Sex with Boys and Girls – 3

by Feather Touch

To skip the essay, scroll to the column of asterisks.


      I don’t mean to tease Mark, but he is cute when he’s mad.  Would include his response to File-2, but he’s cute when he’s mad as he is, and, like the man said, why take chances?  It brings up the issue of using real people.  At least a dozen characters are real as rain, specifically including myself (“Poet of Phu Bai” and other titles).  I call it the free-fire zone; one actually can say anything, and, with no one admitting they read alternative sites, do so with a quasi invasion of privacy that hurts not the person identified but allows insights and texture simply not available when a writer uses clay as a modeling material.  Of course, my stolen characters all come across as nice, worthy people, and that’s certainly an issue.  In fact, Stan Yawoski and the Corvette are real, or were at that time, and we did spend a weekend in KC., which, truth to tell, was the first time I ever made out with a girl, driving her dad’s car, for perhaps fifty red lights in a row (no traffic).  Great fun trying never to catch a green.  Her father was about eighty percent, you know, but perhaps had second thoughts when I left the garage, crossed the lawn, and got into Stan’s ‘Vette, because the whole scene was about as slick as college gets (and a great adventure).  And there’s an aspect beyond the glib: what the First Amendment is all about; an absolute freedom to say absolutely anything, fearless of lawyer or cop.  Look what’s happening without it; with a choke chain freely used to throttle any discussion of our use at the hands of our two percent Jewry, for example: a hideous grind in the sand for boys good enough to get into the military, every third Muslim a kid with a bomb and every fourth subhuman a newshound begging for an atrocity, more cruelly maimed than killed because of body armor, and at a billion dollars a day plus wear and tear on virtually irreplaceable assets.  Vote your way out of that.
      
      Samantha is real, and we really don’t sleep together; town is, in fact I can add an example of the kind of government balloteers get by referencing a colossal new pile of cement on the beach which will inevitably turn out to be some kind of town hall for the ten thousand living here, a substantial minority in a manner little improved in a hundred years (thus all the beautiful photos of weathered wood and creeping jungle).  And they are building this monster with two large floors, centrally located, and vacant (and ugly) for the last fifteen years.  Dangriga’s spread enough concrete to build a launch pad, and they should have spent every dime of the money on bolstering the schools from A to Z (careers for teachers and support staff rather than bubbles for the unions, knock-knock-knock).  Plus, a photo mission out by the burying ground yielded a new concrete foot and vehicle bridge, each connecting very little with even less.  A vote is a knife, use it often enough and you suffer the Chinese death of many wounds.
      
      Hugely popular and widely ignored, or, it could be stated in the reverse, and either way it would fit.  Over seven thousand files last week, and with several titles going on just before the Saturday cut-off.  Disappointments, too, a number of stories, including “Poet,” down in double digits, which I haven’t seen in almost three years.  “Jimmy and Frogger” did the same, but quickly rebounded to over five hundred a week, and stayed there like the Rock of Gibraltar for thirty months.  Even without a replay, I deem myself by far and away the most widely read new writer, if not in the sense of, say, Jay Leno’s team, in the sense of how much there is; depth, rather than breadth, while there’s plenty of that, too.  As I figure it now, if the announcer came on at a major sporting event and asked everyone who knew the name Feather Touch to give a holler, there’d be a substantive, but far from overwhelming response.  That will come in time.  A frightening thing; the inevitability, should the Earth continue rotating as we know it, of the big numbers becoming huge and the huge monstrous.  They don’t fade, they grow, and when not growing, remain, inexhaustibly, at high numbers that are growth even as they remain static, month after month.  As doomed as for death with the paradox of an immortality more complete than any person living at this time; if not all thoughts and all details, over a million words worth.  Class by itself.
      
      Does this tie in to usury in the sense of exploiting identities for literary purposes?  In a backhanded way, perhaps so; those referred to being granted large life beyond the grave and thus getting out of me something for nothing.  Didn’t you just know I’d see it that way?
      
      Photos tomorrow; almost went out today, but Mark’s a great correspondent and a gentle pull of the chain yields grist for ye mille, so I stayed in and linked up Ellen and her granddad with that in mind.  But tomorrow it is pix.
      
      And tomorrow has turned into three days, sort of off but for experimenting with the video and other features of the Canon.  Excellent battery resilience, about an hour of intensive use of everything which goes with two hours and more of wandering and taking stills.  Back to the Cecil B. De Mill thing.  The video is definitely in the nine-minute-wonder class; sort of like finding a cine camera in a box of Cracker Jack.  A few minutes of this and that every couple of years will do very nicely, thanks; something I know of from personal experience because both grandfathers had steamer trunks half filled with reels of 16mm movie film – no one ever watched in my lifetime (except me, maybe half an hour’s worth).  
      Reviewing some older files, I again sense the Toshiba was noticeably sharper, so I’d go back to my original recommendation of the Canon A300 unless three-minute video clips are of significant interest (and if memory serves the A300 does them without sound, and has digital zoom).  Amused to find myself using the optical zoom fairly often, for the most part because the optical viewfinder has a set of fine crosshairs that don’t quite cross, simplifying the task of holding the camera motionless while releasing the shutter.  I can’t tell zoom from wide-angle images when I’m editing, so I guess hand-holding is viable, and the powerful digital, with the tripod, gives a whole new scope of possible images.
      
      So they caught the beard in his den; another layer of vengeance to fuel and fire future generations.  Me?  No water ‘till he talked way sensible, and he could stay alive as long as he proved himself the leader of millions and gave information of a useful and immediate nature.  And yet the rhetoric from the president on down is yada about the Iraqi people, freedom, rights, that kind of ACLU thing.  The fact is, this culture – only viable in any modern sense because of the flukes of oil distribution on the planet – has never amounted to anything more than a colossal nuisance costing huge casualties, worldwide, as a result of sane money wasted for insane causes.  The country should be looted and stripped to the bone; every industry and service possibly associated with the hated Anglo taken away, and with the coldest of frequent reminders to that entire hell-hole that we can break and ruin them without using nuclear weapons, though, as a defender of the Constitution, that is the surest option and certainly my choice, not because of the silly Connie, but in view of the cost of playing footsies.  
      
      Giant readerships last week.  Thirteen thousand files and over five thousand for the opening gambit in this little cock-up.  Thanks.  Three thousand readers for File 2; very impressive since it wasn’t on for more than a few days.  It’s neat when the bubbles come along, but the thrill, as noted above, is the week-to-week and the strong numbers for follow-up chapters.  Larry King may be getting the thirty million but I’ll end up with your hearts and minds, just like youngsters in my stories end up being closely associated with adults whose initial objective was round bottoms and sleek, tender thighs.  I know you’re shaking your head, but when I point the fact that this is, in a weird-times-ten world, the only breath of sanity out there, all you can do is nod.  Being your king is not something I sought, and certainly something I can live without, it is a matter of birth; of lineage, heritage, breeding and provenances and adhering to traditions going back far beyond the dawn of history (largely successful, or we wouldn’t be here).  It is simply a fact.  By the standards of history, some individual in America outranks all others.  Correspondingly, by the same standards, there is an individual no one outranks.  This would seem your basic dynamic duo, but that it can be also applied to the artist, well, that’s where the ego part comes in, making me a comedian.  All good for a fun life and one might get away with saying it’s little wonder my fantasies are degenerate because everything else, from Samantha to the pivotal figure at the beginning of the American Revolution, is true.  
      
      Still batting zero with new reader mail, and it’s comforting for your monarch to know he can keep up with the clowning around without feeling he’s shirking more serious responsibilities.  Must be kind of nice for you, too, getting as much of the message as you freely choose to absorb, minus the mechanizations of ye glitz factory, all velvet glove with no iron fist, and, in fact, minus anything but your own raw, human intelligence.  On the frustrating side, it would be nice to know if there’s any response to the Tropic Gems project; would you or would you not buy a ten dollar CD with two hundred cliché shots of why most people come to a place like this, in the first place?  Hate to waste money and time on it if it’s a dead duck, but new product launches are notoriously difficult to predict.  Lucky it’s also a life-long hobby and may end up a significant historical document even if no one wants to buy.  Also worry about any fraction of the success I’ve had on the Net because that would mandate a full-time involvement, and who’d entertain my subjects if I was out coining it?
      
      Spam’s down.  Way down.  Nice to have that prediction come true.  Made it during the SoBig attack when I went from twenty or so to nearly four hundred; good, methought out loud, this will make every last digital moron on the planet sick of the trash, the cost to send it will become prohibitive, and it will die.  At the same time, it continues to be a wonder that it isn’t used well (theme of “Sunday in the Park”).  Couldn’t it at least be coupons?  I suppose the penny dreadfuls eventually led to “Vogue,” so maybe, someday.  (A personal example would be that after surfing digicam material fairly extensively, I’ve never received a spam announcing a new photo product or offering a specific discount on a related item.) 
      
      Does idleness lead to nonsense?  While dithering on my hiatus over the last three days (two of which were devoted to editing my last collection of pictures), I came up with a concept of High-Noon Days, a/k/a No-Shadow Days.  Each community erects a fifty foot pole, laser sighted to be perfectly vertical.  From the Tropic of Cancer, south, to the Tropic of Capricorn, there would be two instants when the sun was mathematically overhead, and the pole would cast no shadow.  The times would be unique to each pole and might even be useable as a general reference, but primarily it would be allied with astronomy day, and particularly with familiarizing younger children with concepts to do with orientation and direction.  (I’ll take a keen interest, myself, come May or so when Dangriga’s turn comes, but, not to be cynical, the challenge will be to find a vertical pole.)  What surprises me, in the meantime, is how low on the southern horizon the sun is at noon.  Long shadows and the dreaded golden/magenta cast to the light that makes me shiver because it reminds me of northern latitudes where it’s associated with winter light.  Digital camera is, being acute in all departments, very sensitive to color temperature, plus shooting even vaguely into the sun is, with rare exceptions, the equivalent of image crucifixion.  On the other hand, come June, the shadows, sometimes very dramatic, will be around sixty degrees displaced from those in December, yielding new views of old subjects.  In fact, given this variable plus changes in light resulting from time of day and weather conditions, and the few square miles of D. probably represent a lifetime photo-op.
      
      For my beloved camera buffs, I should note that I’m at about 1,600 images on the Canon Powershot S400 Digital Elph and have run off a hundred or so prints on the HiTi, plus retouching something like 650 on PhotoDeluxe.  It merely gets more satisfying and exciting and I again affirm that this suite of products, and others just as good, like it, are the culmination of human intelligence.  There should be a Digicam channel with a million dollar prize for the most critically acclaimed and the most popular image.  A Segway and an Elph, and if that doesn’t satisfy you, strap yourself to the former and find a convenient boat ramp on which to operate it, leaving the latter behind for someone of finer sensibilities.

      
      		*
      		*
      		*
      		*
      
      “Nick?” Brad asked, addressing a thirteen year old with cropped brown hair and a quiet, studious look, about as typical as a certain type of likely schoolboy gets, “can you tell us about a visitor?”
      “If the twins aren’t ready,” the boy said.  The girls on the lifeguards’ laps nodded for him to proceed.
      
      “My mom got kinda worried about me,” the young swimmer began, “because I kept talking about Mr. Davis, he lives down the street and I help him with his garden, so she called my uncle, Dave, to come and spend the weekend with us so he could talk to me about things.  I was totally embarrassed, because I knew it was about embarrassing stuff, which is embarrassing because you can’t not be embarrassed, then all you have to do is substitute the word ‘exciting’ for ‘embarrassing,’ and suddenly you arrive at the heart of the matter.
      “He was just arriving when I got home from school, Friday afternoon; this happened last year, when I’d just turned twelve.
      
      “Did you expect to see flashing lights and a police escort?” Dave Anderson asked his nephew as the two greeted each other with hugs on the porch.
      “I guess mom’s just doing what she thinks is best,” Nick said, “and I hope it isn’t some kind of migraine for you.”
      “Jeez, man,” the twenty eight year old engineer said,  “I jumped out of the plane when I heard; landed about two blocks away; not twenty miles from LaGuardia, and what do you think the odds are on getting my fare back?”
      
      “They’d just take it away when they fined you for littering,” the studious child observed.  With that they entered and sorted themselves out as to luggage and fixing snacks.
      “Nick,” the young man said when they were seated with their peanut butter sandwiches, “this is an ad hoc visit, not purpose driven.  I suppose the catalyst was talking to your mom the other night, your friend Michael Davis, the fact you’re sort of getting there in some sense of the word, they they’re pretty much chaff compared to just seeing you and catching up on the last three years; that is beyond babbling away on the Net.”
      “And the odd hundred or so books,” the boy noted.
      “That was so if it ever came time for me to play this great mentor and advisor role your mom seems to think I’m fit for, I wouldn’t end up talking to an intellectual pansy.”
      “As in counselor to the twinkling stars?” Nick said.
      “As in someone who’s glad not to have to deal with the inertia of a dead weight,” the young man laughed, “some kind of rolling start, to, you know, save wear and tear on the clutch or something like that.”
      “I guess it’s knowing a little that makes it extra embarrassing,” the boy mused; “because I kind of know what she’s getting at with Michael, but only in the abstract, so I don’t really know “
      “Well,” Dave responded, “to set the parameters, your mother is concerned that something might happen if you keep spending a lot of time with him, and it could be something you and a lot of other boys would want no part of, while, on the other hand, it could be something that wouldn’t bother you – mean much one way or the other – or even end up being something you liked.  Mothers don’t come right out and say this, even to their brothers, or maybe especially to their younger brothers, but the implication was that as long as you’re prepared to fend off anything you don’t want, you are free to accept anything that seems okay to you, with zero prejudice on her part, and, since she seems to see more in you than a slab of hungry meat, she may end up just not being very interested in that facet of your twelve year old existence once she’s as assured as can be that you’re not predestine for some major downer.”
      
      “Well, it’s a papier-mâché facet at this point,” Nick responded, “because nothing’s happened except working on the lawn and in the gardens and having lemonade and cookies or something before I come home.”
      “How many times have you been there?” the man quizzed.
      “Seven or eight,” his nephew replied.
      “And how have things changed since the first couple of times?” Dave asked.
      “I stay longer,” the boy replied, “and we talk a lot more.”
      “Okay,” the uncle said, “and that pretty much leaves it as far as we need to take it.  Neither one of us wants to pry; your mom’s met Michael, so that’s out of the way, you’ve been clued in by your uncle that things may go beyond talking, and you’re smart enough to deflect anything you don’t want, probably without even blemishing the underlying friendship, and at the same time you have a green light, if by default, if you do want to stay later with him, and she told me flat-out that she wouldn’t have any objections even to your spending the night once in awhile, which is about as much of a hint as a person in her position can give without feeling she’s taking on the role of some kind of collaborator or instigator, and perhaps edging you toward something you don’t want, a thing that does happen.”
      
      “But is it okay to talk about it some more?” the boy then asked.
      “All you want,” Dave said, “and I don’t say that entirely innocently, or, perhaps, in the least innocently.  I had very exciting experiences when I was your age and would encourage you , if you don’t have negative feelings about him or the developing situation, to become engaged and be responsive, and, perhaps, because you’re just enough of an ace to pull it off, to instigate something you want with him and feel he wants with you, but is reluctant to act on because that’s a big step with an underage partner.  In fact, if our conversation gets any more specific, it will constitute an act of rape.”
      “Sort of like driving one mile per hour over the posted limit constitutes an act of speeding,” the boy mused.
      “Good analogy,” his uncle responded, “because taken to the fullest, and leaving out violence, restraint, and coercion, the best you could hope for – and ‘best’ is editorial – would be five miles over the limit, which is a total paradox because before it happens, and while it’s happening, it’s the speed of light, and, once you’re satisfied, less than the speed limit, so, lifetime average is a little over, though I suppose one would call the whole matter psychological rather than mathematical.”
      
      “It does seem to be that,” the twelve year old agreed.
      “Does that mean you feel something like tension when you’re around him?” Dave asked.
      “When we run out of things to talk about for a few minutes,” the boy replied, “I guess.  Then there’s something that isn’t there, but we figure out something else to say so it never gets really embarrassing or anything.  Just what you said, ‘tension.”
      “And suppose that led somewhere?” the man then asked.  “How would you want it to start?  Would you like it to happen, say, while you’re weeding together and working side by side and just moved together so you were touching and it went from accidental to not accidental, or would you rather that it was verbal, you know, with Michael asking you questions about girlfriends and experiences you might have had; stuff like that?”
      
      “How did it start with you?” Nick asked in return.
      “Talking,” his uncle replied, “and quite a bit of it, too, the first time, and even a little after that.”
      “That would make it longer wouldn’t it?” the child asked.
      “Much,” the man agreed.  “Two males your age and Michael’s age can accomplish the physical side of it in minutes without whispering a word, and, while that can be sensational, the more sin you put in the sational, because talking about it, to lots of people, is five times greater a sin than doing it – don’t ask me why – the more sense it makes, and the more sense it makes, the easier it is to store in its proper place, which is like not taking some kind of potent drug labeled: ‘Misery Compound of Lassitude,’ which happens in your basic teen stalking, dating, cheating, and dumping routine, if not a universal eel-toothed paradigm.
      “And that’s not to suggest,” he went on, “that you do anything as a deliberate alternative to the conventional social routine; whole business is much to complicated to be subject to pat answers and glib solutions, but rather that you approach the relationship strictly on its own merits, and god knows, figuring them out is complicated enough.”
      “I know,” Nick responded, “every ten seconds we sit at the table without saying anything to each other seems to double the complication of saying what we – or at least I – really want.”
      
      “One thing that’s guaranteed,” Dave said with a smile, “is that there is no substitute for not saying or doing anything when it comes to making it last.”
      “Outta sight,” the boy murmured, “because the less we do and say, the more happens.”
      
      “Well, that’s another point where we can leave it,” the uncle said.
      We hear a lot, and probably always have, about kids being self-absorbed and beset with ignoring what they’re told.  Can this ever be a good characteristic?  For example, Nick ignored his athletic adult companion completely.  “If you want,” the twelve year old murmured, “but I was hoping you’d tell me at least a little about what happened to you.  I mean it doesn’t have to be super graphic or full of explicate details, but at least enough so I kind of know about the physical part, maybe with a dearth of locker room language.”
      
      “Two miles over the limit?” Dave asked.
      “I just figured,” the boy replied, “that if I learn a lot from you I’ll have more to talk about with Michael, and since I really like this part – I mean, chills, even – it would be better if I knew more.”
      “And how do you feel about personal questions?” the young man asked.  “Because I’d like to ask a few of those as we go along.”
      “That would be okay,” the boy nodded.
      “And when you said ‘graphic’ and ‘explicit’ you meant them?”
      “Yes,” with another shy nod.
      “And you think the kitchen table is the best place for a long, detailed story?”
      The boy grinned at his silly uncle and they adjourned to the sofa in the living room, Nick sitting on Dave’s left side.
      
      “I guess I knew about as much as you do,” the young man began, “just a bunch of words some of which, like ‘suck,’ seemed pretty obvious and others that were more abstract; but nothing in the way of hands-on experience.
      “Then, when I was twelve, we spent a couple of weeks on the Cape.  A lot of stuff washes up from the sea, so it isn’t boring to walk for miles along the outer beaches.  Also, there are surf casters who drive in in beach buggies and it’s always fun to see if they’ve caught anything long and shiny.  So that’s what I was doing, following the surf line, or walking inside the wall of sand dunes.  I’d gone two or three miles from the parking lot one day, it was about noon, and I came across a group of six men with a fishing camp.  I’d had lunch, but they had some really great fruit punch, so I had some and they suggested if I didn’t have anything else to do, that I hang around with them and practice a little surf casting, which, as the world knows, is how the game of golf should be played – swing and retrieve instead of all that bawling, loss and misery.”
      
      It was a good point and Nick nodded at his uncle’s perception and insight.  The story went on  
      
      “Raymond was the oldest, twenty six.  They were all from Boston hospitals and medical schools, and it was Raymond who had identical twins sisters, Penny and Faith.  They, according to what he told me while we were at the surf line, casting, were especially interested in a particular facet of reproduction and so they were going to team up, or, anyway, sort of the opposite of teaming up, for an experiment, and, if I wanted, I could stick around, because Penny was going to be delivered and then spend the weekend with her brother and the other five med students.  Faith wouldn’t be alone with any men or boys, and, since they were ten years old, it should be possible to tell, based on a single experiment, whether certain contemporary violations and alterations of traditional mammalian behavior had any physical effect on maturing girls.”
      “That’s the best beginning to a story I’ve ever heard,” Nick said, “and to think it’s in the name of science.”  He sat back on the sofa feeling sure his mom had picked exactly the right person to prepare himself for his date with Michael.
      
      “It was a good case of placement and timing,” Dave admitted, “and sure enough, another Willy’s came lumbering up the track and dumped the guinea pig, still dressed in her junior cheerleading outfit, along with three members of the senior high’s varsity basketball squad, the eldest of whom was driving.
      “By this time, an hour or so, I’d made friends with the other five students and sort of gotten over the shock of what was going to happen in the dunes and reached the point of what seemed at the time excitement.  They were nice guys, normal; perhaps, yes, they were boyish in their scientific outlook – what every horny teen wants to know, that kind of thing – but they were boyish in other ways, too, so it wasn’t as noticeable.  And it really had been the twins’ idea in the first place, so they’d have a head start on getting into veterinary school, which is much harder to do than getting into the kind where the ultimate clientele is human and round.
      “And the only problem they had,” Dave recounted, “was that Skip Fallon, who was meant to be Penny’s first boy had put on ten pounds in two weeks so now she only wanted him as a friend, and, as I was, in their opinion, a likely looking boy, and twelve years old, it might be just the answer if I stayed around, even calling it science if I had to.
      
      “Well, ‘had to’ was the operative phrase, and, Uncle Dave, I really do wonder if it had been a group of bikers with a girl they’d plucked off the street, if I’d have felt any differently.  I mean it’s nice to think all this while you’re sitting at a desk but when first there are six, then there are nine tall, athletic males, and a tiny girl, well, primal art probably went on in caves before man learned to scratch on the walls, and, since they left no graphic depictions I’m aware of, probably so routinely it wasn’t even considered art.”
      
      It was a bold and unique interpretation and seemed in fitting in with the boy’s overall, as the medical students had said, likeliness, nor was his analysis in any way flawed, for in art scarcity abounds as anyone who’s lived free of light pollution knows through boredom with the stars and even the mystery they represent.  We have been given art by religion, and moralists over the contemporary ages have added the zest of scarcity and taboo to what might otherwise be the same young meat and potatoes, three meals a day.  
      
      “They asked me if I was a virgin,” Nick continued, “and when I said I was they said I could take a blanket behind a dune and be alone with Penny if I felt uncomfortable being with all of them.  I told them I didn’t feel comfortable, but didn’t expect to, and wanted to stay if it was alright.  By that time the buggy was in sight and Raymond and the others were showing it in through the sand dunes to where their base camp was.  She jumped out and ran up to her brother, leaping on him and knocking him into the sand, which was fake because the girl only weighed about seventy pounds and her brother stood like six-four.  She pulled him up and he introduced us.  She was pretty cute with long, brown hair and bangs, and she was wearing a party dress her brother had bought her for her tenth birthday which had just been a few days before.  Raymond whispered that some of the guys would like to molest me while he was taking off her clothes, because only a few could touch her at a time.  I said that was okay, and they went to the tailgate of the Jeep and all took off their clothes while Raymond knelt with Penny and me in front of him.
      “The lighting was soft, hazy-bright, but it didn’t have to be.  It would have been some kind of art in desert sun or in the depths of the same cave I was talking about, nine older boys and young adults, not an extra pound or set of pecks or abs among them; none even had any kind of extra hair.  ‘This is my first date,’ Penny whispered, holding my hand as they came close to us then knelt as near as they could get, one of the high school boys in front of a couple of the medical students.  Raymond got me first, putting his arms around me to open my shirt as I stood in front of.  One of the high school boys did my belt and asked me if I’d ever been molested.  I told him what I told Raymond and his friends, and the boy, Ryan, said his uncle had taken him to a nudist camp when he was twelve, and he’d really liked it.  By that time they had me in my underpants and Raymond was unbuttoning his sister’s dress.
      “Ryan told me the part he liked best was watching an older boy ejaculate, and he could show Penny and me, both, if we wanted to see what was going to happen later inside her.  She squeezed my hand yes, and I squeezed hers to agree.
      
      “All the males posed for us, and one of the best parts was watching them just stand there and imagining be married to them and having them come to bed every night, all perfectly proportioned and looking totally natural and right.  
      “Raymond got us both completely watched while the doctors and students got each other ready for us, then Ryan got to his feet and moved me to his right hip and showed me how to use my hand.  Raymond held his little sister from in back while she stretched her arms back up around his neck.  I’d learned what to do with Ryan, and one of the high school boys was huddled against my right side doing the same thing to me, but very carefully because I was inexperienced and they all wanted me to leave Penny very wet for her brother.  In other words, we were whispering and talking to each other the whole time, it wasn’t like bang-bang or anything crude and humpy.  The three high school boys wanted pre med in college, so they were interested in what the measurements would show in a couple of months, and volunteered to be part of the experiment if Penny wanted them to, which she did.  
      
      “Penny’s chest looked really pretty and her nipples were a lot bigger than a boy her age.  From what the boy was doing to me, I knew how Ryan must feel, only his penis was actually touching the top of her tummy so I didn’t see how he could keep control.  Guess it was part of being an older boy.  As I said, we didn’t do it steadily.  We’d break up once in awhile, deliberately, because no matter how exciting it felt, we wanted it to last for at least an hour.  The big guys were getting bigger and harder all the time, and having to be very careful about how they touched each other and rubbed against each other, while at the same time wanting to do more of it.  Someone asked Ryan about the nudist camp, and if that had been his first time.  He whispered to us about what had happened and that gave us something to concentrate on besides the feelings of seeing the naked girl and being touched by young athletes.
      “’I’ve done this with my little cousin,’ Jim, the boy who was touching me the most whispered in my ear, and then he said he’d help me wait for Penny.  By this time Ryan was getting really excited from what I was doing to him and the girl was whispering that it was okay.  Everybody could tell and formed into a tight circle as Raymond and his sister both urged the boy to spray.  He told us before it started and somehow from what Jim was doing with me I knew what to do which was grip him hard way down low.  Really hard.  Each time it felt like a snake getting electrocuted, then he’d splash on Penny’s bare chest and she’d whisper for him to sperm her again.  Then Ryan fell to his knees on the blanket and Raymond pulled his sister down on top of him, with both of them lying on their backs.  Ryan took my right hand as he guided me between their spread legs and helped me wipe some of his semen between Penny’s legs, then he brought us together and everyone knelt close around us as I experimented.  There was a lot of cum between us and her body felt hot and slippery underneath me.  Raymond wet his hands and handled my bottom a lot, pulling me gently to Penny when she pushed up to me.  Then she whispered that she was okay, so Raymond’s hands got firmer with me, and in a couple of minutes our bellies were tight together and we were trying to get used to the feeling, and discovering it felt better when we moved to try to get it as good as it could be.  Jim had taught me a lot about control, which, thinking back on it, is something you probably can’t actually teach a little of, and I loved the feeling of being way up between her legs and her arms and legs around me.  We could tell all the men and boys there wanted to see what was happening between us, so Penny let my go once in awhile and Raymond helped hold me up so we could all look down between us.  Everyone was bigger and harder by this time, and no one dared even look at each other much, much less touch one another.  I could kind of sense from how Ryan had felt in my hand that the same thing was going to happen with me pretty soon.  Penny could tell, too, and she started whispering the way she had just before Ryan had spermed on her tummy and chest.  It would have happened, anyway, but a siren’s song in the right setting is more than man or beast can resist, so I whispered the same thing Ryan had and held very still against her so she could feel the same thing I had when I gripped him tight in my hand.  Her eyes flew open and she yelled out to her brother, but no one could understand her because she half passed out probably from fantasizing about how incredible her brother was going to feel when he started doing the same thing Ryan had done and I was doing.  
      “Because of all the talking,” Nick concluded, “I left her totally wet and she had an easy time taking Raymond.  He was with her for about twenty minutes, then each of the other boys stayed with her for ten or fifteen.  In all I guess we were there for almost three hours, spreading sunburn lotion on each other and talking a lot.  Then the ball players had to go, so I decided to ride back to the parking lot with them, not that I was too weak to walk in the deep sand or anything.”
      
      “Did it happen the same way over and over again?” Nick asked.
      “No,” his uncle answered, “after Raymond had cum in her, she got on top of the next boy while her brother held her from behind, then other males would come to her, and others would brace them, and she’d get them to spill in her mouth.”
      “Did any of them besides Jim touch you a lot?” was the child’s next question.
      “One of the medical students,” Dave said, “so I guess there was some breakdown of scientific discipline, though not much, because I did what Penny was doing but only swallowed a little of the semen before I kissed her on the lips.”
      
      “Do you think it made a difference?” Nick asked.
      “I don’t know,” Dave said.  “It was a chance encounter, and even if I’d run into any of them later I don’t think anything would have happened.  For me, in fact, it got the whole subject completely off my mind.  I’d seen and done all normal activities, they seemed entirely up to the task allotted them, and so no questions lingered and no curiosity, for its own sake, remained.  In short: I knew, so I read.”
      “That’s half how I feel about Michael,” the boy responded, “it will be such a relief to know what it’s like, what it’s about – what, whatever.”
      “Well,” his uncle mused, “one thing I should probably tell you, advise you on, whatever, is that it’s very likely Michael has a few friends, his age or maybe yours, and that he’d want you to spend time with them.  That’s very common, so you’ll want to figure out ahead of time whether you’d like the feeling of another man’s hands on you and if you could give yourself.  No pressure, I’m sure, but it’s a pretty usual situation and most boys respond readily as long as it’s kept to a dull roar, like once every couple of weeks or so.  Also, it’s possible that he, or one of his friends, has a young girlfriend, maybe about the age Penny was when I met them on Nauset Beach, so you’ll want to try to figure out if you’re gay or not.  Plus, since we’re trying to fill in all the blanks, what happened to Ryan, an older male taking him to a nudist camp, is also quite common, so that’s something to think about.”
      
      “Are there such things as clubs?” the boy then asked.
      “Definitely,” his uncle said, “usually built around some conventional interest from sports to hang-gliding to stamp collecting, so you may find yourself living a dramatically more interesting life over the next few years, when you leave the kids’ stuff behind and start going after kids as gently and carefully as he’s come after you.”
      “If there is some kind of club, will you be in it with me, Uncle Dave?” the twelve year old asked.
      “As long as it’s not a bunch of stoners or louts of one description or another,” the young man said, “though misfits can be interesting.  I don’t have much patience with such-like, but if you get to know people who thinks books are something more than that which is dropped in the hallway for plot development – Hollywood’s take – yes, I could do a spot of driving and help out with occasional injections of the wisdom of the ages.”
      “And how about here in the house?” the boy said, “when we’re alone together?”
      “After you’ve been with Michael,” Dave replied, “and you want to, yes.”
      “But I thought you were going to ask me personal questions,” the boy said shyly, not letting a trace of petulance into his voice.
      “I’m just trying to be sure that you don’t take one thing as another,” the young engineer said gently, “because there’s a difference between talking about what happened on the beach, and asking, say, if you have a boner.”
      “Do you have one, too?” the child whispered.
      “Yes,” his uncle husked in reply.  Their eyes met.
      “You’re my uncle,” the boy said, “you’ve been sending me books for years, writing two or three times a week like I’m a regular part of your life.  I like Mr. Davis and I want to go upstairs with him the next time I’m over at his house, but I love you and I just want to wear my underpants when we’re alone together, because even savages wear something, or did before they were expunged from the dictionary.”
      “Well,” Dave Anderson replied, “I don’t want to bug you with one ‘are you sure’ after another, which would be pretty hypocritical in view of what happened on the beach, so, the answer is ‘great.’  I’d love to see you that way.”
      “And I want to see you that way, too,” the boy said quickly.
      
      That’s about as settled as a matter can be.  They rose and climbed the stairs, each going to his own bedroom.  A few minutes passed and they met shyly in the hallway.  “Do you want to come in my room for a little while?” Dave whispered to the nearly naked twelve year old.
      “Yes,” the boy whispered back.
      “This is probably how Michael will start with you,” the older male explained, moving the lithe beauty in front of him, back-to, and placing his hands on the slim shoulders of the preteen, “and it’s the time, in any situation, you should move away if you don’t want something to happen, okay?”
      “Yes,” Nick whispered, not moving.
      “And even if it’s happened several times with you and different older males,” the young man advised, “don’t act forward or bold, not if you want the molestation to continue.  It’s kind of a tightrope.  You have to be shy and retiring and limit yourself in the lingo department, for effing sure, without becoming mushy, lorn as in lovelorn, faggy, mincing, lisping, or sweet and gay, thus ending up neither a hustler or pansy but rather taking the easy way out and staying the nice kid you are, already.”
      
      “Will he talk to me while it’s starting?” the child whispered.
      “Probably,” his uncle said, “at least to find out if you’re experienced.  Adult’s love to spill their seed all over the chest and belly of a willing child, boy or girl, so he’ll probably ask if it’s okay of he ejaculates on you that way or maybe on your face or even on your tongue.  That’s a whole other stage, like going from talking to what I’m doing with you now, going from sexual molestation to splashing you and leaving you covered with sperm.”
      “Will he try to do anything inside be?” Nick asked, “you know, up inside my bottom?”
      “That’s controversy cubed,” Dave said, “first, talking, then fondling, then watching each other cum or cumming on each other or in each other’s mouths, then, finally, ejaculating up inside you.  The Greeks’ homosexual ritual was for the man and boy to lean into each other, heads on their partners’ shoulders, and masturbate while they talked, cumming on each other at the end.  They were actually derisive of sodomy; anal intercourse, but it probably happened.  It’s unlikely Michael will want that, though he might press himself against you and cum up inside you once in awhile.  But mostly, you’ll probably jerk off together and take each other’s semen in your mouths, and once it’s happened a few times you’ll probably leave off experimenting and talking and just engage in a set ritual with you signaling him when you’re ready.”
      
      “I like it when you’re hands go low on me,” the twelve year old whispered.
      “If you lose control,” the adult responded, “it’s okay.  Just try to tell me so I can pull your underpants down and watch you cum off, okay?”
      “Yes,” the child nodded, instinctively arching to the gentle touch and beginning to pant, his cotton briefs hugely bulged.  
      “Do you want to feel me against you?” Dave rasped.
      “Yes,” the boy hissed, holding still while the tall athlete pressed gently to him, his hands sliding slowly down into his nephew’s underpants as he eased the white fabric from the slim hips of the preteen.  “Pull your down, too,” the child urged, and they separated for a moment, kicking their underwear free, then the adult again had the boy close against him, the child panting openly to the tracing of his handsome uncle’s fingers.  
      
      “After you’ve experimented, Michael will usually start this way,” Dave said, beginning to masturbate the boy’s circumcised five-inch boner, “then you’ll change positions and you’ll take him all the way, then he’ll get behind you again and jerk you off and watch down over your shoulder as you spray, or maybe reach around in front of you with his left hand, assuming he’s right-handed, so he can take you seed on his palm.
      “That’s more the current way than with your heads against each other’s shoulders,” the man explained, “or you may find your own variation, and, of course, it depends on how you feel about having him cum on you or in your mouth.  If you like that, then he’ll brace against a wall, spread his legs wide, and you’ll kneel on a towel in front of him to use your lips and tongue or just your hands and let him sperm on your face.”
      
      For awhile they said nothing, breathing heavily as the child openly submitted to what was happening, standing on his toes and welcoming the athlete by arching and thrusting his hips, his fingers linked tightly behind the powerful adult who’d begun taking him fast and hard.  “I’m going to take you all the way,” Dave whispered, “because I want to do more than just say I approve of you and Michael, I want you to have your first full experience with him.”
      “I want it with you, Uncle Dave,” the boy panted.
      “It will be, in a way,” the adult rasped, “because I’ll be saving up, so to speak, for when you get back, then, if you still want, we can cum on each other.”
      
      By now Nick was gasping and inarticulate, his head lolling, his lithe body sweating and shaking as he thrust urgently to meet the older male’s fast, rhythmic stroking.  After long minutes the twelve year old began a hot, linear tensing.  “I’m going to cum in your hand,” he gasped, then went rigid as his young loins began a long series of hard, fast contractions, his preteen semen spraying and splashing for over half a minute before he collapsed back into the strong adult’s arms.
      
      And so Stan and I began our long night together in Kansas City, though I forget what state we happened to be in.  Five minutes against five hours, there was a big difference in our awakenings, and it was a state of grace he was too nice to envy.
      
      So that concludes this chapter in the further adventures of.  I’ve been busy with three hundred or more images for the collection.  Find I get no detectable degradation using the next lower resolution, which gives almost two hundred shots on the 32M card, so that’s doubled the editing time.  The images keep getting better, partly with experience, but partly because with two hundred exposures available for a shoot, I end up taking everything whether it moves or not, thus getting a lot of great stuff, especially with people, I would have formerly passed by.  And another knock-me-over-with-a-feather discovery: the digital zoom.  Who knew?  I’d always heard they gave very pixilated results, useful but otherwise substandard.  Not the case with the Elph.  At the full optical plus digital extension of 11:1, the image has nearly the resolution, depth of field, color saturation, and shadow detail of exposures made with the lens all the way back.  In a way, it’s a groan, opening up the whole town to thousands of new images, and probably even the option of experimenting with quasi-surreal effects to do with shooting down on to rainy streets at moving subjects while forcing a low shutter speed.  Art images to go along with the meat and potatoes of rendering the art of others.  Just what I need while I’m trying to keep my head above water as number one purveyor of the most alternative erotica I can come up with, which, to be honest, seems enough of an art for an individual.  It’s a fine thing that gods are created by the clergy for the worship of humans, otherwise who knows what thoughts might intrude.
      
      
“Sex with Boys and Girls” End File-3

xxx
      

