Photoplay – 6

by Feather Touch

      
      
      Did we make it a whole file essay-free?  Color me too tired to go back and look.  As ever, I hope the typos were kept to a tolerable level, and, because the occasional reader peruses novels for the sole reason of hunting out inconsistencies, I try to please all by leaving a few.
      Also, camera free.  My writing wave surgeth beneath and I’m too old to ignore its slope and march, and who knows when there’ll be another.  So surf I surf, along the beach, as in the scene from “Endless Summer,’ not into it.
      Domestic tranquility reigns.  An update on Samantha can be summarized: cuter than ever.  Mystery Mark, a frequent, but now waning, correspondent, writes to say the age of consent here is sixteen.  This from ageofconsent.com, which one would think should be pretty meticulous in its housekeeping, all things considered.  Always heard eighteen from the locals, and, as any mariner knows, local knowledge can be most useful.  Anyway, she’s still a virgin as far as I go, and can stay that way until she’s thirty if she wants.  Whatever exaggerations are to be found, whatever artistic license I claim, one truth is self-evident, and that is that it doesn’t matter.  If a friendship includes “night fun,” (from the very pleasing Tim Allen film: “Jungle 2 Jungle”), that’s cherries on top, and if it doesn’t, the sundae is still delicious.  You heard it here, first.
      
      Imagine feeling guilty when all you did for the day was write, edit, and post about ten thousand words.  Yet the camera calls out.  It gets slightly warm after it’s been on a few minutes, feels alive, and certainly sounds that way with its chorus of beeps and chirps and the humming of its tiny motors.  It would probably make an ideal toy for a two year old.
      
      MSN is Michael-free over the weekend.  Something on Friday about custody of his kids; didn’t bother downloading it.  But mentioning kids does bring up O.J.  I think I’ve alluded to this in published writing, but I write dozens of letters a month, so maybe not.  Anyway, and this is to give a perspective of SoCal, in general, and how lopsided anyone there with a higher education tends to become, kids were the driving motivation in that whole circus.  The reason he stalked Nicole with a shovel, plastic bag, and towel in back of the anonymous white Bronco, with the wilds of Mullholland scant blocks away, was to gain full access to his daughter, Sydney, and possibly or possibly not, his slightly older son.  Several proofs emerged during the trial.  Most obvious was a photograph of the children in languid, bare chested poses, lithe preteen bodies fully against each other.  Wouldn’t be allowed in any gallery in the US.  Also in the testimony.  At one point it is stated that Sydney comes to her daddy at six in the morning.  In another statement, Kato talks about O.J. coming into his room while his own ten year old daughter is in bed with him.  Father, priest, or saint, no adult male spends time alone in bed with a pretty ten year old without cuddling and fondling her, plenty (at least).  Pictures and two confessions on camera and in the transcript.  And in SoCal they went on and on and on about how he killed her because he didn’t want anyone else to have her.  That has probably never happened over a many-partnered, thirty-something woman in the history of the world.  Ha, ha.  And here’s something a bit stern: last picture of Sydney was of a barrel girl.  Well, she’s just getting old enough to publish a first round of memoirs, so Mr. Simpson better keep that knife keen and handy.
      
      Yeah, I’ve got my eye on you morons.  I’m not easily amused, but when I do laugh, it’s out-loud.  Sometimes laughing at someone is the only cure.  Take them as a joke and roll in the isles.  ‘Course, it also riles up folks, but what other choice does a writer have these days?  The singular nature of my birth and breeding would be anathema to every Jew in media land if I were a leading Zionist fund-raiser.  Absolute hatred of the absolute top; a clawing, visceral, loathing of anyone who looks them hard in the eye and says, point-blank, your little socialist boxes are full of stinking carrion, and I don’t like you or them.  
      
      Back in the exhaustion cycle, writing twenty hours, sleeping four, and giving over another to obvious domestic priorities.  The photo project was meant to break this.  It was supposedly to take months, a few worthy images this week, a few the next, until I had the two hundred or so that would fill a compact disc.  And in ten shoots over two or three weeks, I’ve nailed over six hundred, with half the town yet to cover, not to mention re-photographing much of what I have under different conditions of sky and light.  With the flea population in ever more precipitous decline, babies only at this point, it’s the only hunt I have left, to say nothing of being the ultimate in gathering.  I’m fierce in my dedication, but the ASSTR numbers have become so huge, so fast, they dominate to the point I ignored four hours of silvery light between ten and two.  Will I have the strength, tomorrow?  I doubt it.  “Photoplay” is within ten percent of meeting the sixty thousand words that make it – yet another – novel, and that should permit a day off without a following night of tossing and turning in recrimination.  
      
      Where my lazy-bone, and it’s a beaut, takes over is when it comes to setting up a Web site.  Struggling with compression, directories, folders and files.  Like navigating the back streets of Bangkok, easy once you know the way.  Ironic, I suppose, because it would be well-nigh impossible to have more hours glued to a monitor and keyboard, especially over the last three years, than I’ve spent, yet I’m the runt of the litter in the puppy-user department.  Same with the Canon.  Both it and the Dell do exactly what I want, in huge amounts and at virtually no cost, so I’m satisfied remaining ignorant of their exotic features and capabilities.  Classic k.i.s.s. as in keep it simple, stupid.  At the same time it would be fun to have a few pictures of my digs, easily mistaken for a slice of Club Med, my gang and me (fit for family viewing, of course), and samples from my CD portfolio, which will suffer from compression but at least give an idea.  The whole thing is probably fifty clicks away, but that’s like saying the best little whorehouse in Thailand is fifty alleys away.  Advice from the peanut gallery would be welcome, especially forwarded by those used to dealing with catatonic morons (in the digital sense, though you’re free to find others, should we correspond).
      
      Several Mars missions pending completion at the moment.  With these, I agree.  Cheap, fun, and exercises in precision, reliability, and durability that might have some application to earthbound technology.  It’s anything and everything to do with manned flight – and particularly the LOL field of space medicine – that I find vastly offensive.  It’s a bulwark against scientific advancement, sopping up resources and talent in the name of myopic romance, and talent and resources that would produce far more for the marketplace than it does for – the absolute impossibility of - space travel.  Here’s a specific example.  Do you think all the king’s horses and all the king’s men at NASA could design and manufacture the S400?  They’d come up with a clunker so heavy it would need treads instead of wheels, and brag they could make it climb stairs.  
      
      As a writer who dabbles in fiction and even lets run wild the occasional fantasy, I’ve plotted my next novel, “Bringing Her Home,” around a most unlikely premise.  That the nation is suddenly swept by a wave of common sense and demands the space station be deorbited.  The story begins in Congress with intensive debate on how, exactly, X hundreds of tons of metal and plastic SHOULD be brought back.  It’s put to a referendum and the great wave of common sense peaks in a vote for show over safety.  In response, the object in question is finally brought to earth on a clear, calm night and on a path that begins in Chicago and ends with the craft crashing into the Atlantic five miles east of Sandy Hook.  (Think of the reflections off Lake Michigan.)  Emergency services are fully and meaningfully exercised, CNN goes into its knee-jerk paroxysms of mawkish Jew-slobber over the few victims of hurtling wreckage (specific example: the prayer-by-prayer coverage of the funeral of the single black victim of Columbine), and the morning after you might hear the following in a middle-school cafeteria.  “Dude, how ‘bout that NASA?”  “Yeah, dude, radical.”  (When’s the last time you saw kids high-fiving over the manned-space program?)
      
      We’ve been reduced to a state of huddling and puling in a wild and dangerous world.  It might be an idea to knock it off, especially because doom beneath a barrage of Russian nukes certainly beats fizzling to an end, one renal failure, bankruptcy, and terrorist intrusion at a time.  If we don’t take a stand, we’re damned, and, as they said on “Laugh-In,” “dat’s da trut.”  Crush the Mid-East, burn Yahweh and roast Allah, and if it pisses off ye bear, at least we fought, for once in our often misbegotten existence, the good fight.
      
      “You’re really awesome,” Craig whispered at they reached the hatch leading back into their room, “I thought you were going to cum on me, or at least make me do it.”
      “I wanted it to be in private with you,” Andrew responded, and both suppressed a giggle at any though of privacy at LoveLess, yet the boy did know what his friend meant.  From novelty act to making love, slowly, lingeringly, and, the child was pretty sure, all night long.  Besides, there was the plastic bag which, although half-forgotten in all that they’d talked of and all that had happened, had made the trip and was sitting at the foot of the bed.  They hung their clothes up, equally thrilled at engaging in the most prosaic of acts with a naked partner inches away.  When the housekeeping was taken care of, the boy eased the thirty-year-old athlete against the wall and posed him as he’d seen Paul and Doug display their bodies for little Mary.  He copied the stance himself and, hands behind his head and arching, moved forward until his long, hard boner was inches from Andrew’s large, adult erection.  Both males stared their partner up and down for long minutes, the harmony of the beauty of their fully aroused bodies almost toxically sweet.  They touched, his penis to his penis, grunting at the firestorms bolting from their thighs and lower spines and shuddering in anticipation of what was going to happen.  Craig moved to the tall athlete and was folded gently in his arms.  The boy looked up, wide-eyed.  “Maybe a little gay,” he whispered as Andrew bent to kiss him.
      
      It took a long time for them to get used to each other.  They tried motions from butting to sawing, but it did little good, merely drove them to more of the same.  Half an hour, then they boy’s head lowered to the man’s heaving chest and he began experimenting, again, with his lips, tongue and teeth, working down until he was along side the hot shaft probing seven inches from the powerful waist of the adult male.  
      
      They reversed positions, the boy displaying while leaning against the wall, the man ravishing his lips and torso with his tongue and fingers.  But after awhile they slowly parted, so drunk with the knowledge of what was to come they wanted the high to last and last, but definitely not forever.  By acclimation, they slipped back into their clothes.  Craig moved to the foot of the bed, picking up the black plastic bag.  “Mr. Jones,” he said in a seven-year-old’s voice, holding it out to Andrew, “I didn’t understand everything you showed us in health class today.  Could I stay after school for awhile, because my dad doesn’t live with us and my mom said it would be okay if I wanted to, you know, stay after for an hour or two.  I’m just meant to call her so she’ll know where I am.”
      “Yes, Timmy,” the executive said, falling into the role of teacher as if to the manner born, “it would be very nice if you stayed, and the janitors don’t come in ‘till evening, so if you’ll lock the door we should have complete privacy and I can teach you anything you’re mature enough to want to learn.”
      “Cool,” said the new seven year old and he pretended to dial a phone.  “Mommy,” he said, “I’m here in Mr. Jones’ classroom and he said it’s okay if I stay with him for a couple of hours… Yes, mom… Yes, mom, I’ll tell him Uncle Mill is going to come and spend his vacation with us… Yes, I remember, we have to cut down this month so he and I will have to take our showers together… Yes, and that’s he’s bringing his friend Christopher and we’re going to have a sixteenth birthday party for him… yes, Mom, I’ll try to remember to ask him everything about being alone in the house with two older males while you’re in class… and the dolls, too, I know they’re very useful… good, well ace the exam… you know I’m too old to say that… bye.”
      “Everything okay at her end?” the teacher asked as they sat side by side on the bed and he opened the bag.
      “Perfect,” the boy said.
      “Timmy,” the teacher responded, “it’s cool if you come over for the night, too.  Do you think your mom would let you?”
      “Definitely,” the child chirped happily, “I’ll call her later, in case you change your mind.”
      “Well, I suppose that’s a possibility,” the teacher mused, “but I have some stories to tell and it would be more fun to tell them to you than sit here telling them to myself.”
      “I hope they’re long ones,” Craig said, cuddling immaturely against the tall athlete’s left arm.
      “I was reminded by your mentioning your uncle was going to visit,” Andrew said, “and that happened to me when I was just your age, I mean your real age of eleven.”
      “I even remember being eleven,” the boy responded.
      “Yes, well you’re growing dumber every year so that’s a wonder.”
      “Does that mean you’ll have to teach me everything again, next year, Mr. Jones?” the boy asked.  Then Andrew pulled out the two dolls, put the bag aside, and placed them one on each lap.
      “Did your mom talk to you about these?” Cliff Jones, the teacher, asked the suddenly trembling child on his left.
      “Yes, Mr. Jones,” the little boy murmured, hanging his head and blushing (most effectively) in embarrassment.
      “Did you feel really nervous while she was talking to you?” Cliff whispered.
      “Yes,” came the mumbled response, “I kind of felt hot and got all red.”
      “Okay, Timmy,” the man coaxed, “I’m going to ask you something really embarrassing, but that’s part of learning.  No wolf is going to spring out of the closet and pee-pee on your bare feet, no bogeymen, no lawmen, just feeling nervous and embarrassed because it’s new to you.”
      “I know,” the child murmured.
      “Okay,” his teacher went on, “so, the really embarrassing and confusing question I wanted to ask you is if you got a boner while she was explaining things.”
      
      The little actor hung his head a long time in play-misery.  “I think so,” he finally whispered.
      “And I have to ask you another one just like it.  Any man would if he was going to teach you, okay?  And lots of boys learn like you’re going to.  First by seeing what happens using the dolls, and then they have a serious talk, okay?  So, to get to the question, do you have one now?  Is your penis big and hard?”
      
      Shamed beyond words, the youngster just nodded.
      “I do, too,” the handsome athlete whispered, “and it’s because I’m talking to you.  Happens a lot when men my age teach young boys.  They get very excited.”
      “Why?” Timmy asked.
      “Because children, boys and girls, are beautiful just like a baby lamb is beautiful to a boy your age.  You want to touch it and pet it, right?”
      “Yes,” the boy whispered with a nod.
      “Well a child is like that to an adult,” the whispering went on, “warm and cuddly and very soft, but there’s something more.  Children are curious.  They feel a man – and some women share this orientation – touching them gently all over their bodies and if they like the man they want it to go on and on.  Then the man asks if they know where babies come from, and that makes the touching even more exciting because all along, from the first, they know its very mature to hold still and maybe wiggle their hips a little while a mature person’s hands go up underneath their clothes and touch their bare skin.
      “So, the answer is,” the teacher noted, “men – and a very large number it is, indeed – like to touch little boys and girls because it feels soft, warm and smooth, and because some children love being touched.”
      
      “And you left out…?” the boy whispered.
      “That the touching goes on and on,” his friend replied, “first touching under the clothes, and if the child likes that, he guides the adult to a private place.  The adult talks to the child to be sure he or she understands what’s going on and wants it to happen, a different thing from wanting a sweet, an action figure, or a puppy in a window.  If the little boy or girl is positive, and children as young as three are absolutely capable of being totally positive, in spite of the prevalence and relevance of short-attention-span issues.  Most kids play with the box longer than the toy, but not all.  Some use the gift as the beginning of a toy collection and take the greatest care, soon graduating to models, collecting, and other enduring hobbies.  And the luckiest of all get good books and read them from cover to cover.  So when a man lets a boy take him to a private place he wants to start by touching his young body, then talk and see if the child’s truly willing, then the adult gets naked so the boy or girl can see his body and his penis.  Then the man takes off the boy’s shirt and pants and lies him back on the bed in his underpants, and lies beside him and touches and kisses him while he answer’s all the youngster’s questions and tells him stories of what happened when he was a little boy.
      
      “And I almost forgot to add,” the teacher continued, “that it makes a man feel like a little boy, himself, when he touches a child under his clothes.  Even boys of ten or eleven like feeling five or six when they take a bath with a child that age, and sometime children even like it when their granddads molest them, so its possible for a seventy year old to feel like a seven year old, but that’s pretty rare as most kids want to be taught by someone who’s young and attractive.”
      “So I’ll want to touch little boys when I get older?” the child whispered, letting a trace of childish awe into his voice.
      “Yes,” his friend said, “and if you’re a smart seven year old you’ll build your whole life around it.  Get top grades, especially in math, chemistry, and the tough stuff.  Then all the doors are open and you can work in summer camps or either volunteer or make a career where you’re around kids from seven to thirteen.  Keep fit and develop a personality that’s in any way better than that of an ogre and the occasional willing child will come along, in fact, parents will often half place them in your lap.  It not only doesn’t interfere with getting married and having kids of your own, it makes marriage an exciting resource of new children you’d otherwise not be likely to get close to.”
      
      “So,” Timmy whispered, “this is not only the best day of my life, but the first day?”
      “It was for me,” Mr. Jones said.  “We talked a lot.  It lasted for hours.  And it’s been happening ever since.  In fact, it’s so special that memories are good enough to get through even years when nothing happens.  On the one hand, it allows great independence, because if you know you don’t have to spend a lot of time going through the confusing and inconsistent rituals of finding out, while, when you get older, it makes you a more active member of the community.  If you join a theater group to paint scenery – in hopes – at least you joined the theater group.  Be active in your town and neighborhood, without overdoing it, and, again, you’ll find ample contact not only with attractive young boys and girls, but cute kids with parents who have no objection to them being with you and even going on trips with you.  And on top of that, there’s the church.  Some pastors are thoughtful and have a lot to say without having to drape everything in ritual, superstition, and pageantry, plus the singing is fun.  But the rule is: perform, quietly.  Parents and even kids have long-distance radar for interlopers, men who want to touch one then the next then the next; touch and go.  Too eager, too polite, too obliging, too with the eyes.  And what the quickies end up with is the punks and greedy sluts from families who couldn’t care less, or nobody, child or adult.”
      
      “The talking part is nice,” Timmy said, new warmth in his sweet, young voice, “but what happens after?”
      “Well,” the teacher said, “remember how your mom was telling you you’d have to share the shower with your uncle and maybe even Christopher?”
      “Yes,” the boy said, reddening beautifully.
      “And you don’t wear your underpants in the shower, right?”
      “No,” the boy admitted.
      “Okay,” his friend said, “he’ll probably take them off while you’re lying on your back.  He’ll ask you if it’s okay, looking into your eyes to be sure, then when you nod or say yes, he’ll molest your for a little while, then put a pillow under your head so you can watch what he’s doing, then kneel with your legs between his.  He’ll double check to be sure your ready.  You show him you are by lifting your bottom up off the bed and bringing your legs together so he can pull them down over your knees.  Then he’ll slowly get you completely naked, and pose for you with his fingers linked behind his neck and his chest arched out.  Then he’ll get down on his arms and move so he’s spread-eagle over you, all his muscles straining.  Then, while you watch, he’ll slowly lower down to you so his big man’s erection touches your growing penis.  He’ll stay over you like that for a long time, because what they call the ‘glans,’ the tip of a man, is very sensitive, and a boy’s young, hard erection feels hot and kind of hard and soft at the same time.  Eventually, your uncle will tire from that position and lie down beside you.  The whole time you may be talking, asking him questions and listening to his stories, plus, if you’re experienced, yourself, you can tell him about your first time.  Lots of men love to hear that from young partners, but not all, so it’s a play-it-by-ear situation.”
      
      
      “Is that the end of it?” the student asked, “when he can’t stay over me any more touching himself against me?”
      “No,” the man assured the boy, “that’s just the beginning.  He’ll ask you if you’re okay, then, probably whispering very gently, he’ll ask if you want to go into the bathroom and have sex with him in the shower.  He’ll explain it’s against the law and that he’ll be raping you.  If you nod or whisper that it’s okay, he’ll probably want to play the standard game with you.  That consists of you pretending you’re completely inexperienced, with him taking the role of a coach.  Again, he’ll answer any questions you have, and maybe keep on with a story, if you’re interested.  You’ll go in by yourself.  When you’re in the shower you’ll leave the water off.  You’ll stand against the tiles, hiding your penis from him.  In a minute or two, you’ll hear the click of the door behind you.  That’s the most exciting single moment in the life of many a boy, that soft, plastic-on aluminum click.  Then you’ll sense him close behind you.  He may stand there for a few minutes looking down over your head, shoulders, back, and your bottom, anticipating what it will be like to touch you and have sex with you.  Before too long you’ll feel his hands on your neck and shoulders.  He’ll whisper and ask if it’s okay to get close.  You nod your head, then you’ll feel his penis against your back and his hands will go around in front of you.  That’s molesting.  His head will be over your shoulder and after he’s experimented with your soft, smooth body for a few minutes, he’ll want to see your boner.  He’ll pull you back very gently and you’ll let him have his way, however embarrassed you are.”
      “Are we allowed to play two games at once?” the boy, returning to eleven, asked.
      “As long as it’s just two,” the man replied, “otherwise no one will know what they’re listening to.”
      “Well,” the boy mused, “I want you to be my pretend uncle Mill, pretending he’s a coach, while I pretend I’m Timmy pretending he’s an inexperienced little boy waiting in the shower.”
      “H’mm,” his friend, “Craig pretending he’s Timmy, Timmy, he’s the boy in the shower, while Andrew pretends he’s Mr. Jones pretending he’s a concerned gym teacher or coach.”
      “That’s only three times two,” the child noted.
      “Yes,” his companion agreed tolerantly, “and I don’t suppose anyone is keeping score.”
      “Well,” Craig responded, “I don’t want to make it confusing, but you were against me, you know, while we were in the hall, so I thought maybe we could take it from where little Jimmy goes into the shower, but he’s too scared to pull down his underpants so he keeps them on.”
      “And the dolls?” the man asked.
      “While we were doing the dishes,” the tyke answered, “a boy named Chuck told me they have a wardrobe of girls’ clothes here, so I thought maybe I could dress up that way and invite my daddy to a tea party.  Then I’ll be really embarrassed because the dolls I took in for show-and-tell got mixed up with the dolls used in health class, but Daddy is really kind and understanding, so I start asking him questions…”
      “It is not wrong for you to think in terms of being a writer,” Andrew remarked to his friend.  “One might even go so far as to say you have an auspicious inclination to blend fact and fantasy, which I understand is much what the art is all about.”  It was the beginning of a perfect conversation, for the trip home and fundamental to any artist’s career was having a vast well of experience to draw on, experience one didn’t get sitting in place and gnawing on abstractions.  Their game plan decided, the young man and the boy went into action.  Craig, now playing another nervous little boy, this time ten-year-old Jimmy went to the bathroom while Andrew stripped naked by the bed.  He let two or three minutes pass for the same reason the theater darkens for a few dramatic moments before the show begins.
      
      “Jimmy!” he called in a firm voice, pretending to search the room, “Jimmy, all the boys have to wear them to play baseball.  It’s nothing to be ashamed of and I’m sorry I embarrassed you.”
      No answer so he decided to search the locker room.  Here he called out, there he called out, and still no answer.  He paused at the shower door, whispering the name.  Again, the adult permitted a dramatic pause, then he opened the frosted glass panel to the satisfying click of the catch.
      “There you are,” he whispered gently.  “I brought you your clothes so you can get dressed and go home now if you want to.”
      “I’m just scared,” the boy murmured.
      “Is it okay if I come in and talk to you for a little while?” came the husky response, “you can keep your underpants on if you want, but I took me briefs off so you wouldn’t be embarrassed by being the only one who wasn’t dressed.”
      “What are you going to do?” the child whispered into the tile wall.
      “Talk to you,” his coach said, “tell you what happened when I went on a hunting trip at your age with three friends of my dad’s, only my dad couldn’t go because he cracked a tooth and had to stay in town to go to the dentist, so it was just me, ten, and Frank, Lock, and Henry, my dad’s tennis team for men’s doubles.  I thought you might like to hear what happened on that trip, because the same kind of thing happens to lots of boys.  It’s how they learn.”
      “Did they make you show them?” the plaintive voice murmured.
      “They tried,” the coach replied, “but the torch ran out of acetylene.”
      
      “Oh,” the boy said, letting plenty of disappointment into his voice on the off chance the naked adult behind him would jump to an erroneous conclusion and leave.
      “Nobody’s ever tried that with you, Jimmy?” the young man responded, “knives or torches or chainsaws?”
      “I’m a good boy,” the tyke murmured.
      “Then how ‘bout the old soft soap,” Coach Bill said, “telling you’re really cute and you have to learn sometime and they want to be your best friend and even teach you about making babies?”
      “I guess not that good,” the boy said.
      “Or how about strangers?” the man coaxed, “no gang of bikers has ever picked you up and taken you down a lonely country road and tied you up in the loft of a barn and made you do things?”
      “Too good,” the youngster whispered.
      “Or how ‘bout a coach that really likes you and has to fit you with a cup if you want to play baseball?”
      “That sounds about right,” came the response.
      “And how about if he tells you he doesn’t keep any other boys after gym, that you’re the only one, and that it’s something no one will ever know about unless you want to tell them, would you let a man like that do a few things?”
      
      “That’s not what I’m scared about,” the child whispered.  “I want you to do whatever you want, I’m just nervous because you might not like it with me; that I might not do the right things and get you mad or something.”
      “I felt the same way when Frank and the two others picked me up and took me to the grouse lodge.  I wanted to be big and mature with them and I was afraid they’d think I was too little or a sissy and would be too scared to try anything.  So it mostly I was scared they’d think I was scared, but that went away when we started driving and the next thing you know they were asking me lots of questions and telling be about things that happened to them when they were kids, and had anything like that happened to me yet, and how would I feel if it did.  A lot of the time we talked about other things, too, about traveling in Mexico and skin diving, but I really liked hearing how their voices got when I asked them for details about things that had happened.  Same thing I’m doing with you, Jimmy, it’s called desensitizing, getting you used to it, and giving you lots of time to decide you’re not interested, because most boys don’t want anything like that to happen until they have a girlfriend.  And yes, it’s called molesting and sexual abuse, so that’s more stuff to think about, but, at the same time, boys who do like it really love it.  It becomes the best thing in their lives and they go back to the man many times and even find other men and older boys they like, and they let them touch them, too.”
      
      “How long does desensitizing take?” the boy asked, the slightly artificial nature of the question exciting the coach because it indicated he wanted to know more, to continue the conversation.
      “Three rest areas,” he answered, “but that was with three adults desensitizing one ten year old.  It doesn’t matter, and, in fact, the longer it takes, the more intense and exciting it is when you finally nod your head and say okay.”
      “Is that why kids aren’t meant to do it?” the child then asked, “because it’s really complicated and confusing like the phone bill?”
      “Yes,” his friend said, “it can be very complicated, and children naturally go from thing to thing rather than sticking with one thing, which, on top of a basic level of uncertainty, can result in bad experiences.”
      “But isn’t the worst thing to have no experience?” the junior logician said, “and isn’t too much better than too little, you know, because people forget bad things pretty quickly, but things they don’t know are absolutely useless?”
      “If we lived in a free country,” the man said, “you’d be able to write a paper for school on that very supposition and talk about it with adults and other boys and girls your own age, but any kind of writing even bringing up questions about men being with young boys is restricted to the Web.  In fact, even the most graphic and lewdest of porn is almost always clearly marked that children are excluded.
      “At the same time,” he continued, “millions of boys ARE involved.  About one out of out of every six.”
      “So I can’t write about it but I can do it?”
      “Yes,” Coach Bill said, “but that’s not as ironic as it seems, because in the real world there actually is a lot of tolerance.  You and I can hang out all we want, and you can even spend nights with me if your parents say it’s okay.  Everybody will kinda know, and no one will care as long as you’re happy and we’re never in any way open about what happens in private.  Everybody will know and as long as we’re careful in keeping it out business, no one will care.”
      “Then why doesn’t it happen more often?” the boy asked.  “Why don’t you have two or three boys stay after with you, and spend overnights with you?”
      “Because I’m new here,” the adult said.  “Plus, I’d be very satisfied with just you, but lots of boylovers do have several kids they play with, so if you know anyone who might like hanging out with us, it’s cool to tell them you let me take your underpants off and we took a shower together.  You’re bright enough not to tell a moron or troublemaker, so it’s up to you.  You might even tell several of your friends, and I guarantee if you do, you’ll find another boy your age who’s doing secret things he wants to tell about.  In a lot of neighborhoods there’s even a kind of informal club of several men who do things like take a bunch of boys to ball games and museums, and molest them in hotel rooms at night.”
      “And you have a big car,” little Jimmy whispered.
      
      “It’s the one I got raped in,” the man said, “they gave it to me when I turned sixteen.  Seventy-seven Buick Wildcat.  They had me in the back seat for two hours in the rest area, with the windows open.  When I took my shirt off so they could look at me a man and boy from another car came to look, he was about thirteen and was with his cousin who was like twenty.  I lay back on the seat and Frank came in back with me first.  He took his clothes off and took my pants off, then he lay beside me on the seat and started asking me questions about how experienced I was and if it was okay if he spermed on me, because we had some paper towels and he could do it that way if I wanted.  I could tell the boy looking in really wanted to see everything, so even though I didn’t really know what it was he was talking about, I said it would be okay.  
      “That’s how it started,” Coach Bill whispered, “do you want me to tell you the rest?”
      “Yes,” came the rasping voice from the now panting little boy.
      “Okay,” his friend said, “and when you’re ready for me to touch you, just raise your hands up above your head and I’ll come up close behind you so you can have the same feeling I did while I was lying on the seat of the car with my hands over my head and Frank was running his hands all over me and pushing his boner against me.”
      “Was it really hard?” the boy said, his hands going as high on the tiles as he could stretch.
      “Little boys make men even harder than girls do,” the adult said, moving close and circling the immature body with gentle hands.
      “And hot, too,” Jimmy whispered, “you feel really hot against me.”
      “Would you like me to go up inside my underpants?” the play coach asked, “that’s what Frank did before he got me naked, he put his penis inside my briefs, first in back, then I rolled over and he did it in front, which I really liked because I was embarrassed about them all seeing me with a boner, and that was a way to get used to it so I didn’t mind, and then I got so excited, especially for the boy looking in the window to see me, I pulled my own underpants down.”
      
      The child’s nods brought the story to a halt.  The coach huddled over the young boy, molesting him while gently probing inside his white, cotton briefs.  Jimmy panted and moaned especially when the athlete pushed firmly up between his legs, finally setting up a rhythm of short stokes which rubbed firmly against the youth’s hard four-inch erection.  Both panted and moved to help each other, the boy especially sweating and hissing as the gentle assault by the adult continued.  “How long was Frank in back of you,” the youngster asked.
      “I guess ten minutes or so,” his teacher said, “it was very gentle and just went on and on like something really perfect, and the boy and his cousin looking in didn’t turn away for an instant so I guess it looked pretty nice, you know, seeing a handsome young man teaching a boy with a girl’s body.  Then it hurt my neck looking over my shoulder, so I rolled on my back and Frank went in front of me from my right side while the man started molesting the boy who was watching in through the open window.  The two in the front seat were naked and leaning over to touch both of us, and by that time I liked doing it almost in the open, even though I knew I’d never want to do it again, just once for the thrill.  That’s when Frank moved away and I pulled off my briefs, then lay back and spread my legs so the could look at me.  Frank started having sex with me using his hands and rubbing me up and down.  The teenager with his younger cousin opened the door and let the boy kneel on the seat while he pulled off his shirt and opened up his shorts, then Frank helped brace him with his shoulder and the boy’s cousin started doing to him what Frank kept doing to me.  We both got really excited from what the older guys were teaching us, and then the boy said, “I’m gonna cum,” and his cousin and Frank made him almost touch me when he started doing it.”
      
      “What did it look like?” little Jimmy whispered as he turned to face his coach.  They panted and grunted a few moments as the adult found his way up inside his little boy’s briefs.
      “It mostly felt really hot,” the man rasped hoarsely as he thrust firmly against his young student, “and it was kind of milky and watery at the same time, but the amazing thing was how much there was, and then Frank started cumming with the younger boy, and pretty soon they were both splashing all over my tummy and my legs.  
      “After about a minute, it was just flowing out of them, their sperm, and the older cousin got naked and the boy got on his back at the same time Frank went around, still naked to the front seat, and Lock came in back.  I was really ready for more and panting for them to show me again, and that time it happened right away, then Henry came in back with me and another boy, he looked about nineteen, took the place of the cousins, who’d given us a note with their phone number on it.  Henry jerked him off on me while he braced over me on the seatbacks, then it was just me and him, Henry, on the back seat and he asked me if he could sperm in my mouth.  He licked some off my belly to give my a taste, and I said it was okay, so he braced over me and I slid down to where I could reach him, and took him in my mouth.  He was wet and salty from rubbing against what had happened all over my front, so it was really neat learning to do it.  I had to practice about five minutes, then I got it and started doing it right.  He was whispering to me, then he started getting really tense and I knew from the others it was going to happen.  Then it was like taking a gulp of sea water, only hot; salty and hot, and he kept spilling it in my mouth and I had to swallow and swallow and it still ran down over my cheeks.  Then it stopped with Henry, too, and he collapsed on me, making me wriggle because his wet chest felt really incredible against me.  After a minute, he went down between my legs and did the same thing to me, with his mouth.  I put my right leg over the back of the driver’s seat and my left leg up on the back seat so I could show him I really liked what was happening by thrusting hard and fast against his mouth.  Then I felt sort of on fire and it got hotter and I froze so I couldn’t move a muscle, then it was like hammering and made me dizzy, and after a minute I kinda fainted from in and fell back on the seat.  All three of them took turns cleaning me up, mostly licking, and being sure there wasn’t any sperm on the upholstery.  Then we all relaxed for awhile in the back seat, and I got down on my knees and sucked all three of them and tasted their sperm until I’d had enough.  Finally, after an hour or so, we pulled our clothes back on and headed for the lodge, chatting away and having fun like nothing special had happened.”
      
      “Can we pretend the bed is the car?” the cute tyke asked.
      “Yes,” the adult said, picking the ninety pound eleven year up, penis still hard inside Craig’s underpants, and carried him to the bedroom.  It had been four great hours and the couple lay side by side.  The boy lifted his hips for the man and in a few moments they were watching each other masturbate.  Andrew ejaculated first, cumming heavily over the panting boy on his left.  Craig followed immediately, his watery semen spurting nearly three feet as hey lay rigid and frozen for fully half a minute.  By acclimation, they slept in separate beds.
      
Photoplay – End File 6

xxx


