Head-to-Toe

(Bisexual pedophilia and heterosexual incest.)



       “I don’t like to complain or anything, not my first night here, the place seems pretty wicked, but what’s this all about?” Timmy whispered.  Again the raspy adult voice dominated the campsite.  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, head-to-toe, head-to-toe.”
       
       “Camp Gofor” is wicked,” seventeen year old Josh assured his eleven year old tent mate, “that’s just a ritual they have to go through.”
       “Well,” the younger boy sighed, “like Audrey says in the movie, ‘Weirdorama!’”
       
       Both scouts were taking off their boots and socks, and Josh could sense his new little friend’s tension as he removed his last sock, the next step being either his shirt or shorts.
       “I can turn my back if you’re embarrassed,” he murmured softly, “I was one my first night.”
       “I guess what Mr. Richards said has me a little confused,” the boy whispered in response.  “It’s just something I never thought about.”
       “I don’t think they even do it in the Army,” Josh said, “probably in any army in the world, but these days every kid has a lawyer for at least two of his uncles, so it’s due-diligence by the numbers, a/k/a, The Game.  Little boxes.  ‘Head-to-toe, gentlemen,’ and our safety and moral purity is assured, tucked neatly away and labeled: ‘problem solved’.”
       “But what is the problem?  Cooties?  Spitting?  Germs?  Bad breath?”
       
       Jason laughed.  “First,” he said, “there are no more checks.  If a boy cries out, someone will be beside him in ten seconds, there are such things as scorpions, but otherwise, it’s the ritual, then lights so they can’t be seen, and everyone gets to sleep by eleven, which is cool because we don’t have to get up until eight-thirty.”
       “That’s civilized,” Timmy agreed.
       “Camp Go-For is,” the older boy said.  “They make a bluster for the parents with uniforms this and hup-two that, but the commandant, Mr. Nevis, thinks the best thing to do with kids our age is mellow down and chill out.  The world’s complicated.  We grind all year in school, so the best thing is to let most of it go for the summer; let the kids drift and read, hack around at this and that, without taking anything too seriously.  If anything, the head/toe thing is a reminder of how it could be and how lucky we are to be marching to a softer drum.”
       “So we don’t have to sleep that way?” was Timmy’s next question.
       “Another reason they say it is to give younger boys the option,” Josh continued with his explanation.  “If they’re more comfortable not sharing a pillow, then they get to make the decision and the policy is on their side.  The choice is always the younger scouts, even if it’s identical twins separated by a few minutes.”
       “So if we get caught, I’m the one who gets in trouble?” the younger boy asked with a cute giggle.
       “No, silly,” his friend laughed quietly back, “because you’d be the one reporting the infraction, so how could you?”
       “’Catch Twenty-Two,” Timmy whistled softly.  “Someone must think we’re pretty mature to truck with something like that.”
       Josh laughed.  “I picked the right one, and just from your picture on your application,” the seventeen year old said.  “You have a bright face and glasses and you look like you read a lot.”
       “With my parents,” the boy admitted.  “It’s mainline outcast, but walking around school I don’t see all that many I’d want to be cast-in with so I live with it.”
       “Same boat, here,” Josh said.  “Always the library, never the field.  Of course, that’s an ideal.  I do swim, and I even like it.”
       “I read that on your matching-up sheet,” Timmy responded, “that’s one of the reasons, the first two being your picture and your glasses, I opted in as a possible choice for you.”
       “It WAS your choice,” the older boy reminded his friend, “remember about the twins.  In casual social situations, youth rules.  When it comes to the boats and safety, it’s merit or age, and usually both, but after retreat, it’s the boy’s world.”
       
       “And it’s only quarter to nine,” Timmy noted, “so we don’t have to play beat-the-clock or anything.”
       “Not unless one of us gets stung by a scorpion,” Josh agreed.
       “Okay,” the eleven year old said, trying not to evince haste in his chance of subject, “there must be a theory or something behind the rule, something for the lawyers to gnaw, if someone cuts them a check, and I’m guessing it’s not cooties.”
       “You’re right, of course,” Josh said, his voice becoming low and raspy.  He yawned twice, though not sleepy, and added: “if boys share a pillow, sometimes they get talking about mature things.  Have you ever done that?  Had a private talk with a guy, a man or a boy, about the locker room stuff, only serious?”
       “No,” came the answering whisper, the same sick slackness creeping into the child’s clear soprano.
       “Well, it happens,” Josh said as both boys sat Indian style on their sleeping bags, facing each other in the pup tent.
       “And that makes them talk all night so they can’t get up even at eight-thirty?” Timmy asked, feeling he was on to something.
       “I don’t think that ever happens,” Josh replied with a shy smile.  The twilight was fading and they experimented with their flashlights, finding cloth to filter them to a soft glow.  
       “Then what does?” Timmy said, his older friend’s voice a hot and irresistible magnet.
       
       “Well,” the older male whispered, “there’s something more mature than whispering together, and, if two boys really like each other, sometimes that’s what happens if they don’t sleep head-to-toe.”
       “Assuming they’re mature enough not to try becoming blood brothers by nicking their carotid arteries,” Timmy mused, “I don’t see how there can be anything wrong.”
       “Timmy,” the older boy said in a fraction of voice a moment before, “sometimes, and don’t freak out or anything, but, you know, a younger boy wants an older boy to pretend something.  It’s all make believe and fantasy and play and a game, and it doesn’t mean anything in the morning, but sometimes, in the privacy of a tent, or if you’re out walking together and don’t have anything important to do, well, this is what happens: the younger boy likes the older boy to pretend he, the kid, is, you know, a little girl and he lets his older friend slip his hand into the sleeping bag, unbutton his pajama top, and touch him as if he were a chick.”
       “For how long?” the voice of curiosity and wonder responded.
       “Not past eleven,” his friend said.
       “Is that homosexual?” he asked.
       “Highly,” Josh said, “and not only that, it leads to other touching and to telling really private stories, and that’s homo, too.”
       
       “But not gay, right?” the younger boy asked.
       “Never,” the senior scout affirmed.  “Gay is something you wear like a fluorescent medallion in the middle of your forehead; it’s a play, or perhaps plea,  for identity, not an orientation.  It’s artificial, contrived, annoying, and often gets those of the fag persuasion in deep shit trouble.  Boys teaching each other and men teaching boys is as old as language and undoubtedly prehistoric.  Acting effeminate, not being bred effeminate, which means nothing, but acting it out with public prancing and lisping and mooning and hand holding is aesthetically offensive, to say nothing of biologically and psychologically repulsive.  Taken to extreme, it amounts to bearded dudes in Vermont kissing on the lips on television, which always works for me as the conceivable extreme of ugliness.”
       
       They shuddered together, thoughts of savage and searing scorpions banished.
       
       “But it usually starts with talking?” Timmy wanted to know.
       “Yes,” his friend said, “especially with as much age difference as there is between us.”
       “And I’m in command?” was his next question, to which the answer was affirmative.
       “Then let’s sleep the way we should and you can tell me everything,” the boy commanded softly.
       “There’s something that comes first,” Josh noted.
       “What?” the boy whispered.
       “Well,” the older boy said with a shy smile, “I guess I’d call it not sleeping in our uniforms.”
       
       Josh was a near image of the youngest son on “Home Improvement”, tall, gangly, immature looking, but with a beautiful oval face framed in soft, black hair and featuring huge gray eyes.  The new camper was a slightly edgier version of Macauley Culkin; intensely blond with big blue eyes, like his tent-mate, slim and delicately built.  Both were now barefoot, and there was not where else to go.  They gazed nervously into each other’s eyes.
       
       “Do you want to pretend I’m in my pajamas,” Jimmy whispered very softly, “and touch me under my shirt?”
       “I want to, yes,” Josh whispered, “very much, but you have to be sure.  There’re not many rules here, about this kind of thing, just that the younger boy always says what happens and doesn’t happen, but there’s also an unwritten doctrine of fair-play, and that says that once you start something, you go all the way.  No teasing.”
       “That’s as civilized as the reveille,” Timmy Flagg said, “even though it seems kind of abstract.  I mean, has any kid ever wanted an older boy to stop pretending he was a little girl?  Hard to imagine such a thing.”
       “I don’t know,” cute Josh said with his shy smile, “I guess the world is made up of people who write stories, people who write texts, and people who write rules.”
       “So if you have people who write them, they must be written.  That’s pretty Zen.”
       
       Both giggled nervously, but, be it noted, had managed to somehow close the distance between them until their bare knees were an inch apart.  “I’ve got to pull it out anyway,” the eleven year old observed, looking Josh in the eyes.  He pulled the green shirt from his shorts, his eyes huge and hot, then looked down at the immature teen’s hands, then back into his beautiful face.  Instinct told him to lace his fingers behind his neck and arch his chest toward the older scout.  Josh responded slowly, his hands creeping to the younger boy’s waist, then up inside the loose jersey.  He unbuttoned his way up, his delicate fingers tracing the incredibly white, smooth skin of the child up to his tiny nipples.  Neither spoke for long minutes, their fiery breaths bestowing permission and acceptance and a ‘thanks’ they’d have been loath to verbalize.
       
       “This is child molesting,” Josh explained, the boy’s birdlike chest now bare to him.  “They say in school, where they’re in the habit of getting things confused if not completely wrong, that ‘bad touching’ is inside on your bare skin where you wear a bathing suit, but any touch like this, lingering, for it’s own sake, and otherwise unnecessary, is sexual assault, even two seconds a boy or girl doesn’t want.”
       “It’s the best feeling I ever had,” Timmy murmured.
       “And you feel beautiful to me,” his friend responded.  “Men will always say how soft your skin is while they’re starting with you, it’s sort of a cliché, but yours really is.  Incredible.  Beautiful.  And I’m really glad you’re letting me do this with you.”
       “You know what I feel like?” the child responded.
       “What?” Josh whispered in a quavering voice.
       “Like a little girl who wants her big brother to teach her,” Timmy said with a shy smile.  That did it for Josh’s voice, completely, if temporarily.  After a wide-eyed minute he hissed into the game.  “Oh, Becky,” he stammered, “yes, you’re so pretty and all the boys at school want to do this with you.” 
       “I’m glad it’s you, Jeffy,” the preteen played, eyes glowing, “you’re smart, and you’ve got a quiet smile that melts me, and you read to me and help me with my models, and you’re cool and even tempered, and I like you best of best of any other boy.”  As he whispered, Timmy began on the older scouts buttons, starting at the top.
       
       “Becky,” the husky whispering went on, “do you want to play a little game?”
       “Yes,” the eleven year old said.
       “It’s just pretend, okay?”
       “Okay.”
       “You’re sitting in my lap with your back to me.  Your blouse is still buttoned.  Your teacher, the one who looks like Rick Schroeder is sitting on a stool between our legs.  His eyes are staring at you as I hold you with my arms around your tummy.  Since you’re eleven years old, you’ve started to grow.  We both like Mr. Scott, he’s really nice, and we want him to teach us about having incest.  Would you let him unbutton you?”
       
       “Am I to assume the incests are not cooties?” the wry cutie asked.  It was a nice touch, bringing both boys back to the reality that they were boys and just fooling around, and particularly nice because it gave the two panting beauties an opportunity to start all over again.
       
       Back to tricks.  “If he unbuttoned me, “ Becky said, “would you unhook my training bra and pull it away from my chest and let me unbutton him so he could put his bare chest against where I’m growing?”
       It was an idea too good for words.  Both boys shucked their shirts completely off, folded them, and passed them to a corner of the tent.  Spontaneously, they rose to their knees and displayed like mating birds.  Torsos arched to each other, they crept forward, both gasping as the sensation of muscular teen against developing child.
       “Does Mr. Scott want to be a man with me?” Becky asked, eyes round and innocent, but not overdone.
       “All the boys do, sis,” Jeffy said.
       “But wouldn’t it be more real with a twenty five year old swimmer?” the pixie wondered.
       “He’d be the most likely to leave something very real in your tummy,” the play brother agreed.
       “I’m glad I’m eleven,” Becky said with a shy smile, “that could happen.  It makes it more of an experience than it would be if I was eight or nine.”
       “For the male, too,” came the returning whisper.
       “Does it give a man more, you know, energy if he knows there might be a baby?” the child almost pretend simpered.
       “Partly,” Jeffy said, “but what makes a man use you hard and fast and leave you very wet after he whispers is if he knows you have another males seed between your legs.”
       “Is seed sperms?” she asked.
       “Yes,” came the broken whisper.  “Cum.  Semen.  Sperm is singular unless you’re a doctor examining the sperms of three boys.  And a whole lot more for the locker room and the fat kid at the back of the bus.”
       “And so Mr. Scott will be really interested in me, you know, as a female, it would help if you put your sperm in me with your penis, right?”
       “Yes,” Jeffy choked, eyes glowing down at his petite nymph of a sister as they continued experimenting with moving their bare chests against each other, “and erection’s okay, and boner for boys under nineteen, and when a boy or man makes sperm he cums or ejaculates.  With boys your age, it’s more like a spray when it happens, so that’s okay.  Just not dick and cock and those words.  Girls do have one secret worth knowing, and that is that what happens is a lot more intense if it’s serious and romantic, not like splashing water on each other in the pool.”
       
       “You must have had a totally cool teacher,” Timmy observed as both boys broke off their game and moved their hands to each other slim, heaving flanks.
       “You were on the right track when you brought in Mr. Scott,” Josh said.  “I learned about it when I was six, but that was just curiosity.  I was your age, eleven, when it really happened and I was led all the way.”
       “There was another track I was on,” Timmy responded, “when I started the game story.  Can you guess what it is?”
       Gently holding each other, staring into each other’s eyes, they paused as Josh reviewed the question, then his eyes lit with more than intelligence.  “A little girl,” he whispered, “a little sister.  Becky.”
       “But she’s only five,” Timmy said with a nod.
       “Is your penis like totally bigger than all the boys in gym?” the seventeen year old asked, trying not to appear flustered, made easier by the fact he was already flushed and openly panting.
       “Just, well, you know, quite a bit, but not totally,” the child murmured.
       “And does she like you and you like her?”
       “Yes.  All the time.  When we find each other playing hide and seek it’s like the whole rest of the world is lost.”
       “Then,” the senior scout advised, “don’t worry about her being five years old.  If she’s normal size, a normal size adult could mount her if he was very patient and gentle.  Do you think you’re bigger than that?”
       “I guess I measured once,” Timmy whispered.  “Almost but not quite six and a half inches.”
       “And not thick like a cucumber or anything?”
       “I can’t think of anything I’m, you know, thick as.  Not my neck or anything.”
       “Then it’s okay,” Josh encouraged.  “Do you spend a lot of time alone together?”
       “Yes,” Timmy said.  “We call it ‘our house is our house’ and we make a game of how responsible we can be and how much we can read and how good our homework is and even kind of play husband and wife and feed her dolls dinner.  That makes Mom and Dad happy and tickle us when they get home.”
       “And you’ve never touched her or tried to peek or thought of sneaking into her bedroom at night and raping her really quietly and gently so no one will hear what’s happening?”
       
       “I guess I thought she was too young,” Timmy said.
       “The only thing she’s too young for, guaranteed,” Josh responded, “is getting a baby from you.  There’s a video on Kazaa of a cute little three year old being held around the chest by her daddy as she goes lower and lower on his adult penis.  The only sound she makes is an almost inaudible, “Oh, Daddy,” when he’s about half way up between her legs.  She’s tiny, probably three, not more than four, but he was gentle with her, probably used something like KY gel to help, and after awhile it became totally successful between them, you can tell by the look on her face, and that’s even with someone standing right in front of her and her dad making a video.”
       “We love playing at being romantic,” Timmy responded.  “Everything is so brutish and industrialized these days, schools, churches, stores, big, cold, music, buffer overflow, and manic for money morons charging at it night and day.  So we get all hearts and flowers and dainty with ribbons on our plates and calling each other pet names like Fifi and Baboon.”
       “Well romance without something serious is ten times better than something serious without romance,” the older scout observed, “and I wouldn’t want to spoil anything, for sure, but when you get home, well, if it were me, I’d at least try picking a basket of wildflowers, then strewing them from the living room of the house up to her bedroom, then across the floor to her bed, then on the bed, you know, like a snow-angel.  When she came in and saw them I’d say, ‘you can leave your door open, if you want to.’”
       
       “After you waited a little while,” a hoarse whisper asked, “would you take your underpants off and take a chance?  Go and stand in her door with a boner?”
       “Yes,” the older tentmate said.
       “Would your arms be hanging at your sides, or would you have them up, like we were with each other when we touched our bare chests together?”
       “At my side,” Josh replied after a moment’s thought, “I’d be really shy, afraid, too.  I’d probably just look in for a minute, reach down and pick up a few flowers, hold them out to her, then turn slowly and walk back to my bedroom and like on my bed.”
       “With your penis so she could see if she followed you?”
       “Yes.”
       
       Well, they were on the same page, romantically speaking.  
       
       “We’re going to have to kind of strain ourselves not to, you know, like fall in love,” the teen observed.  “I mean, here in the tent, you rule, but, like we were talking about earlier, nothing outside.”
       “In the Navy,” the boy responded “they say ‘take a steady strain’.  It will be cool going around all day pretending that this isn’t the happiest day of my life or the happiest day I ever heard of and that you’re not the cutest and nicest and friendliest and most perfect friend anybody ever had since the snake taught Adam about women, something Becky will never be because she’s too intelligent.”
       “I’ll pretend, too,” Josh agreed.  “That I’m not thinking of you when someone else is talking to me, and that it’s not you quietly going off into the woods with another scout or one of the leaders when there’s free time, and that I’m just as lucky as Becky.”
       
       “Will I see you, too?” Timmy asked: “Taking other boys off in private during free time?”
       “Yes,” the senior whispered.  “It’ll happen with both of us.  Two or three times a week.  With other boys or the leaders.”
       “I’m glad,” the younger nodded.  “Because like we get talking and I feel like my heart is going to kind of burst, and we’re boys, and we like listening to ricochets, and don’t like mushy stuff.”
       “Well, it is complicated,” Josh observed, “because I think Mr. Payne really likes you, and I know he’ll be really gentle with you, but I’ll still be a little bit jealous that he was alone with you for an hour.”
       “I kind of notice how the albino boy in tent six was looking at you, too,” Timmy whispered, “and I’ll feel the same way, especially if you hold hands when you think you’re out of sight.”
       
       “Timmy,” the teen whispered, “there’s kind of some flexibility as to do with privacy here.  Most homosexual experiences occur in secret, but not all.  If we settle on bravo partners, and if you want to know what Selly, the albino boy, looks like in my hands, you could come with us into the woods.  If you wanted me to watch you with Mr. Payne, the two of you could invite me.”
       “Would you bring Selly?”
       
       Josh nodded.  The boys became silent, their fingers tracing from flanks, up over shoulders, to necks, to ears, to jaws, to cheeks then to lips.  “Do you want to jump way ahead for just a minute?” the older scout asked.
       “Okay,” the panting boy replied.
       The teen parted the child’s lips with his right index finger, prompting the boy’s tongue.  “A week from now,” he said, bringing his immature teen mouth within an inch of the boy’s rosy lips, “I’ll be kissing you and my lips and tongue will have Selly’s sperm all over them.”  Literature for all ages abounds with first kisses, and both boys were insatiable readers, but neither had glommed eyes on a passage delineating the first touch of their lips, nor any which came close.  Was the fourth dimension promise and anticipation?  To the youngsters in the tent, with the thought of the slim thirteen year old albino, glasses as thick as their own, and without his glasses, it was a slam dunk to a fifth dimension, because it took less than a minute, as they experimented with nuzzling, licking, and nipping each other, to realize that Shelly’s lips and tongue might also be slicked white with their seed.
       
       They left it there.  A kiss of a lifetime was a kiss of a lifetime and dueling tongues would have been superfluous.  Their lips separated, but they remained leaning against each other, forehead to forehead, their hands tracking each other’s chest and belly lower and lower until the younger boy led to his senior’s scout buckle.
       
       “Have you started touching yourself at night?” Josh asked, “masturbating or jerking off?” 
       “I just know the words,” the boy flushed.
       “It’s usually what men like to do with boys your age the first time they’re together,” the leader explained, “that way, a man can tell how mature a boy is.  By how much semen there is and what color it is, either thin and kinda watery, or thick and heavy and very white.”
       “What’ yours look like?” Jimmy said.
       “Still thin,” the seventeen year old replied, “I’m more like a thirteen year old when I’m naked than my real age, except, well, for one thing.”
       “Your penis?” the understudy asked.
       “I guess so,” the boy colored, “I guess it’s kind of like a man’s in a way, except all around it I look like a little kid.  Maybe not even as mature as you.”
       They kept at each other’s buckles, head to shoulder, panting lightly in each other’s ear.  Then sippers, and a little shuffling and they were in only their briefs, now squatting, muscular legs spread widely, knees pressing, staring at each other’s hugely tented underpants.
       
       “Do you think Selly’s getting molested?” Timmy asked.
       “If the wind doesn’t come up,” the older male replied, “you’ll hear noises from some of the nearby tents.  We try to be really quiet, especially on calm nights, so as not to embarrass the leaders and put them on the spot, but sometimes things happen unexpectedly and you can’t help making some noise.  This is Shelly’s first night back with David.  He yips softly, like a puppy, when David’s successful with him, so we’ll hear that pretty loud, because everyone knows the leaders will say to themselves, ‘that’s just Selly,’ knowing that anyone of them, if they were alone in a tent with him, would make him noisy, too.  In fact his camp name, and it’s affectionate derisive, is Furthest in the Woods because you have to take him furthest in the woods if something’s going to happen, you know, to be polite and unobtrusive.”
       
       “I really like that part,” Timmy said, “that it is refined, restrained, whatever you want to call it and not, as you said, like splashing water on each other.”
       “It’s kind of an opportunity to indulge in extremes in a controlled situation,” the older boy noted, “like firing a bazooka on a rifle range.  That would probably be pretty safe, however big the thrill.”
       “Cool,” Timmy said.
       “Yeah,” his friend agreed with a nod.  “We can be sister and brother, boyfriend and girlfriend, husband and wife, scout leader and camper, explore all of those things, but when you go home Becky will be as safe as she ever was, and probably about ten times happier, plus, at no extra charge, while other kids your age are mooning about this or imagining that, about ninety percent of what you see on the soap operas, and writing each other notes and telling friends to tell friends stuff and asking friends to tell you stuff, you’ll have it all in perspective; not ‘been there and done that’ in any ironic sense, but in the sense that you don’t need to it for the sake of doing it out of curiosity or for bragging rights.  You can stay home and read and let the Power Ball buyers of tomorrow dance the jealousy fantastic and hum the lovelorn blues.  Then, dawnesth the light and behold our loquacious and worthwhile man of twenty, not only able to have any girl he wants, but cute enough and deep enough and rich enough, and for damn sure sexy enough, to keep her.”
       
       “I’m glad to hear that from you,” Timmy responded, “I keep hearing it from old guys, and they seem to have messed up things so badly I can’t help finding myself cynical.”
       “Well,” the older scholar said, “for a modern day cynic, the diet is rich and plentiful, as if we could eat pavement and have it taste like lobster.”
       Bookworm II replied:  “Not rich and plentiful, cheap and plentiful.”
       
       They were finished with staring into each other’s eyes from minimal focal distance.  Been there, done that.  “Does the older boy show his penis first?”
       “Yes,” Josh said, “in case his friend changes his mind.”
       The boys returned to a kneeling position on their sleeping bags, adjusted the soft glow of the maglite, and moved together until their foreheads again touched.  Josh displayed at his little friend’s first touch, and the boy went quickly to the band at the front of his briefs, first pulling it out, then down as the boy brought his legs together.  “We’re kinda twins, I think,” he whispered as the older scout’s fingers found him and stripped him.  Leaning for a moment into a huddle, the skinned themselves naked, then regained their knees, Timmy spreading his legs modestly and Josh more widely so their belly buttons could press together.  They tucked their heads to each other, breathing harshly, and Josh began masturbating himself to show the child how.  They took turns, watching each other, whispering, then touched each other and experimented with spreading pre-cum and peeling down their foreskins to show each other their swollen, purple glans. 
       
       “I have a feeling the splashing-water part could start any second,” Timmy panted.
       “Sometimes you can make your friend splash right away by just saying something,” Josh advised.
       “What?” the boy asked, hardly feeling in need of an aphrodisiac, just curious.
       “Timmy?  Do you love your little Becky?”  That might work.
       “I get your point,” the younger boy grunted, forcing himself by dint of willpower and character to pull from his friend, hug him, and pant away the tenth of a second miss.
       “Cool,” Josh said, “it’s meant to happen with me, first, because sometimes a younger boy has a let down after it happens, and that’s not the right time for him to be getting sperm all over his belly and chest.”
       “I just love talking to you,” the panting child responded.
       “I love it too,” the teen said, “and we’ve got an hour before eleven.”
       “What do you want to talk about?” the eleven year old asked, as, by accord, both boys lay back on top of their sleeping bags, the child’s slim right leg over the muscular left leg of the tall, rangy teenager as they carefully experimented with masturbating while the other watched and stroking each other.
       “If there are any men where you live,” Josh answered.  “Probably not your dad, that’s kind of rare, but a teacher or coach or neighbor; usually you can tell if a man sort of looks at you, and, even with Becky, it might be exciting for you to have an adult male.  They’re way intense and it can go on for years.”
       
       “Not to change the subject,” Jimmy responded, “but you said something before about being six years old.  There’s a boy who plays with Becky from down the street.  What you said about looking, he’s the first one I though of, because it kinda seems like he’s always looking.”
       “Is he nice?” Josh asked.
       “Very,” the younger boy said.  “Real quiet and he build’s models as well as I do.”
       “Well,” the leader mused, “assuming he’s not fat, because that’s about the only universal downer when it comes to how someone looks, you might want to be a little bit bold with him.  Not flowers strewn to the nuptial bed, necessarily, but spill some Coke on your pants when you’re alone together, then get out of your pants and underpants and stand close to him.  If he has any objections, you’ll be sure to hear about them, but as long as he looks, you stand, and if it’s for more than half a minute, you can get a boner and say something like, ‘Becky likes it when this happens to me.’  That should open up the can and let the worms out.  And keep in mind, boys as young as five or six can be almost killer-so-you-don’t-wake-up lovers.  They love to watch mature boys cum off and get sperm all over them.  Just be really careful to warn them about what’s going to happen, and I don’t mean two seconds before you start spraying all over everything.”
       
       “I understand,” the younger boy said.
       “And the same for you,” Josh continued, “it’s going to be very hard and violent when it happens with me because I haven’t jerked off or done anything for the last five days.  For days is sort of an unwritten camp rule for boys who are coming.”
       “Do you think Selly goes by it?” Timmy asked, again bringing a stifled gasp from Josh at the very mention of the lithe thirteen year old 