Message-ID: <44511asstr$1064884205@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
X-Original-Message-ID: <000b01c38652$608f7340$a2e090d0@D883FC21>
From: "Tom Emerson" <thomas@btl.net>
X-Priority: 3
X-MSMail-Priority: Normal
X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2727.1300
X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Mon, 29 Sep 2003 00:23:31 -0600
Subject: {ASSM} Truckin'-eh
Date: Mon, 29 Sep 2003 21:10:05 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2003/44511>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: newsman, hecate
<1st attachment, "Truckin'-eh - text.txt" begin>
Truckin'-eh
by Feather Touch
(M/b, mast, oral, rom.)
"Morality is for the affluent," I said, "and given a
choice I think most of us would choose to have children raised
without so much as a salacious thought or carnal experience of
any kind until they fell madly in love with a proper partner and
married and lived happily ever after. That's a golden ideal. No
dating, no time wasted on romance or emotion on pursuit or
escape, no posing, no posturing, no finagling or stalking for
eighteen or twenty years. That's my moral ideal and it's as
common as salt, but only as an ideal. What really happens is
perhaps one person in ten is handed the fairy-book options, the
combination of prosperity and parent and peer involvement that
amounts to a best-case scenario. The rest of us have to make it
up as we go along. Is that kind of how you feel?"
"I guess I don't know how to feel, because I don't know
what the worst-case scenario is."
His name was Johnny Lane. He hadn't gone off with a tale
of abuse or misfortune or anything like that, but did seem to
have something on his mind. I'd picked him up in what amounted
the warming tail of a freakish mid-September blizzard and spent
the previous ten minutes trying to figure out whether I should
add or subtract years from his calendar. On the one hand, his
mind was of not only an older teen, but a brilliant older teen.
His voice, however, pegged him as possibly as young as ten.
Since I'd spent the night at Little America, the truck was cold
soaked and Johnny had remained buttoned up to the maximum until
the heater began to kick in, so there was a mostly brown lump of
overcoat, collar, scarf, and hat; could even have been a girl.
As you might expect, I'd quizzed on home, family, and
tried to keep it short of the
what-the-hell-are-you-doing-out-here routine, instinct telling me
he'd had enough (or he wouldn't be out here).
"Have you got a step-father?" That was one of my first
questions when he hadn't just up and come out with a plausible
story. It had elicited a nod, and I'd left it at that as we'd
scampered over a list of favorite authors and actually high-fived
across the doghouse at the mention of a mutual favorite. He was
both precise and pithy, criticizing our favorite for writing a
scene in which the narrator suggests that a woman should never
walk from her lover while wearing a scanty costume. I'd never
figured that one out, either; what's a gal meant to do, back away
from el buffo for the rest of her life?
"But you know, half the time he was probably right,"
Johnny peeped from the shotgun seat, "they don't look so hot from
the back." A mere minute or two brought us to the conclusion the
writer was half sexist and half man.
"I don't like what he said about not inviting anyone of
dubious sexuality on a trip in his hero's boat," I said,
"especially when another of his principal characters is a devoted
disciple of Keynes, who, I suppose, wasn't dubious about being
gay."
Johnny hadn't said anything in response so I knew I was
intruding, at the same time he seemed worth intruding on. I
delivered my morality speech, because something was cooking, I
could tell by his body language. The weather was breaking, the
sun beating back the early storm, and his hat and scarf came off.
"Well," I replied, "the worse case I've read about is a
young boy in Chicago who wore four pairs of pajamas to bed every
night hoping his father wouldn't touch him."
"It probably didn't do any good," my new friend said.
"And he probably grew up like anyone else," I countered,
"when I was your age I had to eat half-cooked Brussels sprouts
sitting in a pool of cold water. They used to make my stomach
heave, but I choked them down and never actually hurled. You
have to remember that ninety percent of the fun of being an adult
is not being a kid, anymore. It's a hideous state of life;
school, for openers, then a minefield of alternatives from
cigarettes to being gang-banged by bikers and left for dead. On
top of this are the morality plays with their theoretical
perfection in a hypocritical and deviant world, yet with many
people playing by the rules, coloring inside the lines, and
making out just fine, so you can't say they're all lies and
nonsense."
I wanted, a, to get him home, and, b, get him some safely.
At the same time, it was a long run out to the coast - I was
headed for Boeing - and I'd be back through Wyoming in a week or
so. He was out and about when I picked him up, so it was easy to
rationalize any kidnapping or inappropriate-interference aspect
to the situation. Hat and scarf off, he was okay to look at,
something that actually wasn't important because of his bookish
nature, but if someone's going to share the cab of a truck for a
week, well, it became a factor. "What I'm going to do, if you
want," I said to Johnny, "is take a digital photo of you and send
it to the sheriff in Sheridan saying I've picked you up and
giving him our itinerary. If anyone's burning up his wires with
the hots for you, we'll be pulled over, otherwise, we're covered
- you're not running away and I'm not abducting you."
"That would be okay," the boy said after a moment's
thought.
"It's one gorgeous trip west," I said, "and running
Wyoming in fresh snow is not something you're likely to forget."
I was being a little cute here, and it probably was
exploitive or at least manipulative. I cued up Smetana's Moldau
on the player, let the six hundred horsepower Allis Chalmers run
as it would, and we dove off a mesa as the speedometer wound
slowly past a hundred, and the dead cute part was a long freight
I'd seen in the mirror that was rushing through the snow a
quarter mile off to our right. The instant we cleared the cut
the engineer saw the game was afoot and his six engines belched a
ton of black smoke. I hit the Play button and the music crashed
from eight speakers. The race was on.
"Holy shit," Johnny remarked in an awed whisper, "I mean,
ye gods and little fishes." And there was a lot to try to fit
into an exclamation, the blue and sliver string of diesels
unequalled as a snow dragon, now pegging it at a hundred and ten,
as we were.
"Uh-oh," the sharp eyed kid said.
He was right in his own way, a bear now discernable as a
bear at half a mile or so.
"No one can blame this man," I quoted.
"George at Willy's funeral," Johnny shot back, not adding
"from `Death of a Salesman', as we were already high-fiving over
the doghouse. The distances and rate of closure looked right to
me but I gave the boy a shrug to be on the safe so. My
confidence in him didn't stem solely from the grandeur of the
picture, I would have trusted him in a less intense situation,
but it was nice to see him responding positively to the obvious,
which he did by grinning happily.
I moved the truck into the passing line with its six
inches of fresh powder, and eased down to a hundred to let the
freight pull a little ahead. The tracks obligingly narrowed on
the Interstate, so now our adversary raced within a hundred yards
of us. The bear was doing about fifty as we crashed by him,
train on his right, semi on his very immediate left, both
blasting through the loose snow as if hell had long-since frozen.
I was taken aback to see the cruiser spin out from the blast of
the cabover, but the bear took it in good stead. I held my mike
up to one of the speakers to heighten his experience, ran the
race (I think we might have won) for a few more minutes, then
settled back to the posted limit and the hardpack of the
traveling lane.
"Don't ever try that if it's windy," I advised Johnny who
still had a happy smile on his cute face.
"I don't think I'd try it on Salt Lake," the boy
responded.
"I guess it was kind of a morality play, itself," I said,
"most of the time you do what's right and proper and moral and
descent and good, but once in awhile you free yourself and take a
chance. The smokey could have had a fight with his girl, could
be a rookie out to establish himself, could have just been reamed
for this or that and have an attitude, and wouldn't have been in
the mood to be swung around, whatever the circumstances, but we
won out; he was an okay guy, liked the show, and realized no one
meant any harm."
"I get it," Johnny responded, "and I'm glad there's no
chance involved in doing over a hundred miles an hour in six
inches of snow."
"That amount of snow being spun through the tires," I
said, "gives them a fair amount of grip, plus the fact they're
spinning fast enough to clear themselves by centrifugal force,
so, with good rubber, it's not inherently dangerous."
"And sometimes it's good to just pretend a tire won't blow
or an antelope jump from behind a guard rail," the boy murmured
(I'd lowered the music) with a nod.
"I'd prefer thinking in terms of having used up all our
good luck for the trip, so we'll be extra careful from now on."
That seemed to hit a positive note with Johnny and he nodded
again, more enthusiastically. By now the train was pulling well
ahead, still a thing of rushing, hurricane beauty, and we sat
back and watched, the "Moldau" at medium volume. As the interior
came up to normal temperature Johnny kept shedding, folding his
discards neatly and placing them in the sleeper behind his seat.
He emerged as a slim early teen, more interesting looking than
what they call eye candy. To me the common ones are more
intriguing than the cuties, but that's just a matter of taste. I
also have a romantic notion of mind coming before face or body,
and here was a hand in spades.
"So," I asked after a quiet half hour, "is it okay to quiz
you about gross and embarrassing stuff, or should we stick to
subjects like does `A Prayer for Owen Meany' have the silliest
ending of any novel, or not?"
"Yes and no," Johnny said, "yes it has a wacky ending, and
no, I don't mind if you ask me stuff about California politics."
Well, I happen to like them - not that there has been a
number that would support a "them" - razor sharp. I'd been off
cable, even the occasional weekends I got off it between trips,
for over a year, the theory being there was a finite amount of
exposure to Israel endurable by the healthy mind. I kept up by
logging onto MSN every day, always looking for a piece titled:
"Seven signs the jig is up," before branching off into the
absurd, so I had an idea what my new friend was talking about.
"So many monkeys, so little money," I responded, often
finding, as evidently did my precocious friend, considerable
gallows humor in the folkways of the urban socialist. Like
Buster Keaton, I refrained from laughing out loud - some people
are so easily offended - but that didn't detract from the
merriment part and parcel of the theater of the striving-to-be
absurd, but, since O.J. consigned to the realm of the pathetic if
not the outright desolate. I mean, hadn't they voted for that?
The neutral gray of nonentity? What, pray tell, did they want to
replace it with? California beaches verged on gray, murky water,
the rocks covered with an algacic slime that seemed to suck all
color from the world; what were they thinking of? It was no
place for the slightest tint or most subtle hue, never mind
brilliance. Not even a bright place, the slag heap of the
leftists, yet someone wanted to govern it. Imagine. Of course,
on the opposite coast the governor of Massachusetts' inbox was
choked with fourteen billion dollars in accounts payable to those
working-class heroes, the thirty-dollar-an-hour sandhogs, so it
was good to be truckin' for grins and dreamin' of leavin'. See,
I'm a pie-in-the-sky optimist by nature, and heaven knows life
has been good enough to me, but a prerequisite to being positive
or negative was being alive, in the first place, and remaining
amongst the quick didn't seem very likely in an atmosphere of
ultra extreme materialism. Better to get a nice little Lund
sixteen footer, rig it with oars and a sail, and substance fish
somewhere on the ample coasts of Mexico, luxuries confined to a
couple of steamer trunks full of books and perhaps a friend who
wouldn't burden the camp with futureless children. I know,
optimism at a childish level, but what with the trawler-size
diesel, racing the thundering train, the friendly laugh of the
trooper, the Smetana, and the nice young hitchhiker, well, who
wouldn't feel a little upbeat? Yes, it was the first day of the
rest of my life.
"I hope," I said after another comfortable pause, "you
haven't been so badly tampered with, tackled, abused, assaulted,
molested, or raped, it's an issue."
"That's probably what you meant by `embarrassing' and
`gross'," the boy responded.
"If it's worse than spelling `Schwarzenegger', feel free
to skip it," I advised the boy.
"It seems more like a joke when I'm with you," the neat
kid answered, and I carefully - so they wouldn't spill - opened
my cupboard reserved for gold stars in order to add another. By
this time we'd reached another major cross road and I pulled off.
It was not Middle America, but the parking lot verged on what
amounted to tundra at that time of year, vast and sweeping to low
hills, which would make an admirable background to a few photos.
I continued slowing on the traffic-free off ramp, finally pulling
to the right and stopping. I reached across the doghouse,
grabbed the ninety-pounder, and hauled him into my lap, showing
him how to set the axle button and move the shifter for first
gear. Tall boy. He was able to take my place on the clutch,
and, with his overcoat retrieved from the sleeper and placed
under his butt, reach the pedals and see at the same time.
Explaining how the very thought of an accident would put me off
me feed, I told him I'd meet him in the coffee shop, looped the
strap of the camera bag over my shoulder, and left the truck,
assuming the parking brake was plainly enough marked and obvious
enough in function not to confuse the boy.
Can I pick `em, or what? I hadn't walked fifty feet when
I heard the pop and hiss of the brake being applied. As I
continued up the artificial grade there were a couple of
experimental rumbles of the engine, then the hiss of the
releasing brake. He almost stalled it once, slightly over revved
on the second try, and the third time I heard the normal sounds
of a thirty-five ton truck starting out from rest. I hurried
along in case Johnny had the wit to find second gear, and he
steamed slowly behind me as I entered the front parking lot of
the restaurant. Realizing he'd probably be smiling, I changed my
course and jogged to where he was beginning to back into an open
parking slot. I slowed to a walk to give the boy time and
readied the camera, vaguely tuned into the snorting of the truck
as Johnny experimented with moving the trailer (with its two
fan-jet engines) in the mirrors. Easy, of course, if you just
take your time while you're getting used to it. He did, so I had
no trouble being there when he dropped the left air window and,
sure enough, smiled happily down at me. I got the shot and he
reached in to set the brake and kill the engine. We took turns
shooting each other, and, when he found out what the cargo was,
boy that he was, nothing would do but he un-tarp the big Pratt
and Whitneys so he could pose dramatically. We used the tripod
and self-timer to get a couple of group shots, then I exchanged
the camera bag for the laptop, uploaded the images, got out the
little snake of a battery-operated printer, and left my friend to
re-tarp our expensive load while I adjourned to the coffee shop.
"God, they're just beautiful," the thirteen year old
whispered as he moved into the booth beside me.
"It's almost free to practice with a digital," I said, but
they were pretty good. I rubbed his right thumb with ink and
stuck it to the back of a print, doing the same on one of the
pictures he'd taken of me. Since cheek swabs are such a cinch,
why not? even though I felt pretty stupid, and we smeared a
little saliva beside our prints, then both signed our names. I
didn't quiz Johnny about his provenance, but did include my
family brokerage (I'm from old money) as an always-current
contact source. I wrote a few paragraphs about what was
happening and Johnny added a crisply penned some lines about how
so far he was having a good time. We signed again, stuck in four
of the better pictures, and addressed the envelope to Sheridan,
because when the conductor asked where to put Cheyenne, the
stationmaster said: "Anywhere you want," and it didn't sound like
a trustworthy place, somehow. I ticked my logbook and Johnny
ordered french toast with a grilled cheese back, rounding out his
perfection in my eyes.
At that moment a bear entered the shop. Tall, lean and
sharp. "Saw your rig," he said, and placed a camcorder on the
table. Johnny looked up attentively, but kept studying the menu.
I plugged the camera into the laptop and the trooper pushed the
Play button. Pastoral wastelands without limit came up on the
screen, then, on the right, the smoking train shouldering aside a
ton of snow every few seconds, then an audible blast as we
passed, a dramatic fade-to-white, and a surreal kaleidoscope of
imagery ending with a long shot of train and truck disappearing
in their twin clouds of snow. "I was wondering if I could dub
the Smetana," the young man asked.
"It's not locked," I said, nodding in the direction of my
Marmon, "can we order you something?" He opted for grilled
cheese and milk and headed for the truck.
"Did you copy it while it was playing?" Johnny asked.
"Of course," I said, and we replayed the sequence four or
five times before the boy's order came. Ned Jerris, for that's
how he introduced himself as he returned. I explained we'd made
a copy for our own use, but he'd done the heavy lifting and had
rights to the film as far as we were concerned. I gave him the
unsealed envelope for Sheridan and he penned a note on the paper,
signing it over his badge number. We took some video of each
other in the both, then settled down to eat. Old money or not, I
hadn't had many mornings like that in my life. Heck, it wasn't
even nine-thirty.
"We keep getting off the subject," Johnny said once we
were again traversing the wastelands.
"I guess I've been kind of devious," I admitted, "because
I find you attractive as a boy. I am interested in what may have
happened to you, but my motive for asking is salacious, and I
want to give you plenty of wiggle room if that's not your cup of
tea."
"Have you ever experimented with a boy my age?" he asked.
By the way, I'm thirty-two, slim, and okay looking.
"Twice," I said, "but a long time ago. To get the matter
out of the way, women find fault with me and I think I'm top
molecule of cream in a conical bottle, so that reduces that issue
considerably."
"They never fall for your modesty?" Johnny asked.
"I don't know," I said, "I've tripled my inheritance with
long-term investments, and added half a million a year from a
little franchise I dreamed up, so to go around all awe-shucks,
well, it just wouldn't be right. If you have an ego, you can let
people get closer than if you don't, because your vanity, of and
by itself, will prevent `closer' from becoming `too close'.
Theoretically, this should yield enduring friendships which don't
end in maudlin regret when separation finally occurs."
"It does keep things from being cut-and-dried, I can see
that," Johnny allowed.
"Well, it's my own invention," the older male nodded,
"tall tales that turn out to be true tales, but you have to stick
around to find that out. So far, none have. And driving a truck
was meant to be the answer: a good-bye to what is a very
beautiful country in its western regions, and maybe finding
someone who wasn't all cocktail parties and country clubs, which
gets pretty industrial after awhile."
"I guess I'm all library," the boy noted.
"Proactively or reactively?" I asked.
"I started spending more time there when he moved in with
my mom," young Mr. Lane said, "but I was hooked in a week,
especially on the magazines, so it kind of saved my skin."
"How big was the `p' in predator?" I asked, not loath to
trying a little soft-shoe syntax where it might keep things on a
mild footing.
"It was the `b' for `belly' that was the problem," Johnny
replied. "I mean, I'm not a body-beautiful freak. You don't
have to be Rick Schroeder to be my friend or anything, but there
wouldn't even have been room for the two of us in the shower, if
I had wanted to, and that has to be a limit."
"It's definitely my pet peeve," I responded. "Obesity,
even over materialism, assuming it's not the ultimate form of the
latter, in the first place."
"It's more like soggy cereal than material," the thirteen
year old added, and we high-five over the dog house, this time
Johnny retaining my right hand, and insisting he be dragged along
with it as I brought it back to it's proper place on the steering
wheel. He released his hold and lay on his back, his hands
linked behind his neck and his sneaker-shod feet stretching into
the shotgun seat.
"But there was enough `p' that you ran away?" I asked,
toying with his hair for a moment here and there.
"It was probably more Huck Finn type of stuff," the boy
replied, "running to, not from. Yes, Nestor was after me, and
yes, he really strained the lock of my door one night, but, as
you implied earlier, lots of boys go through that and it doesn't
make them walk like crabs or emit phosphorescent vapors. I mean,
I guess it wouldn't have been any worse than a marine biologist
messing with a walrus, or a hospital orderly dealing with fat
patients, and probably wouldn't have been any big deal one way or
the other. It was more an overall feeling of congestion. Then
you start reading about boys who did split at young ages, and
made out just fine. So, on balance, the risks and potential
risks seemed about the same whether I stayed or left, while at
the same time it seemed realizing any positive facet of the
future likely meant hitting the road."
"And your mom?" I asked.
"She half suggested it," the boy laughed, "she ran away
for two years when she was only eleven. She kept in touch and
brought me home when she was thirteen, then went back to school
as if nothing had happened, except she won every writing contest
open to kids her age, as well as several for adults. She moved
in with The Heap because he had ten thousand books in his digs.
When she found out I had two reasons for spending so much time at
the library, she opened up on what a big world it was out there,
and how many nice people there were, and how few bad ones, when
you got right down to it, and further noted that for a boy an
extended excursion over the horizon was best attempted before he
grew hair on his legs. She said she'd had the time of her life
when she was on her own, but do send a continuous stream of
messages, because mothers like to worry. Then she left a
thousand dollars under my pillow without actually giving it to me
by way of encouraging me."
"She sounds like a keeper," I said, perhaps never having
heard so much common sense in so short a time.
"Yeah," the boy agreed, "but there's also what you said
when I first got aboard. You know, no dating or anything until
you get married when you're twenty. I can't see that that would
be too bad."
"It would be great," I agreed, "so long as you, the male,
remains faultless. Women are like acid, they eat relentlessly at
any defect, and the next thing you know, your soul leaks out and
you catch hell for spilling on the carpet." As noted, I'm a
card-carrying optimist and so didn't go on about the less
metaphysical leaking often associated with marriage. Hell, he
was old enough to read the papers.
Now it did start to blow. Warm. From the south. The
remote thermometer was inching its way past 25 degrees
Fahrenheit. "This may sound a little convenient," I said to
Johnny, "but it turns out the weather forecast was wrong. They
said the North would continue until tomorrow, but it's giving
way, now. That means winds and wet ice, and, not to put too fine
a point on it, shacking up, probably for a day, maybe for two."
"Can we go back to Little America?" the boy asked.
"Ah, yes," I replied, "a boy with a thousand dollars and a
truck stop with a roomful of arcade games."
"A boy with two thousand dollars," he responded, "I had
some money of my own, and it never occurred to me they might have
games there."
"They have everything there," I said.
"A pool?" he asked.
"Sure," I replied. "It's probably the most interesting
resort in the country. We can kick back and at the same time be
in tune with the pulse of an industrialism that exceeds a
factory-perfect Manhattan." Johnny nodded up at me from his
improvised bed and in less than forty minutes we came to an
overpass and were able to head back east, nursing along at about
fifty as the temperature kept climbing. He rolled over on his
stomach and fell sound asleep. I parked, registered, left him a
key, and settled in, having apparently completely rearranged my
world without having accomplished anything.
His key clicked in the lock just before noon. He said
thanks for letting him sleep, that he felt great, and disappeared
into the bathroom.
"A honeymoon on our first date," he chirped as he emerged,
now dressed in a tee and gym shorts taken from his backpack, and
barefoot.
"I've never been a bride before," I responded, and he thought
that was way funny. For my part, what was "way" was that it was
way nice to have the issue laid to rest, as in assured, so I
didn't end up having to play creepy games, which I would not have
wanted to play, but would have played, as it's one thing to
saunter the moral high road in the abstract and quite another to
walk the straight and narrow in the presence of a leggy thirteen
year old. Meantime, the weather had turned to gusty rain. We
were lucky to have the rig parked, a cozy room, and a menu of
diversions at hand. Further cause for relaxation was the
weatherman's now solid report of a new high and a cold night
ahead. No place out there for a white man. It was hard not to
feel a little smug, and, when Johnny chose to look through the
collection of paperbacks in my awol bag, instead of grabbing the
remote wired to the table between the beds, impossible. He
pulled out Clavell's "Shogun". "I just read this," he said, "and
I mean it's a great story of an Englishman succeeding in Japan,
but there's a scene where a boy does something with a man and the
result is `clouds and rain.' I didn't get that."
Totally impossible.
"Did you get a boner when you read it?" I asked.
"Yes," Johnny whispered with a light blush.
"Then you were on the right page," I responded, "and the
description will make sense to you one of these days."
"Can you tell me more?" he wanted to know.
"If you want," I said, "but it does bring the subject up
again, The Heap notwithstanding. I've been mulling it over and
it seems to me it boils down to three choices. The first is
whether or not you're happy to go on hanging out with me, or
whether you might prefer to hang around the pool and sauna and
explore on your own."
"With you," the boy said immediately.
"Okay," I said, "that narrows it down to two. Things that
could happen as and when you want them to here in the room, or we
could go hang out in the sauna, together. This place is going to
be packed to the rafters with stranded truckers and motorists.
It is likely a holiday atmosphere will ensue, for any other would
be pointless. An unrelated man and boy, both reasonably
attractive, together in the sauna, the steam room, and at the
pool are likely to attract attention, which could be quite open
and maturely expressed, especially in the steam room which allows
semi-privacy. Add to this that there won't be rooms for
everybody, so any invitation we might extend to a fellow traveler
would likely be readily accepted. In short, there's the
potential for many clouds and much rain, if you are up for a full
and satisfying entry into the nether world that's such a
distraction at your age if kept half secret and half hidden."
"Cool," Johnny said, "as long as I can stay close to you."
"I think the standard rule in such a situation," I
explained, "is that you owe two things. First, a polite
dismissal if your fancy leads you off with someone else, and,
second, a graphic description of what happens if you do end up
alone with someone else for awhile."
"Don't just disappear," the boy rephrased, "and kiss and
tell."
"I can't think of any other," I said. "The balance thing
will assert itself as it will. I used to believe in nurture over
nature, about ten to one, but I've seen so many beautifully
nurtured people amount to nothing, and so many claw their way to
success and fulfillment despite great odds, I've come to view
them as about fifty-fifty. Yes, all Hottentots are Hottentots,
but in a complex culture kids are going to demonstrate what
they're really made of in a wide variety of ways, having more to
do, I believe, with their genetic makeup than with their
upbringing. This is the long way of saying that you will find
the level of your supposed instincts whether it's truck-stop boy
pussy or devoted husband."
"We went out at a hundred," Johnny noted, "and came back
at fifty. Each made sense at the time, though the first was
certainly more engaging. I think I learned from the lesson."
"I think you learned before the lesson," I responded.
While he'd been napping I'd checked MSN to catch the
latest on the hurricane. I'm kind of allergic to the reporting
of these storms, having twice partied far inside the red donut to
light and variable winds, with less than an inch of rain. It's s
simple sales tool; take a natural vortex, speed it up a thousand
times, then color it red and report the winds at twenty-thousand
feet, not actually saying they are winds aloft, but instead
comparing them to categories such as four and five. Whoever
makes money off this marketing gimmick, interspersed with
inflammatory photos of Galveston, and the like, does so at the
cost of enormous human suffering, because evacuation is purely
hell on the way away from home, whatever the weather. Well, we
had a ruling class of notorious worry-worts and something like a
hurricane fit neatly into one of their worry boxes (while obesity
and materialism were hardly worth mentioning). It was jumped-up,
whacked-out, and time to get out.
Where had we gone hopelessly astray? At the precise
moment in history: when Ford had been dumped for pardoning Nixon.
This affirmed our new leadership's power to nitpick and destroy,
but, simultaneously placed the entire country in the delicious
position of deserving what it got. An easily manipulated,
disgruntled, subliterate citizenry, well, weren't they but a toy
one wouldn't mind breaking? Silly Peanuts had won the ensuing
election and history had repeated itself when another good-ole
boy had won over a ninety-six percent approved president whom the
Leadership held responsible for a two percent rise from
historically low (and internationally laughable) levels of
unemployment. Two wrongs may not make a right, but two jokes of
this size will both inspire and sustain a comedy. You bet I was
feeling a little smug.
"Do you want to watch them sell generators at Home Depot?"
I asked the boy sitting beside me on one of the beds, "or go
adventuring."
"I like talking to you," he answered.
"Well," I responded, "it doesn't all have to be books and
politics."
"So you could tell me a little about the steam room?" the
thirteen year old asked, coloring.
"You mean what it's like to be in a room with a dozen or
two young guys dressed in towels, and no females present?" I
asked.
"Is that true?" Johnny whispered nervously.
"Not normally," I said, "on and average night you might
meet a person or two to chat with, and once in awhile a cute guy
who wants to visit in your room, and maybe once a month or so,
and I'm extrapolating from anecdotal evidence, a man and boy,
probably not father and son. But with the road conditions, it
will probably be very different."
"Glad I got a nap," Johnny noted.
"Well," I said, "if you want the good ship Future launched
to a tumult of popping champagne bottles, this is probably the
best place you could be."
"This is the best place I could be," he responded,
wriggling against me to drive home the point. And yes, it didn't
help with the smugness issue. He asked how many times I'd hung
out in the steam room, and I said four times in the last year,
plus hearing some stories and most notably stories concerning
holiday traffic.
"And this will be even better," he mused, then asked what
we should wear. Yes, he had trunks in his backpack, as I had in
my luggage, and so that's how we went, bath towels around our
waists. Bare chested, he was a lithe beauty, his sinewy torso
actually accented by his plainer but still cute face with its
conventional short, brown hair and eyes that were far more
intelligent than photogenic. He had bigger, slightly stick out
ears and knobby knees; big feet. He transcended cute by a
country mile, an actual masterpiece of provocatively gawkish
hobbledehoy; Norman Rockwell, couldn't have chosen better to
represent a farm boy in overalls. His bathing trunks were just
that; the modest, baggy style, nor did I, hairless teen body
notwithstanding, sport anything resembling a thong. Just a
regular old bathing suit.
I may have been dressed conservatively for the occasion,
but it was a lie. Honest to god, I've never been half so excited
in my life. Al Gore giving a graceful concession speech,
outlining the vagaries of trying to count two hundred million of
anything, and standing firm to the precedent set by Richard Nixon
on the occasion of his highly suspicious loss to the playboy,
wouldn't have thrilled me as much as the sounds of the
approaching pool and Johnny's right hand instinctively finding my
left.
We passed an alcove for an ice machine and I pulled him
in. "There are a lot of people there," I said, "so I want to be
sure you know what you want.
"I just don't want to wake up," he said pinching one hand
with the other.
"Well," I responded, "my knees are shaking and I've never
had that happen in a dream. And this should be the more exciting
because it's a fickle-finger selection - just who happened to be
in the area of the storm - not like holidays when the
semi-professionals are out stalking."
"How can you tell who they are?" Johnny asked.
"I don't know, exactly," I replied, "as this is
essentially a first time for me, but I would imagine they say too
much, too fast and sound a little too plausible."
"Like the thugee?" he asked, and we high-fived in front of
the ice machine, then marched on.
As a boy I was an indifferent hunter, confining myself to
knocking an occasional red squirrel out of a tree as a test of
marksmanship, but never experiencing anything approaching the
thrill of the stalk and shot. On the door to the domed pool,
there was a note. "Do to weather emergency," it said, "normal
bathing-suit restrictions are lifted." It was signed: The
Management and someone had carefully penned in Top for The, and
several others had added exclamation marks. The thrill of the
hunt. I suddenly felt fully qualified to write a book on the
subject, at the same time knowing I was unable to write porn for
its own sake. In fact, the title of anything I could actually
set down would likely be "Beyond the Beacon", for that's where we
are. The glow on horizon is now directly overhead, and the ocean
or desert ahead, take your choice, displays no others. In common
terms, the beacon was lighted about 18880; this being a time when
technology, primarily steam and the telegraph began to influence
the lives of ordinary people on a daily basis. For forty years,
thereafter, there was a string of fiery future lights, dozens of
major points surrounded by a glowing field of bonfires. Not the
slightest chance of getting lost. But we passed cars, roads,
electricity, radio and television, finally homing on a single
source, the personal computer and Internet, at which we have
arrived. For the first time in well over a century, and from an
academic standpoint, well over two centuries (dating from the
first chronometer and steam engines), there is not the vaguest
trace of light on the horizon. Where the government should have,
for example, been assiduously at work getting fiber optic cable
"the last mile", it dithered on socialism, so this possible
beacon is as far off as electric cars - invisible. The glare is
all behind us; does its light pollution obscure a star or two? I
don't think so. I think there is nothing out there. We have a
hundred times more than we ever expected; that which was barely
conceivable twenty years ago is now a commodity and of little
future interest. The syndrome can even be measured by
desperate-measures excesses exemplified by the Segway power
scooter; design for its own sake. NASA is yet spending billions
on a space empire for the sake of a space empire. Iridium pulled
together maximum credentialed brilliance from a hundred fields,
none having the remotest grasp of common sense. These are all
flags at the end of the track. The industrial and digital
revolutions are over. We'd better get used to it. To wandering
in the dark, very likely to fall victim to those who build fires
for the sake of building fires, far different from the beacons of
Westinghouse, Ford, or Singer. Now I know it's silly of me going
around pretending a writer has the answers, when that's my craft,
and, truth to tell, I don't look it that way. I think what a
writer knows is the pitfalls and crags of history; how inclusive
and merciless political and religious insanity can turn into
whirlwinds, and, in our mega-complex present state of being, how
such formerly regional disturbances could now throw the entire
mechanism out of kilter without the ballast of a large agrarian
population. This heightened awareness of danger and calamity
inspires a passion for alternatives, and though the writer is a
mere writer, and not some kind of giant utopian-web spinning
spider, he feels he should not comment, leaving it for others to
pull their heads out of the sand, take a look around, and react.
Ideally, these would be the elected representatives of the
populace action conscientiously for the goals of the general
public, but you can't even type out a statement like that without
coming off as sarcastic or pathetic. So it becomes a default
issue. Your duty is to inform the bridge, not steer the ship,
but you notice no one else is on the bridge, and, if luck is with
you, when you swing the wheel to the right, the ship will turn to
the right, just like your car does, so, hallooing to be sure no
one's dozing in the chart room, you take the wheel and resume the
course while you figure out what's going on. Our course should
be a political marriage with China, to the extent our official
national title becomes: Emersonia, First State of China, and
China's official name becomes: China, First State of Emersonia.
This becomes the beacon, and there are others listed in other
writings. Otherwise, it's dark and dangerous and the chance of
survival, as any real desert wanderer or ocean drifter could tell
you, amounts to zero.
I'm quite happily writing this to myself. I've done Nifty
for 1.2 million words; that seems like enough. David didn't
acknowledge my last submission "The Last Farewell" which I assume
means he wasn't interested, likely because it had a long
discourse on colonialism, plus it may have been lighter on the
sex than my usual work. In any event it either brings to a close
or represents a hiatus in the most significant literary
amalgamation in history. This amounts to great writer, huge
archive, and, while it would be nice to have a "thanks, but no
more" note, that would be gilding a most extraordinary lily. To
start from zero in published fiction, and in less than three
years become the most widely read new writer of a generation, not
because of some colossal fluke effort like "Frankenstein" but
through an accumulation of two dozen titles is a singular
achievement. The tortoise and the hare. It could have naught
but a brilliant ending, and it, at the end, I drive off the lot
like Spencer Tracy (he was an s.o.b. over contracts and
technicalities), with the barest wave from the security guard,
well, that's how I drive off the lot.
How sad for writers to need to be popular, Mr. King, et
al, who do it for money and recognition. Not the milieu of the
artist, not by a million miles. David has been extraordinarily
flexible and tolerant, even allowing me to publish his e-mails
without permission; in fact, has eliminated but a single sentence
in a huge pile of manuscript. But even this becomes a trap,
because I nurse no frustrations (beacons, if you will) over
things I haven't said, been unallowed to say; trapped, because
the willful child has been given his head at all junctures. In
other words, the slate is wiped flawlessly clean. No residual
issues, and, far from regrets, a level of satisfaction that goes:
did I really do that? like some diligent Alger character.
Leaving what else to do? Isn't the fate of the willful child to
have nothing in reserve? Nothing he hasn't been allowed to do?
No looking back to say "what if" or "if only". No looking
forward, either: "I need to, I should, I ought to, I want to, or
even, I don't want to.
It can't have happened to too many. A handful of
entrepreneurs, mostly of recent vintage, who ended up, with no
heroic struggle on their part, emperors of vast industrial
kingdoms, having surpassed by an unlimited number of times what
was expected of them or what they expected of or even dreamed of
themselves. In the world of art, the competition, to use a
simple word, exists not at all. Nothing great is being turned
out by anybody, and when the subject is writing, nothing that is
even good. Where the King of Biff was "The Greatest" I end up
being "The Only". I tower oppositely. Others are boosted by
their egos, mine bends me. Ego gets lost in a Dostoyevsky or
Faulkner, they were miserable round-and-round; mine stands out
like a sore thumb because it is my only defect. I fail
perfection only to the extent of three-quarters of a pack of
cigarettes a day, and two U.S. dollars worth of marijuana. I,
for example, keep my hands off my underage girlfriend when I
could easily tie her in place with a little financial extortion
(seeing as how I'm sole supporter her entire family). It doesn't
happen. I gamble no dollar, consume no pint, chase no skirt, and
dally, more than once in awhile, a little bit, with no boy.
Colorless. A grinding scribe. Only being the greatest who ever
lived to separate me from the masses, and leave me a little
nonplussed over how I should act, in light of this, because there
is no one to teach me. By the same token, there is no one to
teach; as far as I can see, no one capable of learning ten
percent. I suppose this is some kind of default mechanism at
play; lacking anyone with whom to engage (I mean, they can't even
find anyone to replace those old sopchowders Mailer, Bellow, and
Updike) the most sensible option seems to be quietly tell the
truth; just plunk the puppy down in black and white.
Is Total Success to be counted among the hazards faced by
those who get what they wish for? Does it completely stall the
psychic processes? I've done so much I don't have to do any
more. Shouldn't that attitude, if you ever attain it at all,
come in the mid-seventies? Is that why some artist develop
opulent lifestyles: because it keeps them producing to pay the
thick stacks of bills? That works against my general theory of
the artist, and that is that he must be too lazy to produce
anything but his absolute best. And there is another bug in the
formula: adhering to the doctrine yields a simple lifestyle, in
so many words, a modest lifestyle, and modesty breeds popularity,
and it may be possible to think of a bigger waste of time than
popularity, but I can't do it. So, to repeat, it's a sad life
for the commercial boys: producing what others want and making
popular. No place for an artist.
While I'm thinking in terms of trying a stint at ASSTR, my
self-indulgent whining over having done-it-all, notwithstanding,
I do approach with some caution. They recently sent a note to
writers (I have one story, "Jimmy and Frogger" on the archive,
posted in Dec. of 2000, and so am on the mailing list), promoting
a contest for anniversary stories. There was a link to artwork
that was suggested for story themes, so I clicked it. It turned
out to be a commercial site for some guy hawking what was
probably rejected Playboy material, drawings of luscious lovelies
no more alternative than boo. What has impressed me is the high
level of readership of "Jimmy and Fogger" (usually over 500 a
week, after nearly three years. In fact, I use that readership
to gauge my overall downloads, which I peg and 15 to 20 thousand
a week). Now, whether or not they can tolerate the "political
stuff" is another matter. I won't write porn without it, because
someone else has already been there and done that.
I frequently write to other writers in various essays, and
usually in very negative terms. I slipped into it under complex
circumstances, and, though I have had the opportunity and the
tools to develop my skills beyond those of any other, it's an
accomplishment only satisfying in its own right. No one, for
example, has ever written to say, hey, I like your dialogue, if
you can pep up this screenplay I'm working on, I'll send you ten
grand. In other words, you can excel to your heat's content, and
you'll be shrugged off, even by your editor, as if you didn't
exist. How do you react? You mumble a quick prayer of thanks
for the time thus freed up and keep working. You know things
about yourself, at this level, no one can tell you and no one has
to tell you. For example, your iron grasp on immortality. Who
remembers the emperors and bishops, the kings and popes? But we
all remember Mozart. And not only to work at that level, but to
be able to tell of yourself and your art as you do so. No other
artist can; his work is everything, his life and thoughts only of
interest to scholars and aficionados. Whereas the writer gets
to even tell what he's not thinking. If he doesn't think
civilization can exist much longer on its present course, he can
say so. If he doesn't think it's worth saving, he can not only
say so but do so in mocking and derisive terminology, getting a
hell of a kick out of the kicking. It's the world's only
unlimited license, being a writer; more specifically, being a
pornographer. A thirteen year old boy in white, cotton
underpants is the most tantalizingly beautiful of natural or
unnatural creations; such a bait the readerfish will swim in
pursuit through a maelstrom of rapids and churning boulders; over
falls and through stagnant pools, imbuing the writer with tacit
permission to say everything and anything he wishes, beat and
bruise as he will, so long as that glimmer of white flashes
within possible reach. All of which is a polite way to say I've
outdone myself with this little Truckin' script, having the
inexperienced schoolboy at the very door of a "rules-off" pool of
a rainy afternoon, an unrestricted license (seeing as how
thrilling is more engaging, in our common era, than killing).
The search for something nice to say. Trying to keep it
from becoming a frustration. Knowing, at heart, you're happily
optimistic, yet being unable to look in any direction and find
the least sign of positive activity or anything to be optimistic
about. How thin is this ice? Well, in "Slate Magazine" (on the
MSN browser) the Segway makes an appearance, a small group and a
writer trying them out in Paris. Now, I've written this device
off as symbolic of the end of the Industrial and Technological
Revolutions; of a vehicle built because the gyroscopes and
sensors make it possible, not because it might serve a useful
purpose. And here is the machine rolling around in Paris. It
would be nice to be wrong about this, to have erroneously
dismissed the transporter as ludicrously dangerous and overtly
impractical, and find it, after all, at least a glimmer of light
on the vacant horizon: sales in the tens of millions, a virtual
new paradigm of the magic carpet variety - step and scoot - and
an industrial engine kicking in just as personal computers are
descending through appliance to commodity. Oddly, I could make
great use of a Segway. I live two miles from town and am pretty
well crippled up by chronic phlebitis, making walking more of a
chore than even the burden of a lazy nature would have it. Tilt
and go. Tilt and return. Tilt to the store and test the gyros
and logic chips by tilting, tilting, and seeing if it would get
me home all nice and stable and upright. So, on this one, I'll
hope I'm wrong. Yes, I still have great concern over the safety
of the machine; it's unavoidable capacity to slam you down on
your face, your legs trapped between the big wheels, at the
slightest miscue, but maybe that just doesn't happen very often.
I worry about it as a tripping hazard, its handle parallel to the
floor in its stored condition, but maybe it has some sort of
kickstand so it can be parked in a vertical position. As "It"
the Segway was hyped as, a, having a revolutionary new power
source (hydrogen was hinted at) to give is useful range, and, b,
that it would be able to climb scares. What has emerged is a
side-by-side wheels scooter with the short range typical of
battery-powered devices, and the only way it would handle a
staircase would be to launch the rider bodily half-way up.
Continuing on, Amazon has several pages of info that seem
to put the transporter in a maybe category. Five thousand
dollars is something of a barrier, but a good power wheelchair
probably costs about the same. It does seem to have a kick
stand, which is good news. The sensors, motors, and gear train
are perhaps more than incremental advances and may turn out to
have other applications. The safety aspect is addressed, you
have to take a rider course before you take delivery, while the
various writers deem in easy and intuitive; hard to do wrong.
Damn, it would be nice to be wrong about something. With
obesity, materialism, and socialism putting us down for the
count, it would be nice the see a product I deem highly dangerous
if used en-masse take off and become the very something-out-there
I claim does not exist. Amazon, it should be noted, does not
stock them or offer delivery, perhaps a position on a list. This
brings back memories of the BD-5, a one seat rocket of a light
aircraft supposedly able to cruise at nearly three hundred miles
an hour on a snowmobile engine. As I recall, a few advanced
hobbyists were able to make their kits fly, but the machine never
approached commercial distribution. So, for once, I'm hedging
my bets, letting one optimistic puppy out of the kennel. I do
not go so far as predicting success, I mean a basic principle of
walking is leaving nothing behind you, and thousands of people
arriving anywhere, and leaving something behind them, has
philosophical ramifications akin to occupying two places at one
time and engenders nightmares of one more vehicle to park. A
forest of bicycles is, for example, one thing, they're probably
worth, on average, a hundred dollars each. But a forest of
easily-carried machines worth several thousand dollars apiece? I
mean, isn't that almost funny? Its carrying capacity is limited
to 250 pounds, severely limiting its appeal to those who need it
most, but this is obviously revisable in future models. One
thing it's hard to tall about at this point, is comfort. I once
spent ten minutes in the kitchen of a fellow who lived in an
ancient house with 5'10'' ceilings, and even having to bend-over
but an inch was extremely tiring and uncomfortable. If you have
to ride the thing bent forward, you'll be hearing from your back
if you use it much. And this need not be a sales issue. The big
motorcycle makers sell huge numbers of street-legal racing bikes,
whereon the rider holds his legs in a position of tortuous
discomfort in order to look cool.
An essential characteristic of something new is its
ability to inspire the poet. Here the transporter becomes almost
exciting, for, as AOL was built on the proclivities of the
pedophile, so is this option open to the Segway. "Sunday in the
Park with Seg". Why doesn't it practically write itself; the
magnetic appeal to bright eye children? Teaching this or that
favorite as you might teach archery? Inviting the brightest of
the bright or cutest of the cute, depending, again, on
proclivity, home for advanced lessons? In other words, are we to
be, once again, the heroes and salvers of humanity as we were
with our monasteries, with our going down to the sea in ships (in
search of likely middies), and our avid support of the nuclear
Internet as it transitioned from government and industry to the
subdivision and den. For me, this is going to be an ego
nightmare. Already ranking among top Web contributors, if not
defining number one am I now to be faced with an additional major
contribution though the mechanism of a series of Segway-based
stories, leaving little doubt as to the attractive power of the
machine in urban, suburban, and rural environments?
As veteran readers from over Nifty way know, I'm an
artist-king; long list of stove-bolt credentials. I'll delay
dithering on provenance, it's all out there, somewhere, but,
rather, cut to the chase by saying if I were and empowered king,
rather than court jester, I'd emulate about the only thing I've
ever heard good about the French. Specifically, the government
bought the patents of the early photographer, Daguerre, paying
him handsomely with a lifetime annuity, and distributed
Daguerre's patents without restriction. I'd do the same with the
Segway. Buy the patents an a plump price, and let the markets
bring the price down to the six or eight hundred dollars the
machine is actually worth. In other words, the profile is
identical to personal computers and the Net. Pedophiles to get
things rolling, a thing they can do since they are wealthier and
smarter than the public at large, then crash the price with
clones. Sales goal, twenty million units in six years.
As a prolific inventor, myself, I do have one specific
suggestion. A battery strap (or belt). This could be worn
around the waist or suspended from a point on the steering
column; and would simply be plugged in to add considerable power
and range and, also, to allow a convenient way to carry the
batteries to and from a charging location that is removed from
the location of the parked machine. Taking this a step further,
would be a backpack mounted battery, a unit which could weight
ten or fifteen pounds (with room in the pack for luggage). One
additional step and we have a storm suit with a number of battery
packs both to keep the rider warm, and power his machine. So,
machine, battery belt, and backpack, and you'd have a fifty mile
range, plus great flexibility when it came to re-charging.
I'll do my bit in future stories - leave out the politics
and ego tripping, but I think Segway would be smart, you know,
just to help out, if they'd take a high road on advertising,
emphasizing the fashion over the engineering; for example, an
appealing male model showing it to preppy kid (like Mazda's
zoom-zoom boy) in Central Park. "GQ", that kind of deal. One
generation had the Gibson girl, another the Marlboro man, and in
my mind it's time for the Segway Boy, complete with licensed tee
shirt.
Additionally, there's hacking and tricking. Not that it
would ever be capable of a wheelie, but say a little gas-powered
two-stroke running a generator that would hop the voltage up from
72 to about 150 with a top speed of about thirty miles and hour.
This leads to racing and competition which would be several steps
ahead of existing robotic warrior events. At the high-voltage
end, how about a pantograph that connects the machine to overhead
wires like an electric bus or dodge-em cars, for drag racing.
Do we all see how this is the key? Marketing strategy
over vibrating gyro design? Maintaining a high profit profile
while serving the affluent and savvy perv market, then rolling
the extra loot into getting the price down? It isn't shooting
fish in a barrel, but it could work, it could be a reprise of the
Model T. All it has to do is inspire the poet in all of us.
In sum, it is more than a collection of off-the-self
gizmos tricked up to make a gadget, as I once alluded. Sorry.
Good stuff, and, while Amazon's boldly stated refusal to ship
anywhere outside the U.S. is a predictable drag, I'll keep my
eyes open and hope the puppy makes it across all eight lanes of
freeway traffic before he decides to turn around and come home.
Meantime, even as a non-owner, I'm a beneficiary by dint of
having reached a point in my writing where I stall out unless I'm
thinking two stories ahead, thus finding the inspiration to
finish the one I'm on.
I pushed the door open for the boy. "Minnows," was his
first word, whispered excitedly. Having read Clavell, myself, I
knew my young teen beauty was referring to a number of boys ages
six to eight, the likes of whom, in a previous age, had graced
the bathing pools of the Sumari, their lithe, fishlike bodies
undoubtedly adding to the attraction of a more mature male
partner. Cute minnows, and apparently a whole Cub Scout troop of
them.
A security guard got our attention as we entered the noisy
den. "Begging your pardon, gov'nor," he said in a real British
accent, "all the bars will be closed for the duration, and we
request any overt activities be confined to the sauna and the
steam bath." Sometimes top management can be defined in a well
spoken sentence. I nodded our thanks and handed him a hundred
dollar bill, realizing, as I did so, if the world were an
excellent place, I'd be one broke dude.
We took our bearings. I'm too old to yip with excitement,
and Johnny too inexperienced. The group was for the most part
male and was an interesting display of natural selection at work.
By this I mean birds of a feather flocked together, the huskier
and older in one area, grading to the cub cuties splashing in the
shallow end. There was no nudity, and half the swimmers appeared
to be in swimming togs of one kind or another, while the other
half wore either underwear or cut-offs. Displaying was similarly
restrained, perhaps half a dozen of the younger men being pretty
open with their child partners, anyway, enough to tell, but no
open fondling or bad touching. The minnows thought my fish was
the cat's meow, so I stole his towel, grabbed him by the elbows,
swung him in three tight circles, and launched him into the
middle of the yelping scouts in an attempt to break the ice. He
tucked into a neat cannonball while airborne, and that was it for
the cold stuff. I was begged, beseeched and implored to repeat
my performance by a tribe of sixty pounders, and did my best,
powerful glad when their two male leaders came to spell me. In
the water, the kids were all over both of us, all of them. I
don't know if I was reverse engineering my theory on juvenile
sexuality, at the time, or not, but my theory has it ALL boys
gently introduced in friendly circumstances, exactly such as a
pool, will to only happily yield, but happily lead if they know
what will happen. There were no hangers-back, no wall flower,
the entire dozen were all over the two of us, and the tighter and
more openly we hugged this child or that, to a boy, the more
enthusiastically they wriggled and the more avidly they returned
for more. Fortunately, they'd also developed a new interest in
their two attractive young leaders and it almost seemed as if the
two twenty-somethings in charge were learning a thing or two
about prepubescent male children, at the same time. What began
to seem strange and improper was the thought that, under ordinary
circumstances, we would NOT end up in private and naked with the
youngsters. Downright weird. But, of course, not the case or
I'd hardly be going on and on about Mickey, Stan, Renaldo, and
their younger troop mates.
After awhile, our energy levels waned and we sat along a
wall at the shallow end, Mitch and Hal, the leaders beside Johnny
and me, the scouts gathered in front of us, backs against our
knees as they seemed interested in looking in the same direction
as the big folk, and that was toward the doors to the men's steam
room and sauna about fifty feet away. What I said before about
the thrill of the hunt? Forget it. Thrills are for roller
coasters and fireworks. This was nothing like that. Way too
cheap. Nine year old Renaldo for example, a shyer golden
Hispanic with raven hair, huge brown eyes, and a smile that could
best be described as insatiable, because it would be impossible
to get enough of it, and touching him inside his bathing suit,
first in back, then, when he gave permission by turning, in
front, then peeling him naked, why that wouldn't cost a cent, on
the one hand, and was so obvious an attraction, on the other,
that it was cheap and common as dirt. He was seated against
Johnny's knees, and I was aware of my guest's muscles flexing
almost imperceptibly as he returned the subtle pressures of the
boy in the water.
The routine at the twin doors of the spa facilities seemed
settled and organized. The males would strip modestly out of
their suits, underwear, or shorts, under their towels, hang the
wet garments on the provided hooks, and enter. Again the
Darwinian thing kicked in, a group of second string, i.e.,,
bigger and older, exited together, and what that probably meant
did nothing to attenuate the rising tension in all of us. All
that was needed to light the powder was a spark, and we were
rewarded with a pair, an athletic swimmer looking about twenty
five and a lean, willowy boy about sixteen. They whispered
together for a few moments at the door to the steam room, then
they boy removed his underpants as his partner steadied him with
his hands, the younger male moving subtly against his friend as
the older male got naked under his towel. A moment before they
swung open the door, they turned and looked directly at the group
of us, looked into the room, then turned and looked at us again,
nodding imperceptibly. The boys against both my knees wriggled,
pushing back as hard as they could, and, to sum up, twelve out of
twelve, plus two leaders, and not a dissenter in the pack.
"We really should say something to them," the older
leader, Mitch said. "It's not something it would be good to be
wrong about." He looked at me as if cueing me, and, in truth, I
was sort of senior guy present, so I decided to help out if I
could.
"Boys," I said, "do you all want to go into the steam
room?"
They nodded as one.
"Okay," I responded, "you can, but we have to talk for a
few minutes first." Again, they nodded.
"It may be pretty graphic and explicit in there," I began,
"things you've read about or heard about or seen in pictures
actually happening in the absence of females. Do you get the
picture?" Yes, they all whispered. "And you know the door's not
locked, there are no guards, and no one's going to think
thing-one about you if it's not your cup of tea and you want to
leave, okay?" Nods. I'm a great believer in anticipation, the
wish about half the time exceeding the reality, so I prolonged my
role as ad hoc master of ceremonies. "Boys," I continued, "do
any of you know what's going to happen after we leave our bathing
suits on the pegs and go inside?"
Two boys raised their hands.
"Do you know from experience?" I quizzed, not having to
let my voice get a little husky, for it did so automatically.
"From experience," they both whispered.
"So you know what the man we just saw is going to do with
the boy when we go in to watch them?" I then asked, and they both
nodded.
"Is there any reason you can think of," I said, "based on
your experience, that any of your friends shouldn't go in with
us?" To this they both shook their heads, an immediate No.
"When you got molested," I went on, "was there semen
involved? Did you get sperm on you?" Here they both nodded.
"Okay," I added, "that's the last thing I wanted to warn you guys
about. It's one thing to fantasize and even to watch, but it can
be different when a young adult starts cumming all over your
chest or on your lips or your penis. If you're ready for it,
you'll probably like it, but, when you get older and are teaching
boys, in your turns, be careful, because it can be really gross
for a kid who isn't prepared. Okay?" There may be something
more exciting running around loose than twelve nascent pedophiles
nodding thoughtfully, but I'm doing the best I can with what I
have to work with. As far as I could see, there was no
possibility of any place in the world offering a higher high than
this pool and spa in the middle of Wyoming. It beggared the poor
old language. Yes, the artists got away with it, especially the
religious dudes, with their portraits of biblical figures all
arched in sinewy display, but the writing crowd got short shrift.
Instead of millions of colors, and infinite varieties of shape
and form, we get a few dozen words, most of them of now use at
all in describing what was to happen beyond the frosted glass
door leading into the steam room, the self-same room as had now
six pairs of underpants, all looking pretty small, and two
swimsuits hanging on the adjoining wall.
To have walked in, alone, would be to challenge every
skill of the scrivener; to do so with a coltish thirteen year
old, two attractive young scout leaders, and a dozen Cub Scouts,
all nicely indoctrinated and desensitized, well, the language
just gives out.
"One last last statement," I said as we began standing.
"Besides getting semen on your bodies, you can get it in your
mouths. The fluid is heavy, salty, and cloying, especially in
adults, so if you're interested at all, ease into it and don't
count on an older male being able to warn you when he cums.
Okay?" If there's anything cuter than minnows it's agreeable
children and their syncopated nods were beyond music. We emerged
from the pool, found our various towels and spent a minute drying
off a little and wrapping the towels around our waists, then
headed for the steamed-up door. It would have been nice to have
more privacy as I would love to have molested Johnny a little
while I reached up under his towel to get him naked, but, as you
might expect, every eye on the place was on us, so any funny
business was out.
Yes, we could have been a Sunday school outing changing
into cress costumes, neat towels, quick motions, all so matter of
fact it hardly warrants description. I opened the door for the
tribe and they entered Jonah, the steam room (the dry sauna was
Ahab). The lower benches were white tile, the upper, teak. The
room was maybe twenty feet by six, the seats separated by enough
of an alley to allow movement but close enough that it would be
possible for adults, sitting forward, to touch knees. The upper
wooden benches were low, at shoulder height when sitting and
comfortable to lean against. The interior was free-form and
cave-like, rather than geometric and clinical, softly bathed in
flattering light. It was steamy and warm, but not oppressive.
But it this way, if god's done half such a job with heaven, the
chosen are finally in for a treat.
"Hi," everyone said nervously, half struck dumb by a
reality beyond comprehension. The four we hadn't seen turned out
to be a thirty year old uncle, his nephew, Todd, Johnny's age,
and his two best friends, also thirteen. Jeff and Neil were the
man and boy couple who'd nodded to us, and that was an inventory
of the cave dwellers. Once again, everyone looked to me as the
oldest, and, since I had no one to look up to, I did the best I
could.
"Two of the boys with us," I began, nodding at Mitch and
Hal, "have done secret things with older males, so maybe they'd
like to tell us a little about what happened." If I say so
myself, it was just the right touch, because I don't think any of
us wanted to go rostering off like cheap-thrills lowlifes, while
just sitting staring at each other and the big tents in all the
towels would have been uncomfortable after awhile. "And," I went
on, sensing permission from my audience, "while I'm sure their
stories are exciting, it would probably add to the sense of
occasion if we were to drop our towels, fold them, and sit on
them. Allowing time for a nod of approval, I wobbled to my feet,
took a deep breath, and led my tribe, my circumcised seven inches
feeling about twice as hard as anything I'd experienced, freaking
ever. We followed by age, and in a minute were all naked,
staring at each other, and obviously ready for the soprano voice
of an eight year old telling about his first time alone with a
mature male. The two boys who'd acknowledged having been
manhandled looked at each other, the older, his name was Tim,
accepting the honor of going first. Instinctively, the boy
seated himself in the lap of Hal, the younger scout leader, and,
as the man's arms went around him, began his story, his voice a
sensual combination of squeaks and whispers.
"We were on a long drive," he said, "my art teacher and I,
taking some pictures of his to a state exhibition. A few days
before, in my regular class, the teacher suddenly got very
nervous one afternoon and said she had to teach us some special
things. We'd heard rumors about `the dolls', so we got nervous,
too. Anyway, she gave us the lecture and showed us the
anatomically correct - at least I learned how to pronounce it -
boy and girl. It didn't get less embarrassing," the boy went on,
"but it did stop."
He paused for a moment, and we all shuffled around getting
comfortable and nodding for Tim to continue. By this time, I had
Johnny in my lap, and he had Renaldo in his. We kept our hands
on each other's flanks and tried not to wriggle too much, afraid
that Tim might take it as impatience with his story.
"My art teacher's name was George and I asked him why Miss
Ireland had gotten so nervous," the eight year old said, "and he
said that he had a different opinion on that than most people,
but that it, his opinion, was very mature and he shouldn't talk
about it with a boy my age, because it was gross to some kids,
and others just weren't ready for it.
"I sensed he wasn't being evasive or tempting me with
reverse psychology, he wasn't that type, but rather that it was
serious and he'd tell me if I was serious about wanting to know,
and would be willing to accept a lot more than the demeanor of
one teacher if we discussed it. I read a lot and I tend to snow
adults without meaning to, so I sat there hoping I hadn't be too
erudite for my own good. George smiled, asked if I was
absolutely sure, sort of like you did out by the pool, and then
told me that the dolls were symbols of very intense feelings and
feelings that were often in a very confused state.
"He went on to explain why, emphasizing he was telling me
his opinion and I should keep my powder dry until I knew enough
to have my own. In his opinion, the tension all of us felt over
the anatomical dolls was a symptom of unnatural lifestyles
wherein what should be natural, if private, is not only denied
but made to seem some kind of big, weird taboo and ultra colossal
sin of degenerate and unspeakable loathsomeness. Boiled down,
the natural instinct for, and the extreme cultural bias against,
caused the conflict in Miss Ireland's attitude."
"Do people do it because they're persecuted?" I asked
George, "you know, the way the Mormons and others drew strength
from the hatred they engendered in their communities."
"That's a good guess," my teacher responded, "but I think
it's actually the other way around. There is nothing in religion
but sham sold as faith, whereas a man who enters into a
relationship with a willing boy has the article and not the
faith. In fact, I think the outrage of the morally superior
isn't an amalgamating force, but rather a humbling one, allowing
otherwise white and normal men to feel the sour breath accorded
the despised minority and thus come to endure travails of
victimization otherwise denied them."
"Multi-faceted," I murmured, and George reached across and
squeezed my knee.
"The supple lad and the chance to role play as the scum of
the earth," he laughed, "I'll work with that as a definition of
multi-faceted, any day."
"It's nice to be needed," I said, and he thought that was
pretty funny and squeezed my knee again.
"Tim," he said, his voice serious, "two things are true.
First, if it happens reasonably well with a boy, it becomes a
highlight of his life and the very definition of a lasting
memory, and, second, it doesn't mean a thing. That's part of the
reason your teacher was uptight. She knew she was making an
issue where none existed, because the actual act between an adult
and child amounts to about a hill of squat. It's intensely
exciting, yet it means nothing. That's the enigma. I mean,
you'd think with sports we'd be used to a high level of
engagement in the frivolous, but it doesn't seem to transfer over
to sexual relationships. Those we take penitentiary serious in
twenty-year installments."
"I know it's really illegal and stuff," I said, trying not
to let utter contempt for the law show in my voice, because I'm a
regular kid and like do what's right and what everyone else is
doing, at least most of the time.
"It's actually highly tolerated," George responded, "and
you'll find open secrets in almost any group; the priest with his
favorite altar boy is a classic example, or the neighbor who lets
the kid next door come use his pool anytime he wants. Even our
taking this trip together; give everyone who knows about it truth
serum, and they'll probably admit to a high level of suspicion,
yet no one will say anything when we get home other than what
you'd expect them to say."
"It all sounds better than it would be if it were socially
acceptable," I said.
"That's the ultimate irony," George responded, "the very
tut-tutting of the morally superior, even in the abstract, adds
just the right degree of something extra over and above what we'd
feel if it was kosher and legal."
"Sort of mostly secret but once in awhile you can tell,
too," I said, trying to summarize my thoughts, and this was
especially hard because we'd just passed a sign saying `Rest Area
- 2 Miles.'"
"'Rest area, two miles.'" George read off, looking over at
me.
"Cool," I said, "I'm not tired a bit."
"Are you excited?" he asked.
"Totally," I replied, "more than I ever imagined I could
be. More than Christmas and birthdays and having my watercolor
selected for the exhibit - one of them was mine, I forgot to
mention that - and I can't think of any more because life isn't
very exciting these days."
"I feel the same," George whispered, "and it's our old
friend `multi-faceted'. On the one hand, I've never molested a
boy as young as you, and the last time I touched any boy, he was
twelve, was over two years ago. On the other hand, teaching you,
indoctrinating you, well, that probably means you'll grow up to
want to touch willing boys once in awhile, yourself, so I'm
excited for that gift I'm able to give and for the feelings
you'll have, and the boy will have, when your turn comes."
"How long to I have to wait?" I asked.
"Until you have sperm," George replied, "that's when
you'll become very exciting to boys your age now, especially
curious, intelligent, and artistic boys because they can imagine
the beauty of a young male spilling his seed."
"I'm glad you're young," I said as he put on the right
blinker and we began slowing down.
"I guess I'm kind of lucky that way," George admitted,
"but the way it is, even the thought of touching a boy your age
is exciting and enduring enough to keep the pizza man at bay."
We pulled into a space and he stopped the engine. There
were a couple of dozen cars parked and a few people coming and
going to let their dogs run or use the restrooms.
"Tim," he whispered, "it can happen two different ways.
Privately and secretively in the back seat. I have a light
blanket in the trunk to cover us up in case anyone walks by. Or,
I can molest you in one of the stalls in the men's room. We can
spill a little Coke on ourselves, grab some paper towels, and if
the wrong person comes along, we can say I'm just cleaning us up,
and have the wet shorts to prove it, you know, if things got more
exciting than we want them. Otherwise, I'll molest you as we're
pretending to clean up, and since it would be perfectly normal
for me to help you, since I got Coke on me, too, we can leave the
door of the stall open."
"That sounds like the most exciting thing in the world," I
said, at a total loss to think of anything even half so awesome.
"I'll get you bare chested here in the car," George then
explained, "and we'll walk to the toilet. When we're in the
stall, I'll be wiping you off from behind with your shorts down
around your ankles. If someone nice looking comes in, you signal
me, and I'll pull your underpants down and take them and your
shorts all the way off. He'll come in the stall with us and I'll
sit back on the seat with you in my lap. He probably won't be
able to get naked with us, but he'll still be able to masturbate
on you and cover your chest and belly with his cum, okay?"
"And you will, too?" I asked in response.
"It may be just me," he replied. "But if you've never
watched a young adult cum before, it's pretty exciting, and if
you have, it's twice as exciting, so, if we engage in our little
theatric exercise - I wouldn't necessarily call it a game -
you'll probably get to watch at least one attractive male
ejaculate while his semen slicks your chest and belly with thick,
white fluid."
"I'm glad you're an artist," I said.
"What happens can range from pig sticking to Rembrandt,"
George observed. "It's intensely complex and exciting, yet means
nothing, so appreciating it from the aesthetic viewpoint is, next
to having kids with a good wife, and here's to that, the ultimate
aspect of the expression."
"And I'm not allowed to go off on some tangent," I said,
"and start drawing nothing but men cumming on boys or drooling
over pencils, am I right?"
"The higher level of mental health you retain,
throughout," George replied, "the more explicitly you'll be
rewarded as you mature."
"Shoot," I responded, "lots of psychiatrists think
psychosis is largely self-inflicted - deliberately self-inflicted
- so I was hoping you might tilt me into lala land where an idle
mind is a happy mind."
"If you don't take it as what it is, beautiful, and
nothing else, I'm not responsible," the man said.
"Half secret and all beautiful; totally exciting, and
buck-naked free," I mused. It did seem pretty wonderful.
"Okay," George continued, "first piece of evidence. It
happens like this. We're play wrestling over the soda can." He
got one from the cooler and I crossed to his seat behind the
wheel. "As we're fooling around, pop, it splits and leaks."
This we did, tussling until the can ruptured. "I'd better get
that shirt off," he said and I raised my arms. "Thee are towels
in the trunk, just a minute," he said, then pulled the latch and
got out of the car. He came back and knelt on the seat,
stripping out of his shirt as he handed me the roll of towels.
Then I got out the driver's door, he locked the door, and we
started walking down the path. "You're very beautiful," he
whispered as we approached the rest rooms.
"You are, too," I said. He put his right arm around my
waist and I put my arm around his legs, then we got inside.
First, we rinsed our shirts in one of the sinks, then we - I
think it was to reinforce the appearance of innocence - took the
first stall. He went in first and stripped naked, pulling me
gently against him so I could feel his penis all big and hot and
hard against my bare back. "If a cop comes, it will go down
extremely fast," he whispered, his tone saying not-to-worry. But
that didn't happen. He undid my belt and unzipped my shorts and
dropped them to my feet, then he started molesting me by running
his hands gently all over my tummy and chest. A door opened and
a fat man came out. George pulled my shorts up and said, "sorry,
just finishing," when the man looked up. He kept going. Then he
took my shorts down again and started touching me, this time up
high on my legs. I put my arms behind me so I could pull him
closer, because I really like the feeling of his boner against
me. This time the outer door opened and he reached down to pull
my shorts back up. It was a shy looking boy, about nineteen,
with kind of a lot of acne scars. He had black hair, kind of
medium cut, and was sort of rangy and craggy looking, not all
neat and cute. He used the toilet for a minute, but looked over
at us. I didn't have to say anything, George fondled me while
Sam - that was his name - watched, then he pulled my underpants
off and picked up them and my shorts - I was barefoot - and hung
them over the door, moving a little from behind me, so the older
boy could see he was naked, too. "We're just cleaning up a
little spilled soda," he whispered to Sam. He hesitated a minute
looking toward the door, then came over to us. "If you have a
few minutes, could you help us out by rinsing off these clothes?"
He nodded at our shirts and shorts and underwear hanging on the
wall of the stall.
"Sure," Sam said, and took the wet things to the sink. We
left the door open and Sam watched George teaching me. It was
just a little cola, so in a minute he was done and brought the
cloths back. "Thanks," we both said. "Would you like to come in
with us while they dry a little?" he asked.
"Okay," Sam whispered.
"It's Tim's first time," he said as the teenager pulled
the door closed behind us.
"He's really beautiful," Sam said, no longer trying to
hide the huge bulge in his denim shorts.
"Have you ever molested a child before?" George whispered.
"No," Sam replied, "I've just let a couple of guys do
stuff under a blanket. Mostly I study, but once in awhile I
guess I get thinking about something happening, so I drive out
here and get in someone's car for a few minutes."
"So you've never been naked while it was happening?" I
asked.
"No," the boy blushed, "just with my zipper open."
"I think Tim would really like it," my teacher whispered,
"if you'd be naked with us for just a few minutes."
"The two guys who did stuff with me both told me that the
squad care peeps his wailer as he drives in," the boy told us.
"Awesome," I said, and, yeah, I know the word is trite do
to mega usage, but the thought we were safe with Sam was kinda
way beyond `cool'.
By this time, George had me in his lap, is penis jutting
up between my thighs. He took my hands in his and guided them to
Sam. Sam bent over so he could undo his top button, meantime, I
undid his belt and unfastened his shorts. It was like the
painting we were talking about, you'd need a hundred colors to
stand for the feelings of unzipping the shorts of a tall, slim
teenager and leaving him standing in his white, cotton
underpants. George guided Sam into displaying for us, and he
leaned back against the door with his hands behind his head and
spread his legs. We sat back just to look for two or three
minutes. He was so beautiful, you could see why any kind of
picture or photograph is forbidden. They'd stop the world.
Nothing could be that exciting, yet he was. We sat forward on
the seat and Sam moved to us. George taught me how to touch him,
especially his nipples and up high on his legs. "Do you want to
experiment with kissing?" he whispered in my ear. I nodded and
he lifted me so I stood on the rim of the bowl, that made me the
perfect height.
"I've never done this, at all," the older boy whispered,
and then we tried it. It was a little bumpy and silly at first,
but that didn't last. It was everything we wanted to do with
each other, give to and take from each other, but sort of in
miniature, I guess. In a minute I knew he wanted my lips and
tongue on his penis and that he wanted to experiment with me that
way, too. It was like we asked each other a lot of questions,
and trusted the answers, so then we just settled down to mash and
fool around for its own sake. Then I was ready. George could
tell and lowered me slowly down, letting me lick and kiss Sam all
over until I got to his underpants. I touched him on the
outside. I'd have to describe it as as big as a fill grown ear
of corn, you know, without the husk, of course, and he was just
as hard. I went back up to kiss him and make him another full
promise, then spent a long time molesting him with George before
we pulled his briefs down, waiting a second for him to hang them
on the door hook. Then he displayed again, leaning back against
the door of the stall.
"I couldn't take gym and do sports because I got this way
when I was about eleven," he said. I don't think his boner was
nine inches long, but I'll bet it was over eight. George was
huge and beautiful, but Sam was unique; not gaunt at all but very
tall and slim, and just hugely male. His slightly craggy face,
his boyish body, and his huge, thick penis so hard it glistened
like steel, well, I didn't need to have my art teacher along to
know I was looking at something impossible to equal, but it was
nice, and especially so when George lifted me up and turned me
around with my feet on the edge of the bowl like when we'd
experimented with kissing. Sam came up behind me and pushed his
boner up between my legs, then he started molesting me with both
hands, kissing me on the head and shoulders. There goes that
`awesome' again, and if not right then, for sure when George rose
up to kiss me while he fondled me with both hands and started
jerking me off, his bare chest against me. And it wasn't so much
the feelings of their hands and lips on me, it was knowing they
were both full of sperm and I was going to see it, I mean it
seemed impossible, that there could be more, but I could sense
them getting hotter and more excited and I knew it was going to
happen all over me unless there was a tornado
Most of all, I wanted to do what I'd promised Sam with my
lips against his tongue, so after a about five minutes I turned
and George lowered me back to his lap to while Sam came to me.
George guided my hand to him and taught me to masturbate him,
then lowered my head really gently, and I started touching him
with my tongue, especially where there was a lot of seminal
fluid. Sam leaned forward and braced himself on the wall, then
spread his legs wide and pushed to me. I could just get some of
him in my mouth, but George reached around from behind me and
showed me how to cup him just right with my left hand and
continue masturbating him with my right hand. That was perfect,
especially with George's huge penis hot and hard against my chest
while I had Sam in my mouth and hands.
While we'd been whispering and getting naked, a couple of
people had left the restroom, and now the door opened again. Two
males - we assumed because it was the men's room - crossed to the
urinals. We stopped, which I thought was great because I could
feel George and Sam both really tensing up and I wanted to get
molested a lot more before they got me wet. Then we heard
voices.
"I don't really have to use this," a soprano voice said.
I wouldn't have guessed either George or Sam could have gotten
any harder, but they both did, instantly, when they heard that
high voice that was a little bit croaky. "I just wanted to ask
you some things about the camp while we weren't driving and I
thought maybe we could sit in a stall and talk for awhile."
"If it makes you nervous, Mel," an older voice said, "we
don't have to even go. There are lots of regular water parks and
adventure parks. It's your vacation."
"No," the boy said quickly, "I'm dying to go with you,
it's just that I have some questions."
"Fine," the older male said, and they took the stall next
to ours. If I bent my head I could see the older guy sit on the
seat and the boy sit in his lap. They were both barefoot like
all of us were, so it was easy to tell from more than their
voices they were young.
"So what's on your mind, cuz," the older voice said as
they got comfortable.
"Okay, say I'm walking around by myself and a guy wants to
like take pictures of me or go for a walk or something?"
"How would you feel," the older cousin said "if that
didn't happen?"
There was a long silence, and I think all of us
sympathized with the boy, me especially, because he sounded only
a few years older than I was and I knew how hard it would be for
me to admit that the wholesome option never even occurred to me,
I mean how would that sound?
"Mel," the older male went on, "that will happen. Guys
will invite you to their rooms to play computer games or watch
videos, go for walks, go swimming at one of the hidden pools, and
those are just a few of the choices. The whole point of having
your first experiences there is to teach you that; to let you go
wild a few times, if it's in your makeup to do so, and it is, for
most of us, and then to learn what the limits are by negotiating
the slippery slope for yourself. No one there will give you any
kind of disease, not one there will even pressure you to do
anything, much less force you. In many cases you won't want to
accept the invitation, and a polite shake of the head and No,
thanks, is all the armor you need. In other cases, you will find
the other male attractive, and go with him. In some cases, you
will be proactive and invite someone, who, I absolutely
guarantee, will go with you."
"And if I go with anyone, they'll want to touch me? Does
that always happen, Donny?"
"Yes," the older boy said (his voice wavering between boy
and man as Mel's was between child and boy), "but to varying
degrees. When I took your cousin Frank half the time they
physical part was over in a few minutes, but they ended up
spending hours or days together because they liked each other.
Other times he got molested for an hour, then it was over and not
much was said. Usually, it's about in the middle. You spend an
hour or two with a new partner, may visit with him a time or two
more, then lose interest."
"But not with you, Donny," the boy said quickly.
"That's why they did the phone interviews with us," the
cousin said, "they run them through a polygraph, and only let us
come if we're a dedicated couple, I mean in the sense of being
friends, outside anything that might happen while we're at the
nudist camp. About once in seven or eight hundred times a boy
and his older partner split up and exchange partners, or one goes
home without a partner, while attending, and they want to keep it
that way."
"Nothing they'll have to worry about with us," Mel said.
"We passed pretty high on all their tests," his cousin
agreed, "and it will be interesting to see if it can be reduced
to science. If it's like chemistry right; you get all the
ingredients and solvents and temperatures exactly right, and
poof, you get perfect plastic, or something like that. But in
this case the ingredients aren't sodium and copper, they're
related to lifestyle and physical characteristics. Chuck Werner
told me even if we hadn't been cousins, we would have passed the
screening in the high ninetieth percentile, then he added ten
percent because we're redheads and look ten and fourteen instead
of being thirteen and seventeen. "
This was so incredible. Just listening. It was echoey,
so we could hear even when their voices got really hoarse and
low. We had our backpacks with our extra clothes - the drying
thing was kind of a ploy to keep Sam with us - on the floor, so
no one could see our feet; I mean, it could have been one hippie
using the stall, you know how they like to travel, plus they
always wear headphones, so Mel and Donny wouldn't think anyone
was listening.
I should interrupt here just for a moment, because we
were. First, we all wanted to give young Tim a round of
applause, not exactly clapping, but nodding and touching him, in
appreciation of his extreme articulateness and his excellent
pacing. As we were lauding him in our own quiet way, there was a
gentle tap and the frosted door and an older teen looked in. "My
dad says it's okay if I hang out here for awhile, is that okay?"
he asked.
"Sure," I said. We'd all used towels to hide ourselves at
the boy's thoughtful tap, and so I added: "Tim here's telling a
mature story about something that happened to him at the
beginning of the summer," I added, "if that's okay with you."
The young athlete introduced himself and Nathan and
entered, letting the door close behind him and standing for a
moment.
"I asked the scouts," I said, nodding to the group who
nodded back, "if any of them were experienced with older males,
and Tim raised his hand, so he's telling us about what happened
to him." The new boy had calm eyes and a shy smile. He fit in
immediately and two of the eight year olds spontaneously went to
him and pulled down his white briefs, guiding him in close to the
rest of us and then sitting in his lap.
"Have you molested children before?" I whispered to him.
"There's a boy who lives down the street that wants me
to," Nathan said, "but I'm afraid I'll get in trouble or mess him
up or something. My dad kind of encourages me to, you know, not
saying anything direct, but just encouraging our being together
and saying it's okay if we use the bathroom together if we want
to; stuff like that. When we got trapped by the storm and he
found out from the security guard that there might be something
happening in the steam room, he suggested I come down and hang
out for awhile."
"That's almost exactly like Sam's story," Tim continued,
and we all nodded for him to continue, meantime, stripping away
our towels and displaying for the new boy, who was beautifully
hard and big, himself. "We found out because we started
whispering a little while we were listening to the teenager and
his little cousin in the next stall."
"Donny," their voices went on in the echoing men's room,
"if I do like someone that invites me, what will he do when he
gets me alone?"
"He'll probably ask you a few questions," the older male
replied. "First, he'll ask if you like to share your secrets,
because some boys don't like to, then, if you nod your head,
he'll ask you about the first time you were touched, and, if you
want, he'll tell you about his first time, to. Sometimes it goes
on from there, the whispering part, but usually it's just one or
two stories as a couple gets to know each other."
"Can I tell him?" Mel asked.
"The rule at `Totally Scientific'," Donny replied, "is
that you don't have to say anything, but if you do want to
whisper to him, you should tell only the truth. You can be very
graphic, but don't make things up or exaggerate. Don't be
phony."
"I see," the boy responded.
"It's not really a game," the older cousin went on, "but
in a way you play it like one. By acting shy and reserved; not
quite flighty and innocent, that's overdoing it, but, for sure,
not bold and aggressive, because that's the realm of the dollar
boys, the hustlers: `hey, Mack, how'd you like me to muckle on to
your man meat and suck your eardrums into your balls;' that kind
of thing. It has it's place, but not at `Totally Scientific'."
They were quiet for awhile, I think we hear Donny putting
his hands up under Mel's shirt and their breathing got a little
heavier. That's when we whispered ourselves, and Sam told us
about a ten year old name Sebastian in his neighborhood, and how
he thought the boy wanted him, Sam, to teach him.
"Do you think you'll like this in the hands of another
cute guy?" we heard whispered.
"I want it to be with you a lot, first," Mel whispered
back.
"What happens a lot," the older voice responded, "it that
the older partner stays with his boy the first few times he
submits to another man or boy."
"You'd watch?" the beautiful voice chirped.
"If you wanted," his cousin said.
"That would be so - perfect," Mel hissed, "because I'd
like to experiment a little, but I don't like the though of
anyone else touching me the way you are."
"Would you like to watch me touch another boy this way?"
came the hoarse whisper.
"As long as I could be right beside you," Mel said.
"I should ask you about that," Donny said, "how you'll
feel about the most personal part of being with another male,
getting his seed on your body. If I was molesting a boy while
you watched and he started to ejaculate, would you want me to
hold his penis against you, or let him spray off somewhere else?"
"No," the boy again hissed, "on me."
"Where?" the older cousin husked, "where would you like
his sperm? On your chest and belly or on your thighs and penis?"
"Could there be more than one?" was the child's next
question.
"A few times," Donny said. "The camp has a special
arrangement with the military, and sometimes as many as fifty
young guys show up at one time. Since they seem to deem us alpha
material, I guess it means you can have several mature guys cum
all over you."
"Could you hold me like this while it was happening?" came
the pretty voice.
"I could masturbate you and two or three males could sperm
on my hand while I'm jerking you off. Semen's very slick just
after a buy sprays, so it would feel really nice."
"Let me feel how it feels without any sperm on me," Mel
said.
I didn't know what anybody else in our stall might have
been waiting for as far a cue went, but that was enough for this
kid. I knew that my little bare foot would be the best way to
bridge the gap between the two stalls, so I wriggled off George's
lap. Mel had spread his legs wide to show he was ready for his
cousin to touch him, so his foot was almost over in our stall,
anyway, and I ran my toes into his and began wiggling them.
Once again we interrupted our brilliant young purveyor of
oral legend. We all petted and stroked him as he smiled shyly, a
magnet for us all but to an extra degree to the new boy, Nathan,
who seemed somewhere the far side of transfixed. Everyone sensed
it, and Tim's avid response, so in a moment or two the older teen
was sitting across from Johnny and myself, his huge penis jutting
up between the eight year old's tender, white thighs, the hot,
purple tip of his erection slicking Tim's now panting chest with
seminal fluid. By now we were all masturbating each other
openly, maintaining a gentle surge with our underage boys as we
felt them slowly tense on our laps and in our arms while they
handled we adults with equal care.
There was a moment of silence from next door, then a
whispered, "Hi."
"Hi," we whispered back, George taking the lead and
continuing on to say that there were three of us.
"Have you been listening to us?" Donny asked.
"Yes," I said, feeling my canary voice would be the least
threatening.
There was a little excited but inaudible whispering from
their stall. "Would it be safe for us to get together?" Donny
asked. George told them Sam's story about the polite trooper who
kept an eye on the rest area, then suggested we move down to the
last two stalls, more on the basis that we didn't want to freak
anyone out than because it had to do with safety. They replied
that that was cool with them, and we could hear them standing up.
"We're naked," George then informed them.
"I've just got Mel's shirt open," Donny said as we
gathered our things and opened the door to our stall. Theirs
opened at the same time, and we gathered around, George and Sam
both standing behind be and touching me while they came out.
They hadn't been fooling, they looked like a boy and a kid, only
the kid had a huge erection in his gym shorts. Donny, looking
maybe fourteen, quickly stripped out of his clothes and got his
cousin bare chested for us to see, then we moved down to the end
of the room, finding, because of the wheelchair thing, there was
room for all of us. Indeed, with our packs on the floor, even
someone looking carefully couldn't see any feet, much less how
many there were. We huddled around Mel, still in his gym shorts,
the three older males molesting him while George held me up so we
could experiment with kissing. "Try it this way, first," he
suggested as he lifted me, indicating I should link my fingers
behind my neck and arch toward Mel. He did the same and the
brought us very slowly together so just our bare chests touched.
That was incredible, and it was about two minutes before we even
wanted to experiment with our lips on each other. That was
another five minutes, then George lowered me off the rim of the
good old toilet bowl, and I pulled Mel's shorts down. He was
wearing a supporter strap, and I pulled that down, too, getting
him naked while the others hung his clothes over the door. Now
he was definitely at least thirteen, and, even though he only had
the tiniest wisp of red hair, he looked almost like an adult and
almost as big as his cousin, who was as big as George and almost
as big and hard as Sam. For a few minutes we just looked down at
each other and tried a little touching.
"Mel," Donny whispered, breaking our panting silence,
"this is the way it will start with males you're alone with at
camp." He demonstrated what he meant by standing behind his
cousin and putting his hands on his inner shoulders, I guess his
collar bone. "The rule is, if the touch makes you uncomfortable,
say so right away, and move away. If you agree to more than a
few seconds of this, they you're promising your partner to go all
the way, not change your mind five minutes later."
"I understand," Mel responded. "What should I do if I
like it."
"Not too much," his cousin answered. "Just stand still
and let it go on. In a minute or two, once he's sure of you, the
older male will ask if you want to whisper. Same rule applies.
You're free to say, "sorry," but if you do nod your head, you
should let him quiz you quite a bit and answer without
embellishing. He'll ask you how old you were when you started
and who taught you. If you have a steady partner, which is just
to give you an opening, because you wouldn't be there if you
didn't, and probably if you've started teaching younger boys.
He'll also ask you what kind of language you like to use, again,
this is rhetorical because the camp doesn't think it's the right
place for funk talk about wads and loads and the words monkeys
would use if they could use words in the first place. This gives
you a chance to say `sperm' and `penis' for him, which is
culturally very exciting. After that, he'll ask if you're old
enough to have adults cum in your mouth and if you've ever had
anyone up inside your bottom. It may sound a little cut and
dried, but science has a way of leading you through the initially
apparent to more fundamental truths, and Totally Scientific has
fined-tuned the science with their super polygraph, you know, the
one they used to categorize our phone conversations, so they know
not only what best suits most, but what best suits the limited
range of paranormal guests they accept. So, yes, the list of
question complies to a formula, but also, yes, it's the best
list."
By this time we were standing slightly apart from Donny
and Mel, letting him be the only one to touch his beautiful
redheaded cousin. I was glad I had two athletic young adults
molesting me, I can tell you, because it kept things at least
half even. Donny's hands went down over the thirteen year old's
shoulders, and came to rest on his flanks, just above his waist.
"If it happens at school or somewhere where you're dressed," he
advised the boy, "the man will hold you for a minute or two like
this, pulling you gently to him so you can feel his penis against
your back, then slide his hands around in front, low on your
stomach, and start pulling your shirt out of your pants. You'll
understand better when you're older, but the feeling of a young
boy's body and the softness and warmth of his bare skin are more
intense than most erotic alternatives, in their entirety. In
fact, if it isn't possible to do more, many men will just fondle
your bare belly and chest for a few minutes, and then kiss you on
the neck and be satisfied."
"I understand," the boy repeated, his handsome cousin now
pulling him close and openly fondling him as we watched. It was
the most beautiful thing you ever saw in all your born days.
George guided Mel's hands up around his cousin's neck and the boy
spread his legs wide and arched. That made it even more
beautiful.
"In a situation like this," George said, taking on the
role of leader because he was a little older than we were and
Donny was panting too hard to do much talking, "the older male
always cums off while the younger boys are still fully excited."
As he said it, he pulled me against his right hip, placing my
left arm around his waist and my right hand on his hard penis.
"Masturbate me on Mel," he whispered. Sam huddled behind me,
pushing his penis up between my legs and then guiding my right
hand as I started stroking my art teacher. This time it was
different, not temporizing while we listened to the whispering
next door, but really doing it, jerking him off, because someone
was going to die of excitement if we kept getting over
stimulated. I liked doing it fast and hard with George,
listening to his breath start coming in gasps as he began to
tense up in every muscle of his body, especially his penis which
got hotter and harder. Sam helped guide me so I was holding
George against Donny's hand as he jerked Mel off. We kept
balance by leaning against each other and the walls, and tried to
keep from making too much noise. It went on and on, two minutes,
then three, then George whispered, "I'm cumming." Donny stopped
masturbating his cousin, holding him still, and Sam showed me how
to hold my teacher still by sliding my hand to the base of his
boner, then gripping really hard. It took a little while, but
all of a sudden we all gasped out loud and there was hot sperm
splashing everywhere, but most of it filling Donny's cupped fist.
There was never anything so perfect, not ever, and it kept going
on and on. I think both us kids were surprised, and Sam, too.
You know, two or three spurts, that's what we were expecting, not
that we knew much about it, but after two or three it was just
starting. I was so excited watching him be mature I would have
hugged him right in half if I'd had the strength. It went on so
long, Donny started fondling and stroking his little cousin while
it was happening, so for half a minute Mel was getting jerked off
and having a young athlete cum all over him while it was
happening. Then it was pretty easy to tell the thirteen year old
was tensing up to cum in Donny's hand. Sam whispered to me: "His
sperm will be lighter and gentler than mine," he said, "why don't
you take him in your mouth, first?" George and Sam both held me
in position as I nodded, and I took the head of Mel's six inch
penis in my mouth. "Hold him against the tip of your tongue,"
Sam advised me and I did as he suggested, letting his cousin keep
jerking him off while I licked and kissed him and sucked him a
little, too. That didn't even last two minutes. Then he started
shaking all over and said, "it's happening with me." By now I
had to be dead and floating. All the preaching against, and this
was the reality, the totally wildest thing possible, then
suddenly a hot, fast, hard, slightly salty gusher that filled my
mouth. It's not as nice with a man, I'll tell you frankly; the
sperm's too thick and salty to take more than a few drops, but
with a thirteen year old, well, all I can say, is if you know
one, even if he might be a little fat and not the best friend you
ever had, rope him and hog-tie him, then get him to ejaculate on
the tip of your tongue.
With Mel, it lasted almost a minute. At first I swallowed
his sperm, then when I knew it was starting to end, I let my
mouth get really full. When it finished, Sam kept jerking him
off and I kissed George and Sam, letting them both get lots of
his thin, watery semen on their tongues. By this time, Donny was
cumming between Mel's legs, splashing all of us, then the same
thing happened with Sam, and he began to spray without anyone
touching us. George was jerking me off with his fingers, and I
had my first kid cum while I was watching the two older males
spraying. By that time, I was ready to croak. I'd seen and had
the best thing that could ever be imagined. The experience was
total and complete and as we busied ourselves carefully cleaning
up with paper towels I knew that if anything like it never
happened again in my whole life, it wouldn't matter because it
had happened. I was free to live without questions, hang-ups,
frustrations, and all the malarkey that goes along with those
whose moral stature doesn't allow them an occasionally wild
experience.
That's the end of my story.
Now, as oldest male, and according to the lore just
promulgated, it was my turn. I stood and positioned Johnny at my
right hip. Tim lay back in Nathan's lap, and my boy held me
against the eight year old's heaving, sweating chest. Like the
boy in the story, he began masturbating me harder and faster than
while we'd been listening. His tension and stroking were
perfect, and his right hand feathered my swollen glans as his
left arm went vice-like around my waist. "Cum on him, I want to
watch you," he coaxed in an urgent whispered. "Yes," hissed all
the other boys, "get him wet."
"Hold me high on his chest, almost at his throat," I said
to Johnny, and thrust my hips forward as he complied. I guess
the science aspect of Tim's story had gone to my head; must have,
for me to be scheming at such a moment, when I could feel every
muscle in my body rapidly contracting from the boys avid
stroking. It took two more minutes, then I warned in a whisper
and a few seconds later began cumming hard and fast all over
Tim's delicate white chest. Never half so much in my life.
Instinctively, my thirteen year old slid his hand to my base
after I'd begun spurting off hard and fast, gripping me like
iron. "I'm cumming," I grunted involuntarily from the hot new
pressure, and, indeed, what was happening got yet more graphic.
It must have gone on for at least a minute, but then it began
ending. I moved Johnny in front of me the second I was able,
holding him around his panting chest with my left arm and
masturbating him with my right hand, holding the tip of his hard
boner high against Tim's belly. Again, it was a couple of
minutes of turn-blue excitement, then his guttural warning, and a
hot flow of his juvenile semen pooling on the belly of the eight
year old. Just as his spray began diminishing, Nathan started
cumming off, his first sperm jetting fully to feet up between
Tim's legs. I covered his flaring, hot glans with my palm,
slicking Tim's lower belly with the teen's showering sperm. That
lasted an amazing time, but was eventually over, leaving Tim with
three more-or-less distinct smears of cum on his front, mine
high, Johnny's in the middle, and Nathan's low on his belly. The
scout leaders guided each of the boys to their fellow cub,
holding and petting them gently while they dipped their tongues
and sampled the sperm of adult, boy, and adolescent. It worked
perfectly, my little experiment, the boys, easing in, even though
for each it was a matter of really no more than a few seconds,
and thus ending up ready for the seed of their two young leaders.
They quickly jerked Mitch and Hal off on Tim, then again
attacked with their now avid tongues, being free in kissing each
other and we adults with their salty lips and tongues.
When it was over, it was as over as anything could be. We
smiled shyly at each other as we carefully cleaned up with our
towels, agreed to meet for dinner in a couple of hours,
instinctively knowing nothing erotic would happen between us in
the future, and left the steam room. The way I figured it,
Johnny and I were cleared for our trip to Mexico, in fact, all of
us were cleared - maybe "empowered" is a better word - to live
our lives with sex neatly pigeonholed at the back of a lower desk
drawer, exactly where it belonged.
THE END
The Nifty.org Archive has lots of my stories. Most are in
the Bi files under Adult/Young Friends and Incest. Different pen
names, or anonymous. Yes, many of them have essays too.
Posted by Thomas@btl.net
xxx
<1st attachment end>
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
Notice: This post has been modified from its original
format. The post was sent as an email attachment and
has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software.
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
------- ASSM Moderation System Notice--------
This post has been reformatted by the ASSM
Moderation Team due to inadequate formatting.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+