Sex with Boys and Girls - 1

by Feather Touch



	Looking back I suppose it was way Tom Cruise, risky business, but the pictures came out great, and a Corvette passing at three feet is no different than the distance most people stand from an approaching subway.  It gave the right blur, in any event, and the prints enhanced our normal college-guy friendship, and so we ended up in Kansas City together.  Nothing had happened before then.  Once I’d come unexpectedly on him in the shower, and he might have been jerking off; gave me a little something of a look, I suppose, and the moment passed.  Stan, at the time of our adventure, was a red head with a perfection of Slavic molding that would have assured a career as a model, had I not seen the very substantial reward of the gender gods.  He was fun.  Our first great adventure was strapping four M-80s to the bottom of a glass jug full of gasoline, and, in the safest way and place imaginable, suspending it from a railroad bridge over a junk filled stream, and with a cigarette attached to the fuse.  It is true that the device exploded precisely as a police car passed us and the cop hit the brakes.  Stan did a good job of faking astonishment, and the car proceeded.  We were likely saved by the picayune display, very un dramatic, though how the officer might have attached us to an event happening over fifty yards away leaves some wiggle room.  Anyhow, he was, next to my roommate, my best friend on campus, and how many of you had a best friend on campus, who was a, way nice, and b, had a Corvette, even if it was blue and white?

      I was at a loss for words and didn’t think it was a result of overextending myself on the school paper.  Stan and I lived on separate halls, and so I’d seen him once for three seconds, at the outside.  Now he – looking way young-teen – was standing in front of the mirror in his white briefs, ostensibly looking in his shaving kit, but catching my eye in the process and lingering over whatever he was doing.  I’d been with a man as a nine year old, so was technically not a virgin, but this was still extreme in the new issues appendix to the covenant, and I didn’t know what to say.  Maybe just “hi” would do, and maybe he was just wondering if he should wait and take his shower after I was done, though that could hardly have mattered less.  I though of standard approaches: “Gee, it would be cool to have a Playboy to read,” but I only read Playboy and didn’t react to the pictures which seemed pseudo synthetic, plus airbrushing.  Snapping him with a towel leading to gotchas and wrestling – I was in my briefs, too – might have been an approach, but we weren’t much in the thumping department and it would have been out of character.  Removing said towel from my waist where I’d nonchalantly positioned it for a very chalant reason would be going far faster and further than college guys of our era would have been likely to go, and could end up in a long hitch back to Iowa.  But all these were tangents, because my tongue was tied by an extreme ultimate in taboo.  I wanted to ask him questions.  He was a classic, physically perfect, and, yes, he obviously excited ME physically, but there should be so much more to it, so much more than a few minutes panting together in the shower.  But not only questions, not limiting it to that weirdness, that creepy perversion, that degenerate aspect, that queer facet, but questions about thing that might have happened along the way, when he was in high school, or even in junior high or grade school.  Very at a loss for words.
      
      Still am.  The enigma is a python, the African constrictor that bites anything and holds on while it wraps lunch, not the friendly South American boa which only bites to eat. The enigma is this: what else were we to talk about?  Looking back, I mean, and telling of that weekend, what’s left if we did haltingly discover that for once we did want to talk about what guys don’t talk about and I had to leave all that out?  Then why leave it out?  Because of the challenge inherent in violating the formula.  One and a third million words, and not enough thematic variation to span a CD, edge-on.  Willowy child in the hands of an athletic young adult, and if the child’s a girl the adult is likely to be her tall brother or cute dad.  Now two nineteen year olds glancing at each other in a plate-glass motel mirror.  I’ve never told a story like that.  Without a little help and usually several little helpers.  Stan must have been a red-headed dart as a ten year old, and leggy and nearly twice the age, he still had more than half of it.  I was a raving beauty, myself; hairless and now that my hair had grown out a couple of inches, thanks to the twelve hundred miles separating me from my mother’s buzz-cut, Oster machina el demonio, I got carded at McDonald’s.  The man I’d learned with had ejaculated as I coaxed him from his briefs, or in a dozen little-boy strokes if that didn’t happen, so I was kind of extra sensitive to that side of what is generally termed appeal, but that seemed pretty remote from lying on my back watching Stan watch me.  Forbidden, secret, unmanly, private, discreet, and faggoty, which was thoroughly ironic because I had zero desire to even sleep in the same bed as my friend, much less cuddle the night away.  No way.  At the same time, I WAS getting more curious by the moment as to what might have happened to the beauty as he was maturing, or not happened.  There I went, unable to think of anything else, and not even able to sputter.
      
      I had to do better.  Put locked-in preconceptions aside, while not throwing them out.  The last thing I wanted was for Stan to come up and kiss me in the commons or become attached in any way exceeding our typical collegiate friendship.  Would have bet the ‘Vette, had I owned it, he felt the same.  But that was putting everything aside, not wanting this equaling not wanting that and not wanting that equaling not wanting anything.  I was a writer, published every week at nineteen, and would soon go on to being published every day in broadcasting, I had to take chances others wouldn’t have dared, because seeing your words pour off the presses by the tens of thousands of copies makes one wonder in terms of hundreds of thousands and dream in terms of millions, but, you have to have something to say.  Even then, look around.  Others are saying huge amounts about everything.  It’s there by the ton.  Industries supply the ink.  That means you really have to have something to say and to do that a writer must take chances and probe and prod at any likely source.  It was thus I psyched myself up to do better.
      
      But that was then and this is now.  A substantial body of work and passing three million downloaded files, as alike as cans of LeSeur baby peas, and now I’m meant to deal with two consenting adults.  Ease from my bed and, towel held as if I were headed into the shower, come up behind him as he looked at me in the mirror, and stand close.  Feel his warmth against my bare chest.  Keep standing there wondering how far-fetched it would be to pretend a mosquito had alighted on his right flank and I was picking it off gently enough not to offend the ultra-life Hindus of legend (those who gently sweep ants from their path).  But me?  I’d rather touch him just as described, but ask if he’d ever played doctor.  If he had a kid sis.  If he’d ever unbuckled a heavy buckle and fastened heavy man’s jeans as a tyke, his fingers shaking with excitement because of the hot torrent of sperm just seconds away.  Sure, nobody dared write about things like that, but the last thing I was or am is a contrarian, a rebel for the sake of the attention rebellion brings.  No, a run-of-the-mill conformist, go with the flow kinda guy, then and now, so I didn’t want to write about what really happened that night just because nobody else would, but because we were two beautiful young animals with the consciousness and responsiveness to tell each other of beauty.  More, we both agreed on an ultimate, pure, physical, sensual beauty, an aesthetic passion that was rare in inception and rarer yet in the telling.  
      
      What if it had been different?  He’d shown me pictures of his steady girl back in Manhattan (N.Y.), and she had the slightly full and, well, sort of rubbery look one associates with an all-nighter, so we could have gone off on Mary Jane; I could have omitted my story of summer camp, and maybe ended up masturbating while we watched each other from our side-by-side beds, then tissues and on to the sports page. The towel thing has undoubtedly been used to incite wrestling, and our underpants wouldn’t have lasted long if that had happened, not much longer than it took to tell about it, especially in the state at which I was arriving watching him still standing in the mirror and making eye contact from time to time.
      
      I’m trying here to lay it on you edgewise and at the mildest oblique possible that I’m a one trick pony.  If it had been over in breathless minutes with Stan and me, that I’d be incapable of going back all Norman Mailer and dissecting what he felt and what I felt and how we felt about what others felt and the manifestations of dereliction and the subliminal angst along with the acting out attendant to our fall from grace.  Yes, one trick, so it behooves me, pun unavoidable, to set a fiery pace and make my limited act the best in the world.  I’ve been exchanging letters with Mark on this subject: formula, probably rationalizing an underlying deficit of talent by taking the stance that ritual and repetition are inherent in storytelling, as they are in music, and it becomes the orchestration that’s important; the melody enriched and enhanced rather than ever changing.  Nonetheless I’ve managed to bring two senior teens together, college freshman, and even if they’re sleek, long-legged and boyish, they are, for once, of age.  Can’t you see the strain telling?  No amount of talent could hide it.  Look at my file sizes.  Eighty kilobytes of text, a hundred, way over a hundred.  And these stories are about consenting adult?  Hello!  “Where’s the beef?”  That may be still buzzing around.  Stan and I were all athletic, tuned, adventurous, charming, snow-white beef.  And that’s a good thing; lean protein, often raised on land unsuitable for alternative farming; luxurious lives for the animals and a painless end, but there always seem to be limitations and even filet mignon is wrapped in bacon, so beef, yea, but something more, too, and no, not a heavy roll to intrude and ameliorate the essential feast, but something, you know, along the line of cute little buns.
      
      Reminder: this is something I wanted to know about, not something, at that time in my life I’d ever done, other than the camp experiences, which, apparently do to my dazzling presence as a nine year old, had made Jon ejaculate fully into the bushes inside a minute.  I had not been kissed, molested, or slicked with the hot semen of my mature partner.  I had not experimented with my tongue to the extent of a single drop, for all the heavy streaks of white sperm my eager twinkie hand had stroked from my tall, athletic counselor.  He had neither tried to touch or use his tongue on me.  And I had initiated the relationships, though, I suppose, he might have set me up by suggesting I ask certain questions along certain lines that boys sometimes talk to older guys about.  Don’t think so, think it was wholly my idea, but all I remember is using the word “frank” because I knew it was a subject one talked frankly about.  I was instantly responsive to going into the woods with him, every time, even though Jon approached the subject in a mature and gentlemanly way, in fact, Victorian, by saying very little.  He never quizzed me and never told me anything about his initiation, presumably as a young boy.  The only thing he said was the camp director liked to do it, and, indeed, there was a guy who was pulling it off; a guru type with a retinue, very nice as well as charismatic, and a great believer in the Fifth Freedom, which was freedom from clothes, which turned Timberlake into a nudist colony part of each day, with Ken commonly in attendance with his eight millimeter Kodak movie camera, the same kind we had at home.  
      
      In actuality, and we’re diverging here, I know, but Stan’s still standing at the mirror, his towel loosely bunched in front of him as mine is casually strewn across my waist, not saying anything but no longer fussing in his shaving kit, more looking at me as I looked back at him, so it’s not as if we’re headed for Timbuktu or something. there was very little molestation going on, considering the circumstances; a hundred or more naked boys with a generous helping of college-age male councilors, also naked much of the time, especially when it came to swimming and canoeing.  That was strange, because it was so exciting, and they were all nice kids, and I can’t imagine any of them objecting to time alone with our Ivy League staff members.  Of course, it’s possible thing were going on on the sly.  We went on several camp outs and maybe they slipped sleeping pills into your bug juice and took boy toys into the counselors’ tents at night, carefully wiping our fledgling bodies clean before returning us to our pup tents.  In fact, the only exception I remember was Johnny Bland displaying his boner, a full four inches jutting up from his very slightly plump belly and thighs, as we all gathered around to look, but that lasted less than a minute and was never repeated.  I wasn’t mentally agile enough at the time to figure out if Jon was taking other boys out for short walks at nap time, but I strongly doubt it, and, most regrettably, Motoi, the junior councilor, never expressed any interest so it was perhaps the beginning of your one-trick pony.  As I’ve written elsewhere, it was what didn’t happen that I regret, that I wasn’t fully molested by Jon, even spending an hour in bed with him while he came on me repeatedly, though I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to sleep with him, not with so many girls running around loose.  As long as it never became any kind of pressure thing, my guess is I would have liked spending time alone with any of the staff, perhaps even Ken who was well into his sixties.  And, for sure, I know I would have liked being quizzed, after the first time, having the story coaxed out of me, while stroking one of those fit, young adults and listening to his story for at least a few minutes before he tensed and I knew to hold him against my panting chest, but low enough so my eyes would focus on the thick sprays of semen covering me with hot puddles.  Something way reasonable but exciting, too.  Maybe ten times over the two months.  In any event, I had the best summer ever, and that’s saying something because both ancestral summer homes are very-old-money shorefront locations, even if it could have been better. 
      
      “Do you think we had enough great adventure getting here?” Stan asked.  We’d crossed Iowa with the top down, and that’s a lot of wind, so I was on the same page.
      “If I don’t now I will in another hour,” I replied, “so if you want to put the top up I’ll help you and we can stay in.”
      “Thanks,” he said, wrapping his towel around him as I did.  We went out and got the car ready for the night, then returned to the room and sat opposite each other on the twin beds.  I had my camera with me, even a strobe, rare enough in ’65, and could have used them as an opening gambit; we could have shanghaied us some drinkin’ liquor and giggled over naughtier pictures of each other, that could have been a desensitizer, but I took the photo thing pretty seriously and like any professional would first do no harm by never using it, well, that way.  Sitting, towels bunched at our waists, still in our white cotton briefs, almost at the “underpants” age, we couldn’t tell much about each other, somehow not straying off onto our usual banter which was very usual, considering we were both bright, way cute, and in play if not, in my case, anyhow, scoring.  (Total celibacy from Jon, and a brief shower with Peter Ketchum, who masturbated me with extreme success, to the present, including kissing in the sense of making out, yet in play to the extent of numerous near misses and attracting at least superficial interest in so many girls it had to be (and turned out to be) a matter of time before some lithe redhead, looking as much like Stan as possible, though my own high-cheeked, fox faced, big eyed Anglo Saxon countenance could be substituted for his classic Slavic beauty without engendering prejudice in the eyes of the viewer (who happens to put Eurasian teen girls at the top of his list), appeared on my tweaked radar.  But that would be then and this was now.
      
      Mostly I wanted it to last.  Instinct told me if I simply dropped my towel and stood in front of him, he’d do something with me and let me do what I wanted with him, totally homosexual though I don’t suppose we shared a gay bone between us, and that I’d ejaculate as quickly in his hands as Jon had in mine, and he’d do the same before I’d built up the courage, or whatever it is, to try touching him with my tongue.  Then what?  Pizza?  We’d already had pizza.
      
      Our extreme beauty, in fact, left out any touching, and in addition the karma told at least me, and probably him, that if it happened on the spot, at the moment, there would be far less chance of it happening again than if it was more perfect the first time, and that if we could somehow make it just plain perfect, it might happen late into the night, exhausting us for the moment, and leading to at least brief private encounters as long as we were both at school together.  Yes, touching was a no-no.  And that left talking, hanging me on the great horn, Dilemma, because I wasn’t gay and I didn’t want to tell the beauty I loved him and wanted to go dancing.  I didn’t want to comment on how this boy in the music magazines was really cute, or did he think the other cutie was gay, or what he thought of some of the letters to the Playboy Advisor.  Gave me the creeps just to think about it.  Looking at him, and by now we were all but staring openly at each other, three feet between us, I wondered if his lily white skin had ever felt an illicit touch, that of a mature teen or attractive adult, if his hands had ever felt what mine had, Jon hugely swollen, gigantic, his glans especially glistening as he became hard as wood in my childish hand, and the long seconds it was really happening before the heavy bolts of thick, white semen jetted six or seven times into the bushes.  And maybe more.  Maybe it had happened on him, even when he was a little twinkie of a ten year old, maybe an adult had lost control all over him as I’d wanted Jon to do on my body.  And even on his tongue.  If Jon’s cum had splattered him, instinct would have guided me with triple the force of gravity at least to an experimental lick.  Had that beautiful mouth experimented with a mature boy’s hot spill?  And that was just for openers.  How ABOUT girls?  Yes, Mary Jane, but things beyond that, alternative things, with females.  How could a six year old chick keep her hands off him?  That had happened to me; extremely young girls falling madly in love, and, for sure, knowing what they were about, but, again, near misses, while at the same time of value as reference points (and very, very accurate ones I might add, as events in later years proved repeatedly, and unabatedly).  Or he could be in my camp, almost nothing, perhaps Mary Jane had been the first to feel that beautiful chest her nipples and take the first flow of his hot seed, at a routine age of fifteen or thereabouts.  Would it be a replay of Timberlake, things that hadn’t happened, stories he couldn’t tell should I make so bold as to ask?  Nah, too beautiful.  I’d passed largely untouched by flukes and circumstances, Jon could have been repeated several times with any degree of luck, so the chances stood in my favor, especially as he’d grown up in a stable, urban environment versus my half Old New England, half suburban New York existence with constant changes of school and scene.  Come on, Emerson, something had to have happened, and one day you’ll end up a supreme writer, but not if you sit tongue tied with supreme opportunity all but in your lap.
      
      But mightn’t one be hanged for a sheep if he talked of lambs?  Deemed a retard for not being able to think of something a little more grown-fucking-up?  “Emerson loves little dickie-dickies!”  Wrong guy on the other bed, and that would be all over campus, where everyone knew me because I was the only photographer among two thousand undergraduates.  Well, at least that thought defined one extreme, with its opposite being a cloying gay thing, and it wasn’t the era for that offensive anomaly.  And extremes were part of my life, making them most relevant to the situation.  Stan came from money, he had a late-model Corvette, and I didn’t, but I come from the old kind, vast lands, scant cash, which is why we have the vast lands.  Along with this goes the disorientation of Calvinistic attitudes mixed with the randyness of goats, grandfather for granddaughters and brother for sister, so the moral compass doohickey swung to the north of opportunity.  It wasn’t anything goes, in fact had anyone but Stan or Allan, my boyish, even by our standards, roommate, called Squirrel because of a way sexy overbite, been sitting on the other bed I wouldn’t have needed to bunch my towel in front of me, and we’d be discussing plans to do something.
      
      I think at this point I’ve done my duty by Mark.  I’ve seriously tried to break the formula, and four thousand words in have concentrated on the relationship of two nineteen year olds, boyish in the extreme though they are, and, while not altogether excluding children, have indulged in no lingering scene of whispering and experimentation between an adult and a child as willing as I was.
      
      Sex with boys and girls.  Sex as a boy.  It would keep our hands off each other and might delay what was going to happen for hours, and correspondingly enhancing and amplifying what finally did happen.  All I knew for sure was that he was smart enough to get it, that he drove in a relaxed but extremely alert manner, that our great adventures started off as risk free and got safer as we carried them out, and that he probably wouldn’t try strangling me if I was tangential about going all perv on him.
      
      “This is kind of neat,” I said after a few minutes.  No studies (we were on ye dean’s list and had met in honors English, which we were on the way to acing for the second semester), a great ride across the rolling Western beauty of Iowa, Friday night in K.C. with enough money to buy pussy if all else failed, sober, because the ‘Vette was enough, and bare chested.
      “I’m glad there was some way I could pay you for the pictures,” he responded, which, in context, took on a thoroughly ironic note because it was a reference to risky business, and here he was, again, three feet away, only not receding at sixty miles an hour.  
      “Did you send one to Mary Jane?” I asked.
      “Her brother went wild for it,” Stan replied, “and she admitted it was okay.”  Actually, M.J. was probably my kind of girl, though Stan did occasionally sigh in negative anticipation of trading his car for a wagon and investing the surplus in aluminum siding.
      Now, a little bit more about writers, because I’m about to give a demonstration of craft and it might be misinterpreted if I don’t forewarn by pointing out the fact we are, not to put too fine a point on it, spiders, ever lurking for the summons of the web.  No tug is too slight to escape our interest, no word or phrase can fall in our hearing without being deemed possibly edible.  And this is a substantive characteristic, something not just of, in the present case, words, but of tone, of precisely how those words are uttered.  Okay?  So let’s get back to writing and the exercise of craft, with today’s lesson titled Keep it Simple.
      
      “How old is he?” I asked, letting a distinct beat pass, with just an edge of raggedness creeping into me voice while I stifled the shadow of a yawn.   And he did.  He paused and even colored slightly, also spoke in an intangibly huskier voice.
      “He just turned twelve before I came back from break,” he said.
      The spider gave the fly a long time to retreat, to change the subject, you know, since desiccated prey is of little use, indeed, might serve to warn other game away   “Would you like to see a picture?” he then asked.
      “Yes,” I said.  I’d seen Mary Jane in several poses, other subjects, pets, for example, as the topics had come up; house, cars, summer retreat, that kind of thing, and couldn’t help feeling a bit smug at the apropos timing of bringing up boys, nor less than petrified with excitement at his skilled return of my lobbing serve.  He sort of obviously held his towel in front of him as he found the trucker’s wallet he carried in his luggage when we were away from the dorm.  I participated by moving toward the head of the bed, making more room for him, and he responded by sitting at my right, our shoulders almost touching as he thumbed through the wallet, his towel neatly bunched (a little food for the oxy morons) in his lap.  He recognized a picture from its corner and pulled it out.  In those days drugstore photos were things of beauty, with neat white borders and on crinkle cut paper that went a long way in framing the image.  But even if they’d been today’s sleazy (but cheaply run off) jumbo prints, I would hardly have noted it.  “That’s Kenny with Brad,” Stan said, “he was lifeguard with me last summer.”  English speaking fools, dithering on about poets and the rag tags of philosophy, we’d never talked about practical stuff.  I guess I knew vaguely he’d been into swimming as he might have remembered I’d spent the summer working in a marine biology lab.  Mostly it was trying to figure out if Shakespeare was mad as a hatter, or we were off kilter in finding a pound of bombast for each grain of salience.  We both read well, having spent a fair amount doing the same for our aged grandmothers, so we’d stitch each other with flowery phrases from the literary greats until it hurt to laugh or keep from giggling. 
      
      Yes, my mind was going faster than the Corvette in fourth gear, deliberately straying over lapses in the last few months, questions not asked, subjects that never came up, anything to buy time so I didn’t blurt out “holy shit,” or something elegant like that at the sight of a six two Olympic quality swimmer, by each and every look, standing behind a shy-looking black-haired boy with big eyes and the slender built of a ten year old.  Both were in swimming trunks, and the lifeguard’s hands were crossed on the child’s chest.  “I’ve got one of him with me, too,” Stan said, his voice a trace huskier, “if you want to see it.”
      “They’re both extremely attractive,” I said, nodding and adding: “Kenny has that easy-to-be-with look.”
      He pulled out a second photo.  Same country club pool backdrop, and, who’d have guessed it, a pair of perfect young males, Stan’s hands on the child’s chest as Brad’s had been.  
      “And this,” Stan continued, pulling out a last picture, “is Karen, Kenny’s sister.  She was with Brad, young man standing behind nine year old girl, hands on her chest with hers on top of his as she looked brightly but not saucily at the camera.
      “We took them the day Mary Jane sprained her ankle and I had to baby-sit the kids.  They stayed after the pool was shut and helped us clean up.”
      
      “Had they met Brad before?” I asked, feeling more like a tick who’d been hanging out in a lab’s ear for a couple of days than a spider at that point in time.
      “They’d come with Mary Jane when she picked me up from work,” Stan said, and they’d usually swim for a few minutes, so they knew him.”
      “They look comfortable with him,” I said.
      “We get really used to being with kids that age over the summer,” my friend said, “so it becomes natural to not act phony around them, to act kind of passive, and let them experiment with being friendly at their own pace, but it’s not as if we were trying anything, you know, encouraging them.  I liked Kenny from helping him with his homework, and Karen from going to her tea parties, and Brad had a sister just her age she was friends with at school, so he wasn’t like a complete stranger.”
      
      “Stan?” I asked, “do you think it’s okay to like talk about stuff once in awhile, or should guys keep everything private?”
      “I don’t know,” he said, hardly more than whispering.  “They stayed a couple of hours until Mary Jane was home from the clinic and Brad and I could take them home, and it only took half an hour to dry the towels and mop the locker room.  I guess a lot of guys would want to keep that kind of secret and maybe be embarrassed about it, but at the same time, with the right person, maybe it is okay to tell.
      “What do you think?” he concluded.
      “I’d tell you if I had anything exciting,” I said, my voice the equal of his, “but my story wouldn’t last five minutes.”
      “Would you tell Squirrel?” he whispered.
      “Yes,” I said, “but the two of you are the only ones on campus, and I work for the paper so I know everybody.”
      “That’s how I feel,” he said, “you and your roommate would be okay, neat even, and I can’t say that about anyone even going back through high school.”
      
      We sat silently as he slowly cycled the images of his beautiful young friends through his fingers.  “I think I was pretty lucky,” he said, “because something happened when I was eleven and I learned from experience that kids that age and even younger can like things in a real way, not a candy way, so when I qualified as a lifeguard I knew other kids probably felt the same as I did.  Brad helped, too, because he was pretty open about what was happening with Nancy, his sister, and him.  He asked me a lot of questions after we got to know each other, and I told him what had happened, about riding on the bus with Richard, who’s the one that got me into swimming, and he told me about how Nancy had started hanging closer and closer to him as she got older and how their mom had finally taken them aside and told them they were both great kids and they were free to love each other any way they wanted so long as they were respectful of the sensibilities of others.”
      
      “When you talked with Brad about things,” I said, “did you go into detail, or just kind of work through allusions and references.”
      “Once we were sure of each other,” Stan replied, “we told each other everything.”
      
      Candles and incense were big even in those days, though no such thing as lava lamps, and we’d brought a supply with us (for girls, on both our parts, I’m pretty sure).  As if cued, we fetched them from our luggage, set the mode of the room, and lay back on a single bed, side by side, not quite touching, towels still covering our briefs.
      “How old was Richard?” I asked, since asking how old Mary Jane’s brother was had worked well.
      “Twenty-one,” Stan said, “his summer job was driving the bus for the country club, and, again with a lucky break, my house was the last stop and he lived a few blocks away and kept the bus overnight so he could pick us up in the morning.”
      “It’s cool that you liked him,” I said, reviewing how important yet irrelevant that facet could be.  I’d liked Jon just fine, and certainly had less than no reason to dislike him, and it had been neat to feel him tense in my hand then splash hard from his purplish shaft into the green foliage, but just liking him okay had kept things at the exploratory stage, and, truth to tell, I probably wouldn’t have like it if he’d tried kissing me, though ejaculating on me and probably even on my face would have been acceptable.  I would have, I’m sure, liked having Motoi kiss me, cum on me, hold me against his slick chest, cum fully in my mouth, and really molest me for an hour at a time, and, equally, would have liked watching him molest Peter Klaus, John Bland, or any of the other Bear Pit boys.  But that’s far from the whole story.  Over the years I’ve more or less come to the conclusion that, while it’s nice to have an underlying friendship, it’s also detached, and, in fact, you can have nerve-wracking experiences with strangers or someone you perhaps don’t particularly care for, and hold long term affection for someone else who’s of no physical interest.  As ambiguous as it all is, I was glad for Stan and hoped my comment was accurate.
      
      “He taught me great adventuring,” my classmate said, and made my head spin just a little by adding another sister to his story, “especially the time we blew up Jill’s Barbie collection with a pipe bomb that sent Ken seventy-two feet, seven and a half inches from ground zero.”
      “Jill?” I said, trying not to gulp and at the same time fit her in with Karen and Nancy, one being both Mary Jane and Kenny’s kid sister, and the second belonging to Brad.  There and then, in fact, I made myself a professional promise that when I reached the point of literary supreme being, I’d be most careful in winnowing my work so as not to confuse stories with something like five or six parallel events taking place in real time or as too glibly named “flashbacks.”  
      “She drew the schematics,” Stan explained.  “We had drawings for the pit, for the positioning of each doll, for the device, for the wiring, a hundred and twenty feet, for our shelter, for the switch, for the eight millimeter movie camera we though we should use, and for the whole thing plotted a hundred yards from any house in the deepest and thickest part of the woods, because the bomb we made from her drawings weighed two pounds and two ounces and we didn’t want anyone to hear anything more than a backfire or a shotgun.”
      
      This was a neat commentary on luck.  I thought I had it pretty good in that department, old money that never seemed to run out, houses and cars like other families have kittens, and, hellish individuals notwithstanding, a pretty keen run going, but it was becoming apparent as I lay beside Stan, that thing one I didn’t know about the subject.  But, lucky me, I was about to learn.
      
      We were, it turned out, on identical wavelengths, on the same letter of the same page, never mind word.  I was just wondering to myself, “does this story have a beginning?” and Stan said, “maybe I should start with how IT started.”  I nodded, trying not to shake the bed.
      
      “It was a dark and stormy night, we were coming home from a late session at the club,” he said, “and we got stuck making a turn in Jeff Bloom’s driveway.  He’d run off to get dry, the house was way out of sight, we weren’t blocking the road, and it was absolutely pouring.”
      
      “Can you think of anything?” the driver asked.
      “Pneumonia,” the eleven year old redhead said, “or lost with no scent for the dogs.”  
      “Well,” Richard said, “the nearest creek’s a hundred feet below us, so that’s not a problem, and when I don’t turn up Jill will put two zillion and five together with the square root of minus six and figure out we’re stuck, probably to within the quarter acre, and have help arriving in sixty-seven minutes, give or take, so, since we have no rain gear, it might be best to stay put.”
      Stan nodded and the two sat looking at each other, the sole passenger in the right front seat of the small bus.
      “Maybe you can think of a great adventure,” Stan suggested, both a little nervous and thrilled at being alone for an extended period of time with the six-three State finalist athlete.
      “Something did cross my mind,” Richard said, “but it’s probably a little mature for eleven.”
      “We blew off a limb that took three days to burn,” the boy replied, “that was mature for a hundred and eleven.”  The retort found its mark and Richard looked steadily at the child.
      “This is different,” he said in a voice that electrified the boy across the isle, “though, on second thought, maybe not so very different.  
      “We don’t have raincoats or umbrellas,” he said, “but I do have some towels from the club because their washer’s not working.  They’re a little damp but not wet.  So, if we were to take a shower, we’d be able to dry off.”
      
      Stan sat stock still and neither spoke for a minute.
      
      “It happens with athletes quite a lot,” the driver went on from his seat, “a coach or an older player alone with a boy your age.  We’ve become pretty close in the last few months, damming up the creek in back of your house, rescuing the moronic cat, Jill finalizing her doll stage, and, Stan, you’re one exceptionally attractive eleven year old, so, since it’s bound to happen soon, if it hasn’t already, I thought we could take a shower together in the rain, and I could explain about it so you’d be forewarned about things you might not want to happen.”
      
      Stan sat stock still and neither spoke for another minute.
      
      “It’s very gentle,” Richard whispered, “and we have time for it to be very complete.”
      
      This time he nodded very slightly.  Richard didn’t rush, so another minute passed.
      
      “We could start here in the bus with your underpants on,” the adult whispered, “then, if you want more to happen, you can ask to go out in the rain, which will mean we have to be naked together because there’s no way to dry any clothing that gets wet.”
      “What would have happened if we hadn’t gotten stuck?” the boy asked.
      “In the first place,” Richard answered, “I’ve turned in Jeff’s driveway dozens of times, understand, and, in the second, I could sense you were starting to get interested in Jill and me, so I was going to just park in your drive soon, maybe tonight, and tell you I thought you were, next to my sister, the most beautiful person I’ve ever know, and that my sister thinks so, too, and then what I just told you about getting mature enough so older athletes will want to shower alone with you, to outline the tip of the iceberg.”
      
      “What you said about me maybe knowing stuff already,” Stan murmured, “well, I don’t, except the talk, which I guess gives some ideas.”
      “It’s like wrestling very slowly and gently, especially when a man’s teaching a boy,” Richard whispered, “and we can start with our shorts and tee shirts on.  The only thing that’s violent is what happens at the end, and that’s not violent in the sense of hitting or hurting, but just violently sudden and shocking if you’re not ready for it.”
      “Should we take our sneakers off?” Stan asked in a whisper, leaning down as if to untie his because the school nurse had told the class to do that if they ever felt faint.  
      “No,” his friend said, “young boys with big feet look sensationally extreme when they keep their gym shoes on, and it stands to reason we’d get them wet dealing with the situation.”
      “Okay,” the boy said, his mind so filled with the image of the tall swimmer in front of him standing in the rain just wearing his sneakers that blood returned to support the fantasy, plus he needed some to nourish his cognitive and analytical skills which were telling him that if he reached Richard’s house, their likely destination on such a night, with wet sneakers and dry clothes, only one conclusion could be drawn by any present, and being able to let others know in such a subtle yet conclusive way was enough to fully alert his entire brain to being raped by Jill’s twenty one year old brother.  He stood and walked to the back of the bus.  Heard the squeak of the driver’s seat,  And waited.
      
      “Jill,” Richard whispered over Stan’s left shoulder, “if you’re really sure.”
      “I am,” Stan whispered back, “I see you looking at me looking at you when you’re swimming, and I don’t mean that, swimming, literally, I mean by the pool getting ready, or after you come out.  You always look at me and I’m always looking at you.”
      “Then you must have noticed the other part, too,” the adult said.
      “That your eyes are on me when I’m, well, not swimming,” the play sister said.
      “How do you feel about it?” Richard rasped, his hands now on the waist of the eleven year old redhead.
      “Overdressed, even in my racing suit,” Stan said, “because I’m starting to grow a little bit and I wonder if you notice.”
      “And you really want to show me?  To let me touch you?”
      “And to feel you against me,” the girl whispered.
      
      Stan guided Richard’s hands to his top button and moved firmly back against the adult now huddled over him.  When two were unfastened, the boy whispered, “do yours,” and quickly finished opening his own shirt, then stood, arms at his side.  In a few seconds, the adult was naked to the waist, his shirt over a seatback, and he again put his hands on the child’s waist, pulling aside his shirttails, and then moved them over Stan’s flat and silky belly as the boy thrust firmly but not predatorily to him.
      
      “Sis,” the athlete whispered, “ we can only go this far.”
      “Why?” Jill whispered.
      “It’s a physical thing, darling,” he answered, “it happens with swimmers who like spending time alone with older swimmers while they’re growing up.  A certain amount of male activity happens, and the result is that some of us develop more than non-swimmers.  To put it plainly, it would hurt with me, but Stan would be perfect for you, and then, when you’re experienced, if you still want it to, something complete could happen between us.”
      “But Stan’s a swimmer, too,” Jill whispered, “won’t the same thing happen with him, you know, what you just said, from being alone with older males.”
      “Yes,” darling the role-playing brother said, “but you’ll grow two, no one is eight forever, and so it won’t be any problem, no, not in the long haul.”
      
      They abandon their little playlette, whispering fully to each other.
      
      “How old were you when this happened?” Stan asked.
      “Same as you, eleven,” his friend said, “and that’s kind of customary, a code of the cult you might call it.”
      “Was it in a shower,” Stan panted, the adult’s hands now openly roaming over his upper body as he stood on his tiptoes and arched back against the bare chest of the athlete behind him.
      “Partly,” Richard whispered, running his hands up the child’s flanks, bringing his shirt with him.  Stan raised his hands over his head and his shirt was lifted free.  “Say like that,” the adult whispered as he draped the shirt next to his own, then moved his hand’s back to the sixth grader’s chest and pulling him gently back.  The redhead went higher on his toes, now reaching far back, and quickly linking his fingers behind the neck of the panting adult.  
      “You’re enough taller than Jill to take here this way,” Richard said.
      “Will you watch her let me do things?” the now openly panting boy rasped.
      “If you want me to,” the man whispered, toying with the youth’s tiny nipples.
      “I do,” Stan responded breathlessly.
      “You’ll be beautiful together,” his mentor said, “and you won’t have to stop or use any caution at all.”
      
      “I want to take a shower with you,” Stan announced.
      “Okay,” Richard said, moving his hands to the boy’s belt and unfastening it as the child remained arched and panting, “but you’ll want to take Jill in her panties for awhile, so let’s do this again, just in your underpants, because we have lots of time, and I want you to take lots of time with her.  
      “It’s the hurried, half-thing that’s dangerous for a kid,” he went on to explain, “that’s what leaves confusion and distortion.  If it’s measured and complete, then it’s understood for what it is and can be accepted or rejected.”
      “But you be naked, okay?” Stan asked, thrusting his hips to the hands now undoing his zipper and skinning his tennis shorts down over his long, slim legs.”
      “Do it to me,” Richard rasped in response, turning his young beauty to him.  Stan, mindful of the words he’d just heard, toyed with the adult’s buckle, running his fingers over the powerful chest in front of him, then returning to slowly unfasten, unzip, and slide down the athlete’s country club shorts.  They backed away for a few moments, to look at each other, then Stan finished, slowly and lingeringly, finally again standing back while Richard spread his legs wide, arching back against one of the seatbacks as his young friend stared at the nearly eight inch shaft jutting high from his otherwise boyish waist.
      
      It’s not real smart of a writer to put a character in a speechless position, but errors creep in and it does happen.
      
      Stan stared for a minute, then two, then turned away and raised his arms.  Richard came up behind him and eased the boy off the floor so his feet were on two of the seats, his slim legs widely spread.  Gently he hunched behind the eleven year old, carefully working the tip of his long, hard erection into Stan’s underpants, then pulling the boy to him and openly molesting him for several panting minutes.
      
      Feeling equally heroic and foolish, they did the shower thing at the younger male’s request.  Richard knelt before him and slowly pulled down the white briefs, then they stood for a minute looking at each other, then went out in their sneakers to brave the still bucketing downpour.  If speechless characters are a nuisance, cold, wet ones are a downright turn off, but it ended well enough, the pair both shivering back aboard the coach, drying each other off, then standing, Stan again with his legs spread and his feet on two of the seats, outrageously sensuous, naked in his wet shoes, forehead to forehead as they watched each other respond to the return of warmth, so much blood rushing from their heads at the sight, they both felt dizzy.  In two minutes both were again fully erect and no longer panting from the cold.
      
      “It’s done in three steps,” Richard coached, easing Stan back to the floor, then positioning the boy in front of him.  “First from behind with the man holding you in his left arm while he masturbates you with his right hand.”  He took the prescribed position, fondling the child for a full minute before beginning to take a distinct rhythm with the youth’s jutting five inch penis.  “This lasts for just a few minutes, then the next part comes,” he went on, showing Stan what he meant by moving him to his right flank, guiding his left arm around his own waist, then moving the child’s right hand to his fully adult penis, and coaxing him into a deliberate motion.  “You take me all the way,” he then said, “and after I cum, that will be the final step, and I’ll take you from behind again and jerk you off with a lot of hot sperm on my hand.”
      
      This froze the tableau, boy at flank of man, adult with legs spread wide and comfortably braced, boy continuing with mature male, responding to the rising tension in his partner by redoubling the grip and stroke of his right arm and hand.
      
      “The violent part is coming,” Richard panted, “and you can move in front of me and take the sperm on your chest like Jill did, or just let me spray off on the seat and we can clean it up later.”
      “Has she ever let it happen in her mouth?” the boy asked, having heard of things of that nature along the way.
      “Just on her belly and chest,” Richard rasped, “because an adult is too much that way for the first time, but a boy your age is perfect.”
      “But I’m older than she is so we could experiment that way?” he then asked.
      
      “Yes, next time,” Richard gasped, then he said, softly: “I’m cumming, Stan.”
      Stan moved directly in front of his mature partner and held him low on his heaving, sweating chest, his eyes perfectly focused by the time the quaking adult began splashing him hard and fast with one sheet of hot semen after another until he was slick and sopping with the thick, slippery cum.  Even before his flow fully ebbed, Richard had slicked his right palm on the eleven year old’s belly and moved behind the child, now masturbating him rather than teaching.  Stan gripped the muscular arms of the athlete, spread his legs so one sneaker was up on a seat, and gave himself completely, hissing and crying out as his young body responded, all cells, battle stations, to the slick hand tight and fast on the hardest boner he’d ever had.  “It’s happening to me, too,” he gasped after five panting, hot minutes, and in a few seconds his thin preteen seed was spurting high in streak after streak from between his rigidly corded loins.  Richard turned him after some moments, and the youth’s climax finally slowed as he mixed his juvenile semen with the wetness of the mature male.  A quick return to the rain, more drying off, a gentle mutual stroking, heads on each other’s shoulder, a second flow from each young body, and they cleaned up, dressed, and were talking about the next meet when a pair of headlights stabbed the darkness.
      
“Sex with Boys and Girls” – End File-1

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