

He turned to the side and bent over holding his stomach.  His
belly heaved powerfully beneath the blue shirt and he vomited on
the carpet.  Choking, he grabbed his trousers and thrust his legs
into them.

"Oh, son of bitch, honey, please don't tell anyone!  Please, oh
please, sweet darling!"

She had risen up on her elbows, the remains of her costume piled
around her head on her shoulders.  She ordered imperiously, "Put
that cock back in here, Sean.  I'm not through with it yet."

But the cock in question had lost half its previous grandeur.
That may be why she failed to protest farther when Sean's only
response was to hobble rapidly toward the door.  I hurried down
the hall and slipped into my room before he could catch me
spying.  He must have paused to straighten his clothes, because
there was a moment of silence before I heard him crashing down
the stairs, still moaning, "Oh god, oh god!"

When I went to check on her, Alice lay on the bed rubbing herself
between the legs.

"Timmy!" she exclaimed drunkenly when she saw me enter the room.
"O'Higgins left me hanging.  Be a good fellow and finish me off."

I strode angrily to the bed but found her in no condition to be
chastised.  Her head lolled on the pillow and she passed out as I
watched.  I pulled the covers over her gently, turned off the
light and left the room.

Downstairs I found the front door open to the winter wind.  After
closing it I checked around but found no police uniform.  I had
lost my mask.  One of the female guests exclaimed, "What a pretty
lad!"  She caught me up against huge tits and kissed me on the
mouth, thrusting with her tongue and beery breath.   I fled
through the den and saw Clara in the kitchen with her back to me.

I knew from her stance that she wanted to conceal something.  I
came in from the side and saw a line of white powder hiss from a
folded paper in her hand to bubble and fizz in a tumbler of dark
drink.  Rum and coke?  That's what Harvey was drinking.

I came up beside her.  "Is that for Harvey?"

She turned coolly, the surreptitious hand buried in the pocket of
her costume.  "Yes, it is.  Will you take it to him?  This other
glass is Juan's gin fizz."

"Will it hurt Harvey?"

Her eye flashed.  "It's only BC plus a little insurance."

It took me a moment to recall that BC was the brand name of an
aspirin powder popular at that time.  "I hope it doesn't smell of
almonds," I remarked as I set the drinks on my little tray.

She laughed gaily.  "Now, Tim!  Would I harm Mr. Stringer?"  Her
face sobered.  "And check on Alice, will you, please?  Her
blue-coated playmate came downstairs just now as if chased by a
ghost."

"I've already checked," I told her.  "She's out cold with a head
full of booze and a cunt full of come."

The woman sighed and nodded.  "I suspected as much.  She has
forgotten how alcohol tolerance relates to overall mass."

"You expected her to fuck that damned cop?" I hissed.

She nodded.  "So should you after last week."

I found Juan and Harvey standing in the upstairs hallway looking
blankly at the closed doors.  Juan's hand was in Harvey's pocket,
I thought at first, but realized as I handed them their drinks
that it was down the front of Harvey's britches.

"Pretty one," the Cuban cooed with a wink, "show us where the
guest room is."

"It's at the end of the hall," I said and led them to it.

Harvey was a bit worse for wear.  Juan supported him down the
hallway and through the door I held open for them.  Harvey
flopped onto the bed but grunted and popped back up on an
extended arm.  I closed the door behind me, intending to observe
them, emboldened by curiosity and whiskey to watch queers at
play.  The Cuban grinned at me the brief few seconds he needed to
remove his clothing.  Behind him his new lover hummed tunelessly
while managing to remove his high tops.

"Is this going to hurt, Juan?" he whined.  The Cuban ignored him.


"I've got a big one, pretty boy," Juan said seductively to me.
"Let's measure against each other."

He stood close in front me naked.  His attractive, well-muscled
body was sleek and virtually hairless.  The swollen penis,
perhaps seven inches long, jutted upwards at an angle.  It was
circumcised and sported a ...  At first I thought it was a tongue
clip driven through the tip but realized it was a _wart_ growing
atop the glans penis: a genital wart, and he was proud of it.
He said seductively, "Yours'll be just as pretty in a few years."
His eyes sparkled.  "I can help it along."

Almost shuddering, I declared stridently in my boyish treble, "I
only want to watch," and stepped back from the man.

"Of course, of course, sweet thing.  But pull yours out and let's
compare.  Or can I help you with it?"

I pointed to Harvey.  "He's the one who needs you just now."

He studied me with calculation and slowly nodded.  "Yeah, but
don't go away.  You're about to get a real education."

He turned to his fumbling companion who sat on the bed struggling
with his clothes evidently disinterested in my presence.

"Here.  Let me help you," Jaun told him.

Harvey's scrawny, hairy body was quickly exposed.  He lay on the
bed with his feet resting on the floor.

"Do we both get to suck?" Harvey asked as he played with his
half-erect penis, looking up at the Cuban with a crooked grin.

Juan knelt beside him on the bed and leaned over to rub his fat
member back and forth across Harvey's lips, which soon parted to
receive the knob.  Suddenly the thin body straightened alertly.
Harvey began to suck noisily.  His hand rose tentatively and
cupped the other's drooping testicles.

"So it's your first time, is it?" the Cuban mused, grinning in
pleased triumph at the deepening penetration of Harvey's mouth,
which he fucked in slow strokes.

"Do you want to butt fuck him, Timmy?" Juan asked coyly, looking
over his shoulder at me.

Curiously Harvey had lost his hard-on.  Wondering at the reason
for that, I failed to answer immediately.  Juan likely assumed
that my silence implied virginal hesitation.  He leaned toward me
while his hand first forced the skinny legs apart then lifted the
dangling testicles out of the way.  "See it?  All you have to do
is spit on your hand and wet your peeny."  He grinned wider.  "Or
come up here and I'll wet it for you."

Stepping back I shook my head in a vigorous negative.

"Then how about me?  All you need to do is whip it out and get
behind me.  I'll back up onto it."

Again I demurred, but perhaps not so forcefully as before.  He
had a well-rounded, almost feminine butt.

"Ah, well," he sighed and raised up, removing himself from
Harvey's mouth.  "Perhaps you'll let me suck some lubrication
from your boy-cock so I can ream Harvey in the behind."

"Lubrication?"

"You know: jism, spunk, love-juice."

I hesitated a moment to contemplate the opportunity of a quick
blow job from a source that ought to know all about it, but that
wart was only too prominently before me.  I said, "No," in a low
voice.

He stood off the bed, studying me.  One hand held his dick.
"Sweety, I think you need a little bit of the strong arm."

"Did you forget there's a cop in the house?" I reminded him.

Apparently he hadn't noticed O'Higgins' precipitous departure.
His face paled a couple of shades.  He sighed.  "I guess it's
just you and me, Harvey boy," he said with a resigned shrug,
turning again to the man on the bed.

Harvey did not respond except to grin and lick his lips.  Juan
knelt before him and engulfed the man's flaccid member, sucking
it to hardness. With the expertise of long practice, accompanied
by pops and slurps, the Cuban soon brought his subject to a
gasping climax.

He backed away and smiled at me with his lips pressed together to
hold a mouthful of spunk, driblets of which escaped down his
chin.  He spat the stuff gently into a hand and used it to slick
his penis, now larger than ever.

"Role over, sweetheart," he commanded gaily.  "It's time for me
to visit you."

Harvey turned onto his stomach immediately.  "Be nice," he
mumbled.

"Think lovely thoughts, darling," the Cuban cooed, kneeling just
behind his partner but holding still to look over his shoulder at
me.

"Come here," he ordered, gesturing with his head.  "You might
enjoy guiding it in."

"No, thanks."

"Well, I'm sure you'd like to watch.  You never saw anything like
this before."

In that he was correct.  I had plowed both Clara and Alice
anally, but my little organ could hardly spread flesh in the
manner of Juan's.  Hesitantly I approached the bed.  "Come on,"
Juan urged.  "Right up here beside us.  _I_ won't hurt you!"

Taking a deep breath, I obeyed.

Chuckling, the Cuban worked his warty knob up and down and
around, pushing with increasing force, hard enough finally that
he must enclose the root with his fist to keep it straight.  I
heard Harvey's breath whoosh as the long penis suddenly sank out
of sight.  Juan chuckled again, probably at something he saw in
my face.  "Popping through the ring," he observed.  "After that
it's easy as pie."  He snickered.  "With a new guy you can get a
brown cherry every time.  Why that look, sweetie?  You think it
might've hurt him?  What about it, Harvey?" he called.  "Does it
hurt?"

"N-no."  Harvey replied with a note of wonder.  "Feels like shit
going backwards.  Can you ... get any deeper?"

Juan explained, "You know, kid, how sometimes it feels good to
shit?  Well, this does too, for some of us, and I think good old
Harvey's a natural."

He began to thrust slowly.  Shortly his entire shaft was
disappearing on every stroke.  "Oooh!" murmured Harvey, laughably
almost in falsetto.

I had seen enough.  The rest was only too predictable.  I quietly
got off the bed.

"Hey, where you going, sport?" asked the Cuban, regarding me in
surprise.  "I'll bet your little weenie is as hard as you ever
felt it!"  He reached for my britches but I shrugged away from
him.  "Stick around and Harvey and I together will make you feel
better than you ever did before."

I opened the door and left the room.  Yes, it was educational but
he was wrong about my dick.  Suddenly I wanted the comfort of
real females.  But Alice was passed out in her bedroom.  Clara
was busy playing gracious hostess.  Then I remembered Rosalind.

She was downstairs with a group of perhaps six people centered on
Clara, who was speaking animatedly about cosmology.  I joined
them and listened for a minute.  To my surprise careful Clara was
practicing anachronisms, declaiming about the planets around
nearer stars detectable by perturbation of the stellar paths.
Maybe not so anachronistic, I realized, when I heard her describe
how they "ought" to be detectable.

Rosalind looked bored.  She willingly separated herself from that
bunch in response to my head jerk towards the foot of the stairs.

"I think it's time to leave," she said, bumping clumsily into me.
"Where's Harvey?"

"One too many, lover girl?"

She frowned.  "I'm not drunk, if that's what you're hoping."

I smirked.  "I could show you Harvey, but you don't want to see
it.  He's in the guest room with Juan."

She glared at me.

"Come upstairs," I suggested as I pulled on her resisting hand.
"I've got something to show you in _my_ room."

She hesitated stubbornly for a moment but then relented.  She
allowed me to lead her up the stairs.  I heard unintelligible
men's voices behind the closed door of the guest room.  We ducked
into my bedroom.

"This is like a monk's cell," she said with disapproval, looking
around at the bare walls and dearth of interesting furniture.

"I only sleep here," I explained, pulling her to the bed where we
sat together on the covered mattress.

When I stretched to kiss her face, she automatically resisted.
On the second try, however, she relented and even returned it.

"Don't!" she exclaimed when I palmed a modest breast, but she did
not brush my hand away nor did she attempt to stand.

"Timmy, please!" she protested my effort to locate the hem of her
long dress.  "I told you we wouldn't do it again.  Besides it's
the wrong time of the month for me."

I nevertheless found my way to a bare knee and scooted my hand up
her thighs, which parted slightly in promise.  She even let me
push her back to lie on the bed, where we finally began to kiss
passionately.  My fingers toyed with her panties, slipping inside
them.  To my pleased surprise she became thoroughly aroused,
throwing her arms around me and venturing her tongue into my
mouth while taking stentorian breaths through flared nostrils.

"I could get pregnant," she mumbled against my lips as if in
complaint.

"From fingers?"  Two of mine discovered just the right place
beneath the menstrual pad on her hairy groin.  Her hips began to
undulate.  She moaned into my mouth.

"Timmy, please! You're torturing me!

I persisted.

"Please, Timmy!  At least lick on me!"

Aha!  Within seconds I had her long green dress pushed above her
waist and her panties pulled off.  I unclipped the pad, wondering
whether tampons had been invented yet -- though doubtlessly
Rosalind had been perforate too briefly to learn their use.  I
noticed that her eyes were clenched shut to avoid seeing me look
at her.  The odor of blood was slight.  I remembered tasting it
on my second wife.

My mouth found her prominent clit.  She threw her legs over my
shoulders, totally accepting my nasty tongue.  I nibbled, sucked
and licked the girl to a loud, flailing orgasm, stopping my
ministrations only when she clamped my head tightly with her
thighs and uttered a brief cry of ecstasy.  When she relaxed her
legs and freed my head, I looked up to see her lying with eyes
closed and a contented expression on her pretty lips.  I laid
next to her, a hand on a breast, to kiss that satisfied face.

"Guys get excited too," I murmured into her ear.  "I'm hurting,
Roz.  I need some relief."

"I'd get pregnant," she responded, her eyes still closed.

"Not during your period, you ninny!"

She made a writhing motion.  "That's a sickening idea!"

"Then do it another way," I suggested, wondering if by any slim
possibility the blowjob I had rejected in an inappropriate mouth
might be obtained in this rosebud.

Her eyes popped open to find mine.  "Bring it here," she
directed.

Bring it here!  I think my chin sagged.  She laughed.  "I bet you
didn't think I know what you mean."

I jerked my tights down and off one foot as if ... well, as if
my bladder was about to burst.  Only it wasn't my bladder.  In no
time I had waddled up beside her head and presented my
stiff-stander, pitiful in my own eyes compared to what I had
recently seen next door.

I was so close she had to draw in her chin to study me.  "You
have no hair," she noted, "although you're half grown."  She
looked up and nodded.  "This was the right one for my hymen,
Timmy.  Did I ever thank you?"

"Maybe you will now," I suggested.  My five-incher was hard and
moist at the tip.  I pressed the glans with two fingers.  "The
nerve endings combine here in the head of it," I instructed her.
"It's sensitive there just like your clitoris."

"Of course," she said with a shrug.

"It's small yet," I admitted, "but it's real."

She put three fingers and a thumb on the turgid member, squeezed
it, toyed with it.  Again she looked up at me.  "Has anybody else
ever sucked it for you?"

"Yes," I said after a moment's hesitation.

Scornfully she asked, "That _Juan_?"

"No man has ever touched me," I said truthfully.

"Well, then, I want you to pay attention and tell me something."

"What?" I barked, annoyed by her sudden loquaciousness.

"Whether it feels better this way or the right way."

Rosalind was already doing sex research?  Suddenly I had a
suspicion but wisely kept it to myself, at least for the moment.
Instead I gave her some advice.  "I'll warn you when I'm about to
squirt.  Then you should close your throat or else you might
choke."

She looked at me oddly with a hint of surprise, as if she wanted
to ask how I knew -- which put us in the same boat.  Then she
seemed to make a decision.  She raised her head enough to slurp
the slender rod into her mouth.  Her cheeks collapsed as she
sucked, gently grazing me with her teeth.  It was enough, plenty
enough.  In less than a minute the pleasure built to the point of
no return.

"Here it comes!" I warned and placed both hands in her auburn
hair

The first, powerful spurt must have splashed forcefully against
the back of her throat, but she did not display any sign of
distress.  She continued to suck until it became unbearable.  I
pushed at her head.  She laid her head back to look up into my
face, her slightly parted lips drooling semen onto her chin.

"What do you want me to do wi' it?" she asked in a voice muffled
by her mouthful.

"Either spit or swallow," I suggested, pleased almost to giggles
at the sight of her wet face.

She swallowed.  Her eyes widened.  Her tongue appeared to swab
around her lips.  "Yours is so rich!" she declared.  An instant
later her eyes grew huge.  "Uh-oh!"

I sighed and shook my head.  "Rich," I repeated.  "So I didn't
get a cherry this time."

She blushed furiously.  "Timmy, Timmy ..." she began, turning her
face away.

"The poet?" I asked.

Her hand rose to conceal her eyes but she nodded.

"How many times?"

Her hand came down and she stared at me.  "Timmy ..."

"I want to know all about it.  I want to know if he appreciates
you."

She took a deep breath.  "Probably not.  But I appreciate _him_!
He sent me to heaven."

"To heaven."  I hope I kept the instant jealously from my voice.
"You had already let him know you were attracted, right?"

"Yes.  After you ... helped me the night of the blizzard -- and I
do so want to thank you for that, Timmy.  You were so lit--  You
were just what I needed."  She shuddered.  "God, I hate to think
how it would have been if he had been first!"

I felt the beginning of bitterness.  "He had a really large one,
did he?"

"Oh, yes, huge!"  Suddenly her expression changed.  "I'm sorry,
Timmy, but you did ask me."

"Tell me all of it," I grated.  For the first time I felt
sympathy for Alice's boob-less chest.

"He asked me to come to his rooms.  I did.  I think he's used to
women admiring his thing.  He took it right out and let me play
with it.  I didn't think it would ever stop growing!  I was
afraid it would hurt me but I had to find out.  It did too,
because I was afraid.  But then he changed around and did what
you did, only all the way, and when he put it in again, it was no
trouble at all.  Oh, Timmy!  I never felt anything so good in my
whole life.  I didn't know it was possible to feel such ... such
..."

"Ecstasy?"

"I guess that's as close as words can come."

"Then you blew him, didn't you?"

Her brow wrinkled.  "Blew?"

"A slang expression.  You sucked him."

She blushed again.  "But I couldn't do him as I did you.  I could
only get about half of his thing in my mouth before it gagged me.
He liked that, gagging me.  Did you know that the saliva glands
really pump when you gag?  That must make it feel better for a
man.  But do you want to hear something funny?"

"Yeah, I'd like to hear something funny."

"Yours was at least twice, maybe three times, as much.  Seminal
fluid, I mean."  She frowned.  "His scrotum is twice the size of
yours.  How could you do that?"

"He had probably whitewashed somebody -- I mean, been with another
girl not long before he saw you."

"Whitewashed?"

"Her tonsils.  It's just an expression."

To my surprise Rosalind's face brightened.  She actually giggled.
"I like that one!  For your information, you really whitewashed
mine!  And it was thicker, richer than his.  I'll bet you could
make a girl pregnant without half trying."  Her face fell.
"You're right.  I smelled another girl's cologne when I was there
the second time but not the first."

"I told you."

"I remember.  You said he used virgins and threw them away."  She
giggled again.  "As if they were condoms."

"That doesn't ... put you off?"

"It should, I guess."  She grinned slyly and shook her head.
"But this was different.  I used _him_."

"Did you?  And now you love sex, is that right?"

"Oh, yes, Timmy!"  It was her turn to sigh.  "But I'm well aware
of how dangerous it is.  Do you know any eunuchs?"

"What?"

"You know, men who have --"  She stared at me with a frown.
"That's not just something Richard Burton made up, is it?"

I had to laugh.  "Where did _you_ get a copy of _Scheherezade_ in
this day and age?"

"My mother has one.  Do eunuchs really exist?"

"Well, they're not so common here as Arabian harems.  But you cut
a man's balls off, Rosie, and he gets fat and wimpy.  You
wouldn't like him."

She snarled, "Don't call me Rosie!"

"A term of endearment."

I backed away from her, feeling for my tights.  "Why the interest
in eunuchs?"

"They can't make you pregnant.  They were harem guards.  Fatima
had four that were all her own."

I had to chuckle.  "How many times did you reread _The Arabian
Nights_?"

"I don't know," but she blushed once more.

"You can't get pregnant from swallowing it.  Or playing Juan's
game."

She looked at me blankly.  "His game?"

"Up the ass."

"Oh."  Her eyes were large but she evinced no squeamishness.
"Does _that_ feel good?"

I shrugged.  "Sometimes, so I've been told.  Rosalind, this
sounds like you're planning a vigorous love life."

She licked her lips, but shook her head petulantly.  "Why does it
have to be so dangerous?"

"Because it's so pretty.  Thanks for the blowjob."

"We're even."  She grinned.  "I could tell you were surprised."

"I was, but you still have something to learn about it."

"Not tonight," she said with a shrug.  She looked around herself,
found her flopping pad and reattached it to the belt.  "Is Harvey
getting a blowjob from that shifty Cuban?"

I studied her and finally said, "Yes."

She digested that, got to her feet and began drawing on the
somewhat scattered parts of her costume.  "Do you suppose I could
walk home alone in the dark, Timmy?"

"You don't want to wait for Harvey?"

She made a disgusted noise.  "I'd just as soon never hear his
name again."

* * *

A little after eleven I got out of bed, dressed and made a
momentary detour through Alice's empty room.  Upstairs and
downstairs I couldn't believe it: the house was spotless!  Clara
and Alice were drinking coffee over the morning newspaper in the
kitchen, looking very ordinary in their robes and slippers.  I
stood returning their inquiring looks.  "You've even had time to
brush your hair!"

"Why not?" asked Alice.

"But this place was a _wreck_ last night when I left with
Rosalind!"

They didn't react except to maintain their stares.

"What's going on?" I asked.  "Why are you looking at me this
way?"

Alice cocked her head.  "We were surprised when you came back."

"Huh?  Came back from what?"

"Rosalind's house.  What's the matter, didn't she ask you in?"

As a matter of fact, she did.  But her revelations about the poet
had still been sitting uncomfortably on my dick.

I returned Clara's stare.  "There's no way I can be quiet enough
creeping up the stairs for you not to hear me.  Is that right?"

At least her eyes twinkled.  "That's right.  Eventually."

I had to sigh.  "It seems I'm the one around here who sleeps like
the dead."

Alice asked, "What're you getting at?"

"I didn't hear you cleaning the vomit off your floor.  The
carpet's not even damp!  How'd you manage that?"

She looked puzzled.  "Somebody vomited in my room?"

"Yeah," I answered dryly.  "He squirted from both ends."

Alice looked at Clara.  "You didn't tell me about him getting
sick.  I wouldn't have thought he had so much to drink."

Clara opened her mouth to answer but I spoke first.  "Drink
didn't do it."

"What do you know about it?" Alice demanded.

"I heard a scream and looked in on you right at the end of it.
He pulled your brassiere off and realized how young you were.
That's what made him sick."  I chuckled grimly.  "I'll bet he's
biting his fingernails off this morning."

"Oh."  She actually grinned.  "I wondered when the bra came off."

"You don't remember much of it, do you?"

She raised her chin.  "I remember all of it."  She sighed.
"Except the last.  Was it you that covered me up?"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

"Why did you seduce him, Alice?"

Her look was expressionless.  "I've always liked big men.  You'll
be one in a few years.  What's _your_ excuse?"

"_My_ excuse?"

Clara interjected, "I told her about Rosalind's hour in your
bedroom."

"You ...  You ..."  And I thought Clara never left the kitchen!
But I was curious on another matter.  "What happened to Harvey?"

"He and Juan woke up about five and stumbled out into the cold.
They were the last to leave."

I regarded her almost in disbelief.  Now what would make them do
that?  Before I could ask, she said, "If you're hungry, some ham
and scrambled eggs are keeping warm on the stove."

"I'm ravenous," I admitted, rounding the table.  Shortly I joined
them with a full plate and a cup of coffee heaped with cream and
sugar.  Around a mouthful of food, I noted, "You still haven't
told me what happened to Harvey."

Clara snorted.  "You were there.  You tell us."

"I mean ...  Is he still likely to beget the line of men that
leads to the Calamity?"

"No."

"Hey, that's what I call a straight answer!  But you said the
Springers were late begetters.  Don't you know that queers often
change orientation in middle age?"

"Harvey Gambel Springer will father no offspring."

I studied her emotionless face.  "Shall we read in next week's
newspaper of Harvey's untimely demise?"

"Not unless Juan kills him."

"Well, then, you have done this universe a very great favor."

"Maybe."

"Only maybe?"

She answered grimly, "It occurs to me this morning that men do
not actually father every babe for which they get credit."

I blinked.  "Thought you had DNA to prove it."

She shook her head.  "Not for this one nor the next, Maurice
Stapleton Stringer.  We have it for the last two."

"Well, then --" I started to make a murderous suggestion, but
Alice interrupted me.

She said, "We have a more immediate problem."

That made me chuckle.  "Almost any problem is more immediate!"

"This one certainly is.  What shall we do about our unfaithful
lover?"

I could feel my eyes enlarge.  "Are you referring to me?  Or to
yourself?"

"What about both of you?" suggested Clara but her eyes were fixed
on me.

Suddenly I felt cold.  I returned Clara's stare.  "What do you
_want_ to do about us?"

"About Alice?  Nothing.  Tell him, dear."

The girl bit her lip and sighed.  She murmured, "I'm sorry,
Timmy.  I'm sorry I didn't ask you and Clara first."

"_Ask_ us?  Ask us what?"

"If you would let me fuck the cop."

I expelled my breath in disbelief.  "If I would _let_ you!"

"If I had done it that way, I wouldn't have needed to get drunk.
Then I could remember all the details and tell you blow-by-blow."

"You ... what?"  I asked weakly.  I'm sure my chin was dangling.

Clara said calmly, as if we were discussing schoolwork, "Tim, you
must realize that Alice's indiscretions are just that.  It is
unlikely approaching impossible that she will ever stray far from
us.  She is well aware of how much she needs us and she lacks
your independent nature.  Who followed whom into Reversion?"

Finally my brain began working.  "I ... see.  Whereas in my case
..."

Clara nodded.  "Yes.  That is the problem.  You are our focus.
Without you we have no interest or reason for existence.  And in
fact you need us just as much, though with the male orientation
you will probably never acknowledge it."  Her voice trembled,
though her gaze never wavered.  "In fact you scare us to death,
Timmy."

I thought about it and admitted, "I think I understand.  I'm
sorry, ladies."  I took a deep breath, "But sometimes --"

She raised a hand.  "We know.  Sometimes you run across a female
shape that gives off sexual readiness like smoke from a fire.
Timmy, we don't want you to become a monk.  We don't even want
you to stop noticing other females.  If you weren't attracted to
other women you wouldn't care so much for us either.  We
understand that."

"Thank you.  I don't think I ever heard a woman admit that
before.  All right.  What _do_ you want?"

"The same thing Alice has offered."

"You, you ... want me to ask permission?"

"If you have time."  Obviously they had already discussed this
and reached agreement.  Alice was nodding slightly as Clara
continued, "But if you don't have time, will you come to us as
soon as you can and tell us all the details?"

I stared from one to the other.  They returned it.  I asked, "On
what basis will you grant permission?"

"On the degree of threat to our family."

I studied their guileless faces.  "I'll think about it."

Clara shook her head.  "We want you to promise, Tim."

"Now," added Alice, "as I have."

I asked incredulously, "You've promised to get our permission to
screw?"

"Outside the family," she responded levelly and tossed her head.
"We already get it implicitly of each other."  She took a breath
and added, a quiver in her voice.  "We're afraid to go on without
yours too."

Afraid to go on!

In the end I promised, of course.  I'd rather not go on without
them either.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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