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Message-ID: <48620asstr$1090919405@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: anon584c@nyx.net (Uther Pendragon)
Reply-To: anon584c@nyx.net
Subject: {ASSM} new "RTFM 1" {Uther} (msolo MF) [1/4]
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Date: Tue, 27 Jul 2004 05:10:05 -0400
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If you are under the age of 18, or otherwise forbidden by law to 
read electronically transmitted erotic material, please go do 
something else. 

This material is Copyright, 2004, Uther Pendragon.  All rights 
reserved.  I specifically grant the right of downloading and 
keeping ONE electronic copy for your personal reading so long as 
this notice is included.  Reposting requires previous permission. 

All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as 
public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination 
and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly 
coincidental.  

                              =--=
                              RTFM
                            by Uther 
                            Pendragon
                        anon584c@nyx.net

Chapter 1:

John Kostner experienced puberty on a Wednesday afternoon in the fall of 
1971.  The suddenness was more perceptual than biological.

His father had given him a book called _My Body Is Changing_ some two years 
before, and many of the changes had begun.  He experienced erections at the 
most inappropriate and embarrassing times.  His voice hadn't decided on an 
octave, but was experimenting with several.  He'd started finding the 
material in the book more exciting than when he had first read it.

John had a fine inquisitive mind when it came to academics.  He had skipped 
fourth grade a year before the school district had decided that skipping 
grades was wrong.  He had reached "G" in Britannica, despite the competing 
attractions of decent school, public, and home libraries.

Outside the intellectual arena, John was a damn snoop.  He prowled the 
house like a cat and had found, years before, a stash of marriage manuals 
his parents thought hidden.  The secretiveness attracted him then.  Erotic 
stirrings had begun to tempt him back.  Nevertheless, he was unprepared for 
the lightning bolt.

On Wednesday, September 22, he had been preparing for a piano lesson with 
mean Miss Lockhart.  "Preparing" meant trying to learn in the last half 
hour what he hadn't in the hour-a-day practice over the previous week.  
What was worse, it was Indian summer; the day was bright after the cold 
drizzle of the past three weeks.  Even John, who wasn't much for the 
outdoors, wanted to be out in that weather not trapped inside with his 
demanding teacher.
When Miss Lockhart came in, however, she was an entirely different person.  
She was wearing a light blouse and perfume.  He noticed both the perfume 
and the breasts.  This time his erection was specific and relevant, if even 
more embarrassing.

That lesson was a disaster.  But piano lessons, which had seemed useless up 
to then, made sudden sense.  They were a means to the delicious torture of 
sitting next to delightful, beautiful, Miss Lockhart.  He practiced an hour 
a day and usually more.  He studied what she had told him before about 
finger positions.  He learned to adjust himself before the lesson so that 
the inevitable erection started from a contained vertical position instead 
of catching in his underwear.  He bloused out his shirt so that his lap was 
invisible from the top.  All that effort earned him 30 minutes in heaven 
and hell glancing sideways at the most erotic pair of breasts in the world, 
and trying to imagine what they might look like without that confinement 
and cloth.

John's sister, Debbie, was four and a half years older.  She had not been 
amused to have her senior year in high school contaminated by John the 
freshman.  She dealt with it by introducing him as her "baby brother" 
whenever he got too close.  She normally defined 'too close' as 'within 
eyesight,' but was willing to make exceptions for all-school assemblies, 
football games, and similar occasions.  Then, speaking distance was 'too 
close.'

John's regard for her was not quite so warm.  He had read a Heinlein novel 
involving a brother and sister who had a different chromosome from each 
pair in each parent.  He thought that some chance arrangement like this 
could explain how two such different people could be siblings.

                              - = - 

Lloyd Kostner had weighed his finances two years before, with two children 
approaching college age.  The pay of a circuit-court judge in Wisconsin -- 
which probably looked munificent to most voters -- was significantly lower 
than what a respected lawyer could earn in practice, though the disparity 
was much smaller in Clay County than in Milwaukee.  He left the bench and 
returned to private practice early in 1970.  

He was still judge (and jury, and -- occasionally -- executioner) where his 
children were concerned.  His theory of legislation was that the statutes 
should be like a jungle gym, rigid with lots of room to move between.  His 
family rules came surprisingly close to those standards.  He had a very 
heavy hand and used it rather rarely.  

He had played with his babies and toddlers.  He expressed pride in his 
kids' school achievements.  But, having left the games of youth long before 
and without regret, he led his children towards adulthood rather than 
participating in their youth.  The downstairs bookshelves, except for those 
in his office, were open to the kids.  Encyclopedia volumes and the atlas 
needed to be replaced with a slip of paper naming the borrower.  "The 
dictionary" had to be used in situ.  (There were smaller dictionaries 
available, and each child had a paperback one.)  John had itched so at 
being prohibited the books in his fathers office, that he had been given a 
tour.  They were law books, mostly out of date.

The Kostners had a tight curfew combined with a liberal entertainment 
policy.  Debbie could entertain her boyfriend in the rec room after a date.  
As far as the Kostners were concerned, the boy could stay until it was time 
for Debbie to get ready for bed.  John had regarded that privacy as a 
challenge to his ingenuity.  

Now, spying fed his libido.  He was caught late in January.  The boyfriend, 
Zach, held him as Debbie struggled back into bra and blouse.  Then she 
called her dad down.

"Fifteen swats," sentenced his dad, "and you don't go out, except for 
school, for a week."  It was the only time that the number of swats had run 
above ten.

"But how about Debbie?  I saw her ..."

"I've never put over a spanking, but if you invade your sister's privacy by 
finishing that sentence, it will be fifteen swats tonight and fifteen more 
tomorrow.  Now come here."  And he had.  He had stopped trying to spy after 
that, and the hook-and-eye that his father installed in the door was 
superfluous.

One suppertime, his dad explained about the halo effect.  He continued: 
"Many of your teachers know Deb, John.  She gets good grades, does her 
work."  [John thought that Debbie *had better* do her work.  She didn't 
seem to learn anything without hard studying.]  "You don't have to say 
anything about being related -- it's not like our family's name was Jones 
-- but let them think of you as 'Deb's brother.' They'll think well of you, 
then.  You, too, Deb.  John might not be a social success with your 
friends, but he meets -- exceeds -- teachers' standards.  Don't mention 
your disagreements to them, and they'll think of you as two smart kids."

That made some sense, John -- at least -- let his teachers think of him as 
'Debbie Kostner's brother.'

The school gave vocabulary tests late in the school year.  Every student 
got his results privately, and the top twenty in each class were listed 
publicly with their scores.  For three years running, Debbie had reported 
her score at dinner, and every year she had been justly praised for it.  
When she made no report in her senior year, Sylvia Kostner called the 
school.

Debbie had tied for twelfth in her class, with only 15 kids in the entire 
school ahead of her.  One of them had been her brother, who was seventh in 
the school behind five seniors and a junior.

"Your father and I are proud that both our kids were in the top twenty in 
the school vocabulary test," she said at dinner that night.

"I'm getting Jerry Dalton next year," John replied.  "The seniors are gone.  
But I'm not going to let Jerry beat me again."

By that summer, the relief that Debbie was going to live in Madison, 
combined with their different schedules, brought some peace to the 
household.  

In July, Miss Lockhart gave up.  If she had noticed his erotic interest in 
her, she never mentioned it.  

"But he practices every day," his mother argued.

"And that produces accuracy. But that only makes clearer that he has no 
ear.  I'm really sorry."

The music lessons had been his mother's idea.  She was a great believer in 
discussion.  She had discussed studying music with John.  He hadn't been 
interested.  She had discussed the idea the next month, he still hadn't 
been interested.  She had discussed the idea the next week, and then the 
day after, and the day after that, with the same result.  When he'd 
expressed interest during their twelfth discussion, she was pleased and 
grateful. 

Claiming that her husband -- and later her husband and son -- represented 
the intellectual side, Sylvia Kostner took it as her duty to uphold the 
artistic side within the family.  Her 'art' included literature, and 
neither her husband nor her children gave much credence to her lack of 
intellect.

With the specific object of his lust wrenched out of his life, John raided 
the manual stash again.  It was less exciting than he had imagined.  The 
store where he bought used Science Fiction, however, also sold used 
_Playboy_ magazines.  By that summer, the family consumption of Kleenex was 
higher than it had been in the cold and flu season.  John's mother never 
mentioned it.

One weekday when he was certain the house was free of his parents and 
sister, he sorted through his magazines to select all the best ass shots.  
He stripped completely and got into bed.  He folded two Kleenexes together 
into a sort of pocket.  Then he read all the (preselected) sexy parts in 
the Harold Robbins book that he had borrowed from the library.  As he got 
hard, he gave his penis some slow strokes with the bed sheet.  He read last 
the incident involving doggie-style sex.

As he shifted over to the pictures, the strokes became more frequent.  He 
pictured one of the high-school cheerleaders tied over a fence rail.  (He 
had taken Miss Lockhart out of all the explicitly degrading scenes.  
Anyway, he had a much better picture of the cheerleader's shape.)  He 
looked at a new picture, then thought of how the girl would look all naked.  
He switched pictures and thought of how she would wiggle as he felt all 
over her ass and cunt.  He switched pictures and thought of putting his 
penis right against her virgin opening.  He thought of her screams and 
pleadings for mercy and gave an evil chuckle.  There was an anticipatory 
tightness and he dropped the sheet, wrapped himself in the outside of the 
Kleenex pocket, and switched to the sexiest picture.  His victim wiggled 
the inch that her bonds allowed and cried, while his hand imitated that 
wiggle.  Then he drove into the victim, the Playmate, and his hand 
simultaneously.  The cheerleader screamed.  Four strokes later, he spurted.  
He took two more strokes and then held tight until the penis relaxed.

He lay there for ten minutes, then dumped the Kleenex in the wastebasket, 
returned his magazines to their stash, grabbed up his underwear, and donned 
a robe for a fast trip to the bathroom for a shower.  The book was good for 
two more uses, one of them next week.  Nobody at the library seemed to 
notice that he visited twice a week and kept many books for the maximum 
loan period.  Actually, his library usage was down from the previous 
summer.

One Saturday in August, John came home to find that there wasn't a magazine 
in his room.  He searched the house over.  His father was puttering in the 
garage when he came in.  There was a box on the garbage can and his 
magazines all stacked neatly inside.

"John."

"Yessir."

"I've told you that sex is a natural, joyous thing."

"Yessir."

"I've also told you that it is private.  There is a box there, that I was 
going to throw in the garbage.  You can take it to your room, but -- if any 
part of that is found outside that box while you aren't in your room -- 
they all go in the garbage.  Keep them in the box.  You could get yourself 
another box when you need it."

And that was all they said.  John's father mentioned the joyful, good, 
natural aspects in several more talks.  John preferred sex to be dirty.

A few nights after one of those talks, he heard rhythmic creaking from the 
bed in his parents room.  He thought wryly of keeping sex private.  

He remembered the Saturday a year and a half before.  His sister had a 
social event.  His father had taken him to the library.  Everyone expected 
the staff to shoo a reluctant John out at closing time.  After half an 
hour, his guts warned him and he visited the toilet.  Fifteen minutes 
later, he did the same.  By then, he knew he had a serious case of stomach 
flu.

A bailiff had been moonlighting as a security guard at the library.  He 
took one look at the pale face on the Judge's kid and got the librarian's 
permission to take him home.  John made it to the top of the stairs when he 
heard the creaking bed.  There were grunts along with it this time.  He sat 
on the toilet and listened as the grunts were joined by moans.  His mother 
cried out in what sounded like pain, his father answered with shouted 
blasphemy, John's guts gushed liquid.  He sat there in an awful stink 
worrying about the sound of the flush.  A new spasm shook him and he 
flushed after that.  By the time his parents found him, their joint concern 
for his health overcame any concern for what he might have heard.

For a while, the memories of fear and diarrhea and embarrassment had 
overcome any erotic tones to that scene.  Later John had imagined himself 
sneaking back when his parents thought that they had the house to 
themselves and hiding in the closet.  He pictured it now, inventing and 
magnifying the voices to add to the soft creaking.  He imagined the sight, 
and stroked himself.  Too soon, however, the regular creaking ended.  There 
were one or two more sounds that not even an adolescent could imagine were 
anything more than bodies shifting into sleep position.  John went back to 
his cheerleader and branded her this time before raping her.  It wasn't as 
good, however, since he had more trouble conjuring her screams when the 
house was occupied and still.

Not only his vice was solitary.  Before school started, he approached his 
mother about an early Kenbak computer, although the price was high. 

"$750 is a good deal more than we were planning to spend on you for 
Christmas," she said.  The tone was more inviting than final.

"I have some money and can save up more.  But I was thinking of something 
else..."

"Hmmmn?"

"What if I got all 'A's on my major subjects the first two marking 
periods?"

"Why don't you talk to your father?  Wait until the weekend."

So he had.

"Well," said his dad, "that sounds an awful lot like rewarding you for 
ignoring those subjects in the past.  Why only major subjects?"

"Dad, I am not going to get 'A's in gym.  Effort has nothing to do with 
that."

"Well.  We have to think about this.  I'll get back to you early in the 
school year.  I'm not forgetting it."

Early in the school year, his dad laid out the standards.  They were all 
'A's in academics and 'B's in Gym and Art.  That required John to stretch 
in every non-academic subject (and to actually pay attention during the 
academic ones) for the full year.  If he delivered in the first two marking 
periods, he got the computer.  If he failed to deliver in the later marking 
periods, he lost use of the computer.

John signed.  He got the computer for Christmas.  He got a 'C' in gym for 
the third marking period.  He delivered the computer to his father with the 
report card.  He worked like a maniac the fourth marking period.  He got 
all 'A's for the first time in his life.  He got the computer back for the 
summer and the next marking period.  

The computer, however, was much more than a bribe.  He played a few games 
and did a little programming.  He also kept a fairly complex database on 
the good pictures in the magazines, the good parts in the books he'd read, 
and the sexy material in Britannica.  The latter seemed less sexy fairly 
soon.  At first the database was only a text file, but then he wrote a 
primitive program in BASIC to handle it.

Faced with depleted savings (he had contributed to the computer's price) 
and increased expenses at the used book store, he neglected games for 
programming.  The simultaneous concentration on schoolwork and music 
practice had instilled some work habits that didn't quite die over the 
summer.  He wrote a test program (in machine language) which let him know 
that "a+a" was much faster than "2*a" and such information.  He kept speed 
and size comparisons (on paper, oddly enough) for all sorts of what he 
would later consider alternative modules.

The summer came to an end, as all times do.  Just before their parents 
drove her to the University, Debbie turned to him.

"I'm going to miss you, twerp."

"Don't worry.  The University won't grade on marksmanship."

And he had the house to himself for 40 hours or so.

That school year, however, showed John that Debbie had provided one 
benefit. She had absorbed more than half the attention of his parents.  His 
mother, in particular, took notice of his social life.  Now, any boy with 
his own soldering iron is not devoid of friends, but that doesn't lead to 
the sort of social life that Sylvia Kostner had in mind.  She waited out 
the first marking period, while John concentrated on maintaining good 
grades.

That crisis passed. As John got the 'A's and 'B' that he needed,  the 
computer was unconditionally his.  His father did note that John certainly 
could produce 'A's when he needed to, and was expected to produce them in 
academic subjects thereafter.

"And as for Phys. Ed. ..."

"What?"

"Be sure to pass."

Adults more or less rotated grace in the Kostner household.  That had 
included Debbie at about 13.  His father started asking John to say grace.  
John did, with the silent grievance that Debbie had been younger than he 
when she started.  His chores increased, although "dishwashing," from 
clearing the table to loading the dishwasher, decreased from alternating 
nights with Debbie to everyone taking one turn in three.

One night, he was the dishwasher.  His mother stopped him on the way up the 
stairs.

"Have a moment?"  He self-evidently did.  "Your school seems to be having a 
dance in two week's time."

"Attendance isn't compulsory."

"Nobody said it was.  But some people find them enjoyable.  Hmmm?"

"She's in Madison.  Too far to come."

"Your sister's opinions aren't all wrong, you know.  She does like hot 
fudge sundaes."

"I could ask a girl and get turned down once.  I could go stag and get 
turned down for every dance.  Which would you prefer?"

"I love your optimism."

"Mother, I'm a grind.  I'm younger than my classmates.  I am not a good 
dancer.  Three strikes and I'm out."

"You're only a grind when a bribe is dangled in front of you.  You got good 
grades for years on minimal effort."

"That is much worse.  Please don't tell anybody."

"And you are not younger than the freshmen."

"I'm younger than some of them."

"You are socially older than any of them by being a sophomore.  Unobservant 
as you may be socially, you do know more than most of them about what is 
going on in high school."

"You want me to ask a freshman girl to the next dance.  They have their own 
relationships building up.  And I don't know any of them."

"Many went to Wilson," his grade school.  "Several have been here because 
they were younger sisters of Debbie's steadies."  ('Steady' was, perhaps, a 
misnomer.  But the family had tried to meet the subject of the current 
romance -- and sometimes relatives -- while it was operational.)

"And you know everything about them."

"Hardly everything."

John remembered the endless discussions of music lessons.  He decided to 
yield this time.

"I'll give one of them a ring.  Do I get any choice?"

"Do you remember any of them at all?"

"Not really."

"There are two who have the same lunch period as you do.  Why don't you 
ring one up and talk to her there?"

The social-life project advanced slowly, as Sylvia Kostner's projects 
tended to do.  John earned the reputation as a reliable, not grabby, 
escort.  His dancing became competent, if uninspired.  He asked some of the 
girls out again.  These tended to be girls who could appreciate, if not 
match, his sarcasm.  The ones who accepted were often those who were 
impressed with his academic record.

The house had been filled with Debbie and John's music.  Sometimes the two 
had squabbled over which music to play.  John found that he didn't need 
that entertainment, the contents of his head were sufficient.  His mother 
accepted the silence with pleasure for a week, and then -- tentatively at 
first -- started to play her "classical" records in the living room again.  
One afternoon, John came down during the last movement.  He waited for the 
piece to finish, and his mother turned off the machine before the next 
record dropped.

"Two requests."  She twitched her eyebrows.  "Instrumental."

"I do love opera, so does your father."

"While I'm gone, then, and while he's here.  You love a lot of other stuff, 
too."

"Sounds like a reasonable compromise.  Two?"

"Turn it off when you leave."

She also took to turning music on when she came in.  John had a pretty 
clear idea when he had the house to himself.  Meanwhile, he studied, 
programmed, and (occasionally, he preferred times when he was alone in the 
house) masturbated to Chopin, Stravinsky, and Bach.

The dinner table had been a time for checking up on the children's 
progress.  John did not consider himself to have a social life, let alone 
progress in it.  His reports on his academic progress were nearly as 
laconic.  The news of the day became a staple topic.  John expressed his 
opinions, and his father welcomed them before -- as often as not -- 
demolishing them.  John had been raised in the faith that Lloyd Kostner was 
the best attorney in Clay County, Wisconsin. He came to experience that he 
had a supple and subtle mind.  Several times, his father stopped in the 
middle of turning John's arguments into mental pretzels and apologized for 
using "lawyer tricks."

Watergate was falling apart.  John learned what immunity was and how 
denying it to all your intimates protected you.  He learned that his 
father, like most lawyers, did little criminal work.  He read a biography 
of Darrow, whom his father spoke of in awe.

"That's the real glory of your profession," he said, "defending the 
innocent."

"That isn't the duty of the profession, John."

"No?"

"A lawyer is not there to defend the innocent, but to defend the 
*accused*."

"Even if he is guilty?"

"The alternative is not trial by jury, but trial by lawyer.  God judges by 
what happened.  Man must judge by what can be proven.  Any man who sets out 
what should happen to criminals without all these legal technicalities 
thinks that he is God.  He is wrong."

Always precocious, John became a sophomore atheist as a *high-school* 
sophomore.  He was slightly disappointed that his parents were not more 
concerned.  He was quite disappointed that his decision did not excuse him 
from attending church.

"You may, however, decide not to take communion," ruled his father.

John, like Debbie before him, announced his academic triumphs at the dinner 
table, and received measures of praise.  He figured that this obligated him 
to report his defeats, as well.

"Jerry Dalton beat me again on the vocabulary test."

"Did anyone else?" asked his mother.

"No."

His parents looked at each other trying to not to laugh, and then gave in 
as he stormed away from the table.  He lay in his room steaming.  The 
defeat had mattered to him.  It was Dalton's last year. They had never been 
so unfeeling when Debbie had moaned about her problems, even when it was 
the fifth life-destroying romantic break-up of the year.

By the summer of 1973, John noticed that the occasional kid who greeted him 
on the street or in the library was as often a girl as a boy.  He started 
going to a few birthday parties.  He admitted to himself (his mother never 
asked approval for that sort of thing) that the actual social experiences 
were now pleasant while they occurred.  His ranking among his classmates 
rose almost to tolerance.  His masturbatory fantasies were improved by some 
knowledge of how a female fit within his arms, even if clothed.

That summer, Debbie was home.  She dumped all her old college texts on John 
the third day.

"Leave the rest of my stuff alone.  Deal?"

"Deal."

And he kept the deal.  All the family, however, noticed that her mail was 
mostly letters from Troy Wright.  Her social life that summer was confined 
to old girl friends and mixed events.  Even John was impressed.

That July, John decided that he had played BASIC for all it was worth.  He 
got serious about programming the computer in machine language.  Otherwise, 
he continued his old ways.  Occasionally playing with some friends, more 
often playing with the computer, daily playing with himself.

He gained twenty pounds that summer, and shot from about 5' 7" to 5' 10".  
In the fall, his mother took him to Sears.  They decided, however, to get 
only what was necessary.  The growth spurt looked like it would continue.

His social life got worse that September.  His growth spurt destroyed his 
suit's fit and his few dancing skills.  By Christmas, the spurt was over, 
the new suit fit better than the old one ever had, and he was in the taller 
half of the boys in his class.  Dancing with John Kostner no longer looked 
ridiculous to his female classmates.  He would take a bright wallflower or 
go stag and dance with several.  He would watch Phil Patterson dance with 
Margo Standish and wish himself in his place, especially after the dance.  
His partner was probably envying Margo.

Christmas, Debbie brought home Troy Wright.  He was an engineering junior, 
looked like a decent sort, and was as obviously smitten by Debbie as she 
was by him.  Aside from his choice in girls, John had nothing against him.  
He played a mean game of chess after being decimated by Debbie's "baby 
brother" in an inattentive first match.

That March, Troy and Debbie were married.  She came home for the ceremony, 
walked down the aisle dressed in white with her father beaming at her side, 
and returned to college.  It rather cast a shadow over John's birthday in 
April.  He did, however get his driving license that spring, which was what 
the sixteenth birthday meant to his contemporaries.  

John's classmates had taken his vocabulary test scores as a matter of 
indifference, or -- for some -- an affront.  This year, he became a slight 
hero.  The juniors felt that they had shown the seniors something.  John 
almost mentioned the irony at dinner, but he was still nursing a grievance 
about his parents callous response to his loss the year before.

John made a half-hearted effort to find a summer job that spring.  Neither 
the economy nor his late start helped.  He spent the summer of '74 with his 
computer, his magazines, and his library card.

Debbie bore a healthy son in August.  

In John's senior year, he turned academic honors into a trophy hunt and the 
CEEB into a cheering section.  His social life improved marginally.  He 
took one of a group of wallflowers to each dance.  He drove now, and they 
were out from under supervision for part of the time.  He would dance with 
his date while he lusted after the homecoming queen and the cheerleaders.  
He assumed that his dates were lusting after the jocks and dreamboys.  They 
would park on the way to her home and neck for a bit.  He never got far.  
Then he would end the night with his tattered magazines.

Lloyd and Sylvia Kostner were doting grandparents.  The Wrights came for 
Christmas and Troy, Jr., was the center of the season.  John got wrapped 
used textbooks from Debbie and both Troys, and was completely happy.  
Little Troy got new books, but John didn't expect to chew on his.  He saw 
much more of Debbie's breasts than he had in the rec room, with some 
embarrassment at first.

He didn't share his parents' excitement about the baby's presence.  He did 
find that holding a warm Troy in his arms for one of the brief periods that 
nothing was coming out of either end was pleasant.  He did not, however, 
consider that holding a clean baby was sufficient reward for changing a 
dirty one.  He handed Troy to Debbie or someone else when that task was 
called for.  He noticed that his father was rotating the grace among the 
senior Kostners and the Wrights.

"Okay," he asked his father, "what did I do this time?"

"Do?"

"There seems to be one of our number who no longer says grace."

"Adults say grace in this household."

"And?"

"Adults pull their share of the load.  Troy smells bad when he's dirty.  
Kids can't be expected to deal with that."

He started doing a share, if nowhere near one-fourth, of the changes.  He 
resumed saying grace.

He was admitted to MIT.  He got an actual job in a grocery for the summer 
of '75.

Troy came visiting at age 11 months.  Among the vast paraphernalia that he 
brought with him was a mother.  They were established in the master 
bedroom, where the air conditioning was much better, while the grandparents 
took Debbie's old room.  Troy, Sr., was too newly employed to come for more 
than the last weekend.  John "read" to Troy, who turned the pages after his 
own system but vastly enjoyed the sessions.  John found himself reading the 
books himself to see how the stories actually went.

He went off that fall a hopeful freshman intent on a physics degree.

And as a much less hopeful virgin.

MIT did many things for John.  He was neither the youngest nor the 
brightest kid in his class.  There was no social stigma attached to 
knowledge.  You could mention entropy, or bandwidth, or feedback systems, 
or psychohistory in a political discussion without an eyebrow being raised.

Relations with the opposite sex was not an area for improvement.  MIT coeds 
were scarce enough to be choosy.  None of their male classmates were going 
to ignore a girl with brains.  Even the most desirable frosh men were 
hopelessly outgunned.  Mixers were better, but not a great deal better.  
MIT was reputed to have the only college bookstore in the country to sell 
more copies of _Analog_ than of _Playboy_, but John decreased that 
distinction.  Then, he had a subscription to _Analog_, with each month's 
issues waiting for him back home.


Continued in Chapter 2
RTFM
Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
2004/07/27

Thanks to Neneh for editing this. 

For another story of a bright kid's growing up:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/Gjt/wal_01f.htm
"None Must"

The index to all my stories currently available:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/index.htm

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