Photoplay – 4

by Feather Touch
       
      
      


      Not since September Eleventh have events played so neatly into my keyboard.  At that time, in 2001, I was writing a post-doomsday, terrorist-based story called “Blissy’s Song,” a fable of the future in which the population of the US had been reduced, infrastructure largely intact, to about one million survivors.  The theme of the story, to dwell on it for a moment, was motivation.  How would you spur people, who had everything, to do the relative modicum of work necessary for vital services and products?  And a third of the way through somebody on MSNBC mentioned the Trade Center, and I click my way to CNN within two or three minutes of the first images.  Re-wrote “Blissy’s Song” on the fly, and, if I remember correctly, did manage to stick with the central theme of motivation long enough to answer the question.  You goad the “haves” into action with children; the fitter they keep themselves and the harder they work for the general well-being, the more time they are allowed with better looking kids – serving their country – between ages of maybe as young as six or seven, to the early teens.  Howl so they hear you in China, but it would work, and nothing else would.
      
      Back to Michael.  No cable, no television except an hour or two a week at the restaurant, which, by good fortune, is Chinese and plays CCTV most of the time, so I’m relying on reports from MSN of browser fame.  One essay to the tune of Michael Doesn’t Get It.  Now I hate doing this, chopping up a colleague, just as Mike Tyson would hate chopping up a skanky fan, using all his power against a pencil-necked geek.  Me, too.  Just hate taking a fellow script monkey by the neck and wringing his eyes – pop, pop – right out of his skull bone, but gul-durn-it, the guy (name withheld out of laziness on my part when it comes to re-opening the file) doesn’t get it and can have little use for eyes that don’t see.
      
      Again with the hundred percent (Jewish box) editorial slant, that anything under any circumstances is the nether end of absolutely awful.  Fuckin’-eh grow up you ignorant asshole(s).  You lie.  You traumatize kids who are eking out maybe something neat in their otherwise industrial-zilch lives with slurry strongly implying every drop of that wide river is hopelessly befouled and polluted.  Where is your evidence, moron(s)?  Am I the only one on the entire planet who, at age nine, liked rituals with a mature male?  There’s a pool of clear water right there.  And a flood of fellow travelers, thousands of whom have written compelling stories for the Web.  The comedians, and especially Jay, are right on the money when they categorize it jocularly and tut-tut as the ancient Greeks did over sodomites, who were of a different class than those who masturbated with their boys as they recited poetry and taught and learned. 
      
      Also, there is the tie-in to R. Kelly.  I’ll confess to knowing nothing of his case, but the knee-jerk categorization is off-putting if one’s IQ is way up there over seventy, and, in any event, it’s another example of the hundred-percent slant, everything bad about anyone who ever does anything, meantime, and this is the essential point, kids, in general, getting the short end of a leftover stick.  And no relief for the artist, which, at least in my case, is meaningless because Michael, R. Kelly and I tower over the profoundly corrupt hoards of the goody-two-shoes like Everest over the Catskills. “Timmy, would you like to go to Mikey’s ranch or Mickey D’s?”
      
      “When Nobody Gets It,” that’s the title to my rebuttal to the MSN columnist of November 20, 2003.  Since this could apply equally to eating disorders, credit lifestyle, addictions and dysfunctional enablers in a truly psychedelic rainbow, diddling with scorpion-quality enemies, and a range of other situations and issues, methinks I choose to forgo the pleasure of really cutting loose, hoping the title simply says it all.  And I wonder if I’ll ever get tired of being the lone voice in the wilderness; zero mainstream acknowledgement or support.  This is actually comfortable territory for an Emerson, way-way out in front, ranging left and right, alone, seeking the better path, but obviously fruitless if taken to an extreme.  My fellow pedophiles, most, as I am, in happy and low-key modes of domesticity (and this reference should have a footnote delineating sexual orientation as apart from myriad other issues that tend to distract and distemper), number in the many tens of millions.  It would be nice to hear an accompaniment even if a chorus is beyond various comfort levels.  What if there was a tee shirt on sale: “When I was a boy, I liked being with a man”?  Would you buy it?  Would you dare one that read: “Read Feather Touch on ASSTR”?  I’d have them both and move to New York specifically to wear them around Central Park, even include a target with bull’s-eye as sort of a morbid witticism – if I had the money.  If you do, you should, in addition to supporting ASSTR and Nifty.  In no way do we want to rule, and our critics make occasional good points; are dead right when it comes to protecting most from all, though never all from all.  We’re an overwhelming force of benign nature and positive history, not a word in a thousand history books about us, especially as any kind of cohesive or destructive force, unlike the influence of church, state, and all those blasted admirals, and need not be trod on.  
      
      Again to the Mike Tyson thing and wringing the eyeballs out of my mainstream colleague.  It’s something out of my control, but that you have to peel YOUR eyes for.  Talent over truth, in summary.  Is my virtuosity at the alphanumeric keyboard selling you something based on a level of genius you’ve never seen and with which you must be inexperienced?  The medium/message thing tracing back to the Sixties?  Are you being snowed, or told the truth with icy clarity?  Is the palpable genius a thing of rendering or creating?   And such is my level of work I actually feel compelled to provide the reader with a defensive weapon, an ego assailable by a bright ten year old.  (Though on this front I have to admit a little competition from subject Michael and his Prince Michael I & II.)  No such worries when it comes to dealing with my literary contemporaries when they lie and obfuscate, only worries that my skill set overrides my wisdom and logic.
      
      Much of the article under review deals with passing-the-soap circumstances Jackson will face in prison.  Sensationalism for the bovine hoards.  Mightn’t it actually go something like this?  Hoards of you prisoners – and that’s where they keep many of the young these days – defending their hero with phalanxes both physical and hip, especially in the shower?  Mightn’t Michael, in his turn, wish his bodyguard would be a little less diligent in the performance of their perceived obligation?  And think of the myriad re-birth opportunities; the quick cheapie to do with the bible, or thoughtful commentary submitted to the mainstream and published by virtue of his name.  Everything in between, and Jay’s writers are undoubtedly coming up with Tenth and Hundredth gag-lines, and while they’re about it, to be funny, in my own way, rookie reporters on the papers are compiling obituaries.  
      
      The district attorney guy strongly resembles a trendy pig.  I’d plead to anything twice to get away from his bland California look, which should be in double quotes.
      
      And I’m no fan of Michael’s, either.  He should have camped out among black people, built a meaningful and sustained school system (I believe Raymond Burr did this, going rather to the extreme of a remote Pacific island), and yes, had relationships with the occasional eager boy.  Prison may turn out to be an okay trip physically (and I fully recognize the probability of the other writer being right), but I’d have a hard time living with memories of all that wasted loot.  I mean, three hundred face-lifts?  Oughtn’t there to be a law?
      
      As to specific predictions, one hung jury after another, and that’s assuming the kid gets up and tells a pretty ugly story of actually being abused, unlikely, but not impossible in the light of absolute power tending to corrupt absolutely, and what a certain percentage of wayward priests are accused of.  And there is a fantasy possibility.  That the prosecuting pig is handed his lunch when kid after kid, maybe into their hundreds, gets up and gives glowing and fondly remembered times with the King of (soda) Pop.  What would our Jews do then?  I hope run like hell for their godforsaken homeland (which, though naturally beautiful, is rapidly being consumed by kikecrete), realizing the jig was up and their pattern of leftist lying and distortion was, in fact, as rent and riven as O.J.’s last golf story; in other words, scapegoat time was bye-bye and stereotyping is soon to be seen for what it actually is, the truth, and run quickly so as not to miss the first wave of hydrogen bombs with which we must-needs soon hunt out the elusive and diabolically clever scorpion (before it kills us, in case it crossed your mind I’m some kind of warmongering moron.  Did der an’ done dat, in my early twenties, so peacemonger might fit.).
      
      More rain, more words.  The Canon rests against the wall, hanging from its nail, more appealing as eye candy than my former 19” Samsung with sixty-some channels.  It’s the most beautiful thing in the history of the world, whatever its need for a digital infrastructure.  I really should take it down, retrieve the thick English manual, and plumb its mysteries and secrets.  For example, it provides a Histogram, an exquisitely detailed and aesthetically pleasing graphic representation of the illumination factors in a particular image.  I want to tamper and play with everything and see if there’s a notable improvement over what PhotoDeluxe accomplishes with its Quick Fix button.  Mount it on my tripod and try the zoom at it’s ten-times digital/optical extension. Talk to it to see if it actually records a ninety-second sound bite as the book promises.  Hunt bugs with the macro.  Most of all, rig up some kind of underwater housing and try it just inside the barrier reef where there are fine specimen brain corals, with surrounding gardens, growing on white sand in two or three feet of gin water.  But it’s raining and I need a blank of optical glass to build the housing.  Along with having to stretch money it all keeps me right where I am and doing what I’m doing.
      
      Which is emulating Ernest Hemingway.  Hunting.  Bagging game.  Lying in wait and ambushing.  Fleas, not springboks.  A second wave attack off a kitten that died in the house some months ago.  Quelled the first outbreak almost to zero, but it appears not quite, then got involved with the new camera and neglected my half hour of hunting every day.  Un-managed, the game returned and now is afoot, though once again on a precipitous decline.  Wonder if they had flea-parties in the old days.  Have to have been during the summer.  Invited a bunch of people over – with pretty good eyesight – and had them all sit barefoot in the living room, killing the invaders with a few hard rubs, one by one.  Actually, I have heard lapdogs came into favor primarily as flea mops.  Odd thing is, they never seem to bite, but just irritate (insects and dogs).  Anyway, it’s several breaks a day from the monitor and if my game is smaller than H’s my talent is correspondingly greater – because I stay home and work at it rather then blowing macho holes in dumb animals.
      
      
      Who knew?  Our youngest turned out to be the greatest of storytellers, mesmerizing Madonna and Renaldo as well as yours truly as our fantasies played against her accounts passed on by her friend of the shot-out tires and his little cousin, Mikey.  With skill and aplomb she kept her narrative together and, memory stick once again cleared, returned the three of us to Craig’s story of his teacher’s brother, Brandon.  Leaves me wondering if I reversed a couple of names in the last installment.  Well, no matter; happens in Stephen King’s work, and he’s got a team of editors vetting every page.  In fact, it’s probably something of an opportunity for the literarily inclined, to read raw typescript, unseen and unedited by anyone before being published.  Anyway, it was Brandon’s coach, Gaff, telling the story of a sleepover at Eddy’s that Electra had just concluded, and she now segued us neatly to the rest of the ride she took hidden under the blanket in the back seat of the car headed to the rest area.
      
      
      “Brandon,” Gaff said as they pulled into a parking slot under a tree, “I want to ask you something really personal, is that okay?”
      “Yes,” the eleven year old whispered from the passenger seat.
      “Well,” the man said, “it’s about Lissa, your sister, is that okay?”
      “Yes,” the now coloring boy repeated.
      “Theresa told me later that evening, we were chowing down on ice cream, if I remember correctly, that she’d have liked what happened up in the bathroom if it had happened when she was five or six, and your sister’s eight, right?”  The boy again nodded.
      “Is that food for thought, or do you have a strained relationship with her?” Gaff asked.
      “I feel way funny when she’s close to me,” the boy whispered, “like I did just after John got out of the car and your voice got different.”
      “And besides that?” the coach whispered.
      “She sits on my lap a lot,” the boy answered, pretty well saying it all.
      “Do you get excited, get a boner when she does that?” Gaff asked.
      “Yes,” the boy said, again coloring.
      “Have you ever touched up under her shirt?”
      “No,” Brandon said.
      “How do you think she’d react?” the man quizzed.
      “I think she likes it when I get big under her bottom, so I think she’d like that, too.  That it would feel natural to her, ‘cause that’s what she said when she saw two dogs mating, once, that it seemed pretty natural.”
      “Would it feel that way to you, her bare chest under your fingers?”
      “Like a hippie wonderland,” the boy replied, “more natural than poems or trees.”
      “Well,” the instructor mused, “I don’t want to suggest anything in so many words; too much respect for the complexities of life and the laws of unintended consequences, but short of that, short of saying you should molest your sister and have incest with her, as soon as possible, short of actually coming right out and suggesting something like that, I would advise your keeping an open mind on the subject.”
      “I was mostly scared because I didn’t know what to do,” the young ball player said.
      “And you’ll look back on that as being one of the best parts,” Gaff noted.  “The fact that it wasn’t some routine that just came your way like brushing your teeth or making the bus, but something that did both arouse and frighten you, introduced you to the vagaries and variance – the intensities – of existence, most of which are discovered, by the way, in the library, not the bedroom, nor on the ball field for that matter.”
      “And definitely not in church,” the youngster added, proving he’d not skimped on the library to date.
      
      “If you want,” the coach whispered after a few moments silence, “you can put that seat back and I’ll come over and sit underneath you.  Then you can pretend you’re Lissa and I’ll pretend I’m you and we’re watching something that’s not healthy for us.
      “Okay,” the boy nodded, seeming to find the release lever in less than no seconds.  He leaned forward as his coach circled in front of the car, getting in the passenger’s door and sliding into the seat.  They wriggled for a few moments to get comfortable, then Brandon lowered his head to the young athlete’s left shoulder and relaxed.
      “Sweetheart,” Gaff whispered, taking up the role of the brother, “I love it when you really relax against me like that.”
      “And I love it when you call me things like that,” the boy playing girl responded.
      “Do you really feel comfortable?” 
      “Yes.”
      “And how about where you’re sitting?  That happens every time.  Doesn’t it make you afraid?”
      “Afraid you’ll go on forever wrapped up like some vestal mummy,” quoth the ersatz Lissa.
      “Well, it’s unnatural.”
      “What would be unnatural is if I was fat and disagreeable and didn’t feel anything against my butt.  Feeling it and picturing how you might look, you know, without all the wrappings, may be unnatural for some girls, but they don’t have wicked groovy brothers like I do.”
      “But it’s having incest if we do anything more.”
      “Then try going to sleep every night, loving your brother and feeling all wobbly whenever he’s near, and NOT having incest.”
      “It’s the same with me.  I love you so much half the time I can hardly eat when you’re at the table.”
      
      “It happens.  In literature, Lawrence Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet, for example, it always leads to psychosis and suicide, but that’s just a legacy standard, in the real world, ‘tain’t necessarily so.  Betty Hodges has been letting her brother spray up inside her for a year and she loves it.  There are others, too.  Nice girls, not neurotic misfits.  With their dads and brothers.  Three in my class, counting Betty, and three more in Miss Green’s class.  Bad examples, too.  Flora Prince, she hates being touched by anyone because of her gramps.  Plus a couple of withdrawn, silent cases where something’s probably happening.  And that’s just among the more or less attractive girls as most of them are to heavy to be of interest to anybody, which, if you view fat as a defense, is quite a mouthful of and by itself.”
      “As long as you’ve thought about it, sis, that’s what’s important.  I just didn’t want something to start happening, and maybe it felt kinda nice, so it kept happening and all of a sudden I was spraying and we’d had sex and you didn’t even really know what was going on.”
      “I’d love you if you stayed a mummy forever or raped me on the carpet for the next two hours.”
      “And I’d love you if you called me a wicked pervert and then called the cops.”
      “I’ll report you for interfering with the natural development of a child if you don’t start on my buttons.”
      “I thought you didn’t care.”
      “That was then, this is now.”
      “It’s nice when you arch your back like that.”
      “I’m welcoming you.”
      “You’re going to need a bra pretty soon.”
      “There’s a salesgirl, Marcy DeChamps, at Laura’s Jr. Miss shop.  Peggy’s brother bought her first bra from her.  It’s kind of a tradition, and she, Marcy, knows all the secrets in town and she’s even kind of a match-maker for brother/sister and father/daughter couples who want to double-date people they don’t have to keep secrets from.”
      “Gives a whole new context to the bromide about shopping ‘till you drop.”
      “Smelling salts free with every purchase of twenty dollars or more.”
      “That’s the last one.”
      “Good, take it off, yours too.  Our shorts can wait, ‘cause I have a deep-dark secret for you and I want to have been thoroughly molested before I tell it to my handsome big brother.”
      “I’d like to feel your breasts against my chest if you want to turn around in my lap for a little while.”
      “Okay?”
      “They’re really big and hot.”
      “That’s the one distinct common denominator between all the special love girls.  Their chests are more developed.  Kitty Knight’s the most of all, and is it a coincidence, I ask you, that she comes from a free-spirit family with four older brothers and a drop-dead dad?”
      “How much more developed?”
      “About like halves of oranges.  Peggy’s next, with, to be crude, half tennis balls.  Roberta’s about like that, too, and Eileen just has strawberry-size nipples but she hasn’t started to swell behind them.”
      “Have you touched any of them?”
      “No.  Just talked, so far.  They were virgins when it started and that’s kind of a tradition like Marcy DeChamps and her selection of a hundred training bras.  Strict rules for wild behavior, I guess that’s what it amounts to. Sort of knights errant in ritual pursuit of Muslim necks, only all mixed up so now it happens at home, not on the road to Jerusalem.”
      “But it will happen…”
      “I have to put my index down and wiggling it to mimic a sperm swimming up inside me, one from my beautiful brother, then I’ll be invited on sleepovers (at Peggy’s, first) and they’ll teach me about lesbians, whom they think the silliest of tribes, and take me in to their male partners to prove their point.”
      “Wow.”
      “But not until I’ve introduced every girl in the special love club to you.”
      “Wow.”
      “Are you ready to go down from my belly?”
      “Yes.”
      
      Curtain.  
      
      Gaff unbuttoned the boy in his lap, then slid down his zipper.  “It’s all but identical with a girl,” he whispered in Brandon’s ear as his fingers went down inside the child’s underpants and began fondling and stroking.
      “It definitely feels natural,” the boy whispered as he began panting gently.
      “Was your part about the girl in the lingerie shop made up?” Gaff asked his player.
      “It’s a rumor,” the boy replied, “but they say rumors are eighty-five percent true, so if you hear one, with slight variations and from a dozen different sources, what does that do to the odds?”
      “And is Peggy your sister’s friend?”
      “Definitely,” the boy responded, “and Skip, her brother, is mine.”
      “How about the girl’s breasts?” Gaff quizzed, “have you noticed anything?”
      “All the boys have,” he replied, “and I think the girls even more.  It’s kinda weird about school I guess, because you can hear the most graphic and illegal stories about kids, but if they’re nice, and conform in most ways, no one cares and they’re treated like everyone else, maybe even special and better, while the rebels and attitude cases, even if they’re pure as the driven snow used to be, get on everyone’s nerves and are excluded whenever possible.”
      “Same when I went to school,” the thirty year old responded.  “There was a boy named Glenn, big powerful athlete without being boxy like a narcissist, and he roomed, it was a boarding school, with a boy named Gregg, who was small and skinny, and he had a sister, Margaret, who lived in town and attended as a day student.  Glenn and Gregg never displayed in any perceivable way, but everyone sensed they had sex after lights out, and with Margaret, who was tiny like her brother, whenever she could join them.  If they’d passed a petition asking permission to live together, openly, as a threesome, everyone from the headmaster to the cook’s helper would have signed on the dotted line, because the three of them were nice, low-key, and productive.  Who cared, except to envy a little and maybe fantasize over how the powerful swimmer would look with Margaret’s slim legs wrapped around his waist and her tiny hands clawing at his back, with Gregg kneeling behind and up inside Glenn..”
      
      “Skip’s a swimmer, too,” the boy, now panting openly as he was being fully molested, whispered raggedly.  “He’s seventeen.”
      “Sounds like a good friend to have on those first sleepovers,” Gaff noted.
      “Lissa would certainly approve,” Brandon responded.
      “Would you like to watch him take her?” the husky voice queried.
      “If they wanted me to,” the boy replied.
      “And if Skip wanted to touch you?”
      “Yes,” Brandon said, “I’d let him do what you are.”
      “Well, it should happen pretty soon now, and I know from my first time with Theresa that it’s extra exciting being up inside a girl whose wet from another male.”
      “Could you feel him on you?” Brandon wanted to know.
      “Just a little stinging sensation,” the adult replied, but Eddy was eleven and his cum was very thin.  It might have been different if a mature male had left his seed inside her.”
      “If you wanted, you could chaperone us on a date sometime,” the boy suggested, “because Skip’s a lot more man than he is boy, and probably in that department too.”
      “Just remember to use a firm hand in guiding the ball once you’ve got it rolling,” Gaff commented.
      “What you’re doing is nice enough that I’d never want to take any chance of messing it up by trying something stupid,” Brandon responded.
      “It’s like drinking,” his coach agreed, “why louse up the pleasure of getting a buzz on once in awhile by becoming an alky and having to give up everything, forever.”
      
      That was preaching to the choir so they changed the subject, but not much.
      
      “How about letting Skip ejaculate in your mouth?” Gaff asked, “that’s something that didn’t happen at Eddy’s.”
      “Do you think it would be okay?” the boy asked in return.
      “Billy and Eddy loved licking my sperm off Theresa’s tummy and chest,” the man whispered, “but I was a kid, myself then, so it’s not appropriate to compare.  By the same token, Jeff was an adult and he came in my mouth our first time together and I loved it.”
      “Well, I think I would with Skip, too,” the panting eleven year old allowed.
      “You can start slowly,” the coach advised, “do what Billy did with me, only make Skip spray on his own chest, then try it a little at a time, maybe sharing the sperm with Peggy and your sister.”
      “And since I’m a kid still, could I go up inside Skip, like Gregg did with Glenn, when he’s on top of one of the girls?”
      “He’d probably love it,” the older male said, “but that’s probably something to save for a fourth or fifth date.”
      “I wonder how many foursomes there are living together without any rules,” the child mused.  “It would seem a model of efficiency and economy to join up that way, many hands making light work and all that good stuff.”
      “If everyone put in twenty-six percent it would be fine,” Gaff responded, “but it smacks of yachting situations; small crews in isolation.  William F. Buckley Jr.’s quite good on the subject; three doesn’t work because it becomes a club of two and an outsider, but, if I remember, four does work because then you have a pair of clubs and the memberships can change, as long as one isn’t an oddball.”
      “Well, as far as I can see,” the brilliant juvenile said, “Skip and Peggy and Lissa and I could live together forever and never raise so much as an eyebrow.  We all like to read, and we all like to get things done, which probably means we’ll earn money when we’re older because that’s what people pay for.”
      “Meantime,” the man suggested, “you could make a dazzling video of the four of you together and donate it to Kazaa, plus write stories for the alternative fiction sites.”
      
      “That would be neat, getting all the charity stuff done – contributing without compensation – while we were still young.”
      “Well,” Gaff mused, “if there is a special friends club you could all get together and make up some excellent videos.”
      “But they’d be more exciting if there was a man with us,” the child noted, hinting as broadly as Theresa.  Gaff couldn’t help agreeing.  Watching kids at play was erotic, but a man coupling with eager children was the ultimate in exotic.  He’d give the matter every consideration, and, meantime, continue to watch his weight like a hawk.  “But,” the boy added after a pause, “I don’t how exciting.  You have to show me that.”
      “Do you want me to cum on myself so you can try some sperm on your tongue, or on your belly and chest so you’ll share what happens fully, or in your mouth?”  It wasn’t much of a voice, but Brandon managed to understand the gasping delivery.
      “On my chest,” the boy said, “then you can bring it to me in your mouth, the same as Billy did to his sister in the story.”
      “Okay,” came the responding whisper.  Then silence save for the panting and rustle of fabric as the two young males got each other naked and then shifted their positions so Brandon was lying one his back beside the shifter, head on the back seat of the Buick, and the tall athlete straddled his naked body, leaning against the backs of both bucket seats, his right legs near the peddles, his left stretched to the sill of the passenger door.  
      “Can we talk while I’m jerking you off?” the boy whispered, cupping the adult with his left hand and pulling back the foreskin of his huge, hard penis with the fingers of his right hand.
      “Yes,” the man replied, his powerful trunk surging gently to the already serious motions of the supine eleven year old.
      “I wish Lissa was watching us,” the boy said, “I’ll tell her when we get home but I hate having any secrets at all, even for awhile.”
      “Do you think she suspected anything?” Gaff asked.
      “I kind of freak a little when your name comes up,” Brandon explained, “and she’s way tuned into things like that, but that was then, when I was having strong feelings and didn’t understand them.  It was not doing anything that was abnormal and embarrassing.  Now I can race her upstairs to tell and won’t have to worry about turning half purple every time someone says Gaff.”
      “Well bless me, a salt we have among us,” the athlete panted, making a nautical joke that would not be beyond you if you vamoosed, pussies, pricks, pubes and all to the library, there unto dwelleth until such time as ye shall emerge as his nibs did on Easter, only laden with a little fact marbled in with all the fantasy.
      “Yes,” the youth agreed, “a little lateen humor.”
      “Well, a tiller of privy jokes are ye,” the coach play-growled, “and keelers, at that.”
      “I did think it was marifine,” the boy play-mumbled in reply.
      
      Neither used “belay,” “avast,” or “me hardy,” which, if you read, you don’t have to.  Needless to say, we’re all hoping for “thar she blows,” but the “she” is sequestered behind the driver’s seat, and though young Electra has an incredible view of the beautiful young males, she’s not part of this chapter.
      
      “Brandon,” Gaff panted bringing them safely ashore, “you’ve got really long legs.  I think you could reach the peddles of the car.  Maybe you’d like to borrow it and take Lissa out on a date.  Doc Jeff shared his first time with me when he first started molesting me down in the cabin.  Maybe some stuff should be kept private and secret, but that doesn’t mean everything has to be.”
      “I know,” the boy said, “I loved hearing your story of Eddy and his cousins while we were driving.  Maybe you could use the old blanket you keep in the back seat; you know, hide under it and spy on us.”
      “It wouldn’t work,” the man said, “because you’d say something funny and I’d start giggling.”
      “You haven’t done that yet,” Brandon observed.
      “You’re jerking me off and doing it perfectly,” the man whispered, “so somehow I was able to contain myself.”
      “But you make jokes on jokes and then go inside to make another one,” the eleven year old noted, “and you don’t crack up, so you’d be safe.”
      “There’s only one answer,” Gaff said after a moment’s pause.  “Invite Skip along.  I’ll molest him while you’re teaching Lissa, and when you have her panties off and she’d spread her legs wide for you, he can use his hand on me the way your are, then you can try something funny.”
      “It’s just complicated enough to work,” Brandon said after his own brief pause, “and if I did pull an Ed O’Neill and Lissa found out you were watching us, I think she’d be fair minded.”
      “Anyway,” the coach responded, “I want you to take her out in the car and spend a couple of hours in a lonely place…”
      “I want to bring her here,” the boy said.  “I like getting molested where it’s just a little bit dangerous.”
      “I’ll get you some ipecac in capsule form,” the adult said, “that way, if you get caught, she can swallow one and start vomiting.  That’ll cause so much confusion about your driving and her barfing and you being naked and she being naked nobody will ever even try to figure it out, especially if you’re all smiles and cuddles in the end.”
      
      “Extremism in defense of liberty is no vice,” the scholarly eleven year old quoted, glad he wasn’t the one hiding under a blanket and having to keep a straight and silent face in the presence of random nonsense.
      
      In another situation they might of gone on, quipping themselves, at some point, into fits of giggles.  But the child’s hands were becoming urgent with the adult, visions of the hot splashing to come momentarily searing his developing mind.  
      
      “Pretend,” the boy hissed, suddenly serious as a snake, “you’re inside my sister, and you’re making her cum, but just before you do she yells out “Oh, Daddy!” the way Theresa did “
      “Lord, child,” the athlete managed to whisper, then he froze over the boy.  Brandon instinctively fisted his stag hard, tight, and low and let out a mewing squeal of anticipation.  Then, in a hard pant, at five second intervals, “oh god, oh god, oh god, and eight more hissed repetitions and the hard, pulsing spurt of the adult’s semen splattered him from his brow to his lower belly.  Near the end, Gaff whispered: “on you,” and shifted his position.  Brandon caught on immediately and held the tip of his lover’s hot erection against his own big, preteen penis, wetting himself thoroughly with the last of the athlete’s flow.  Gaff immediately rolled back into his seat, manhandling the quaking eleven year old into his lap and masturbating his sopping penis fast and hard.  The boy began arching almost immediately and was soon straining against the pumping hand of the man with every banjo string of his taut you body.
      
      “Your pretty little sister is all wet from being with Skip,” the mentor whispered, feeling the thrusting child suddenly go hard and ridged in his arms.  There were several soft grunts from the virgin, then a hard spray of watery sperm splatted against the headliner.  Both stared in awe at what happened next, and several more times.  “On you,” the boy finally whispered, Gaff immediately responding by rolling the boy to face him and holding him tight to his slick chest as gush after gush of the eleven year old’s first sperm flooded and mixed with his own.  Over the next three quarters of an hour they made each other cum, gently, twice while licking each other clean, dressing, and carefully cleaning up the car with paper towels from the glove compartment.
      
      
      Jeepers, there’s another six thousand words, and that’s added to several thousand that went into finishing File 3.  Would it be showing off to post, or should I be modest and wait.  Tweedle dum and tweedle dee, I think I’ll go for the ego, consistence being a hallmark of excellence.  Yes, bop this right out, typos, glitches and all.  Excellence, but not perfection, because if that were the standard, I’d spend all my time line-editing and get nothing written.  Perfection in concept, excellence in execution.  Just have to live with it because, no disrespect meant, anyone can copy edit (as against story editing, which takes great skill), and with the quantum growth in readership it shouldn’t be too long before someone has the time to lend a blue pencil.  (And that may be the greatest fantasy I’ve written yet.)
      
      There’s more to Electra’s story.  For example, Miss Williams, the grown-up Lissa, has lent a boy named Craig two anatomically correct dolls.  Hardly likely they’ll be left out of a story like this.
      
Photoplay – End File 4

xxx 
      
      

