Date: Tue, 31 Dec 2002 11:10:05 -0600
From: Tom Emerson <tom@btl.net>
Subject: ONE FISH AT A TIME   PRO, CHAPT. ONE

ONE FISH AT A TIME  (Pro. Chapt. 1)

by R. Forbes Emerson

(Bi-ped, inc., rom.)

Nothing should be inferred from the use of media characters in this story.

Note: This repost contains significant revisions.  If you have the
original, and can live with the writer's egocentric mania for himself, why,
you have a collector's item.  All you have to do is keep it.  For you
student writers lucky enough to have a `first edition', use it to see what
re-writing is all about, by comparing the first, to this.  (The first
posting was a draft, published for technical reasons.)

                  ONE FISH AT A TIME

                  PROLOGUE

                  "What's that lever do?" Nancy Schroeder asked.
                  "Cowl flaps," said the pilot.
                  "Cowl amazing!" she exclaimed.
                  "Cowl do you know?" the trim officer asked, playing along
with the freckly, bright-eyed ten year old.
                  "Cowl does anyone know anything, I ask, that's cowl."
                  "If the cowl flaps are opened," Rob Lester explained to
his passenger, "they let more air over the engine.  When we're cruising,
they're closed, as they are now, but when we take off, they're open for
more air flow."
                  "Cowl cool," the girl said with a nod.
                  "That's the long and the short of it," Rob said.

                  "Do kids ever ask: `are we there yet', up here?" Nancy
asked, "I mean you'd have to be awfully dumb not to know you weren't, in an
airplane, wouldn't you?"
                  "Especially over the ocean," the pilot agreed.
                  "I like being up high," Nancy said, "that way we can talk
to lots of people on the way down if they parked the water truck where the
fuel truck was meant to be."
                  "I climb until the thermometer reads seventy-two
Fahrenheit," the tall, blue-eyed, Nordic pilot said, "then I close the..."
                  "Cowl flaps."
                  "And we trim up this and that, and four hours later we
are where we were meant to be all along."
                  "And ten thousand feet is seventy-two degrees," Nancy
said, cross checking the altimeter, obvious as a clock, with the
thermometer, obvious as a thermometer.
                  "We have to be at an odd altitude, plus five hundred
feet, so we're just climbing trough ten thousand, but we'll level off at
eleven-five."
                  "Two miles," the girl noted.

                  "Can I help you with the trim things," Nancy asked as the
plane passed through eleven thousand feet.

                  The tall, athletic pilot guided the tiny hands to the
engine controls and trim tabs, finding she sensed the subtle changes as
well as he could.  In a seeming instant, she learned to cross check the
airspeed and altimeter, eking the craft to a fraction over two-hundred
miles an hour, with the ancillary rate-of-climb indicator resting solidly
on zero.
                  The air over the ocean was smooth, Rob pushed the button
synchronizing the twin engines, and they began their passage into the
Caribbean.

                  "Do you like passengers that talk or ones who just look
out the windows?" Nancy asked.
                  "I like passengers who wonder where the water truck was
parked," the pilot said.
                  "I'd like to talk, too," the girl said, blushing happily
at Rob's response.
                  "Good," Rob said, "we have a course change in an hour,
and we can switch our fuel tanks then, too, so there's nothing to do other
than keep a sharp eye out for meteor showers or new volcanoes.
                  "Go ahead an pick a subject."
                  "Brothers," Nancy replied, again with a slight blush.
                  "If Rick was my brother, I'd want to talk about him,
too," Rob allowed.
                  "Are you a brother?" the girl countered.
                  "Yes," Rob said, "Tracy is eleven and Sandra is nine."
                  "How old are you?" the girl asked.
                  "Twenty-two," Rob replied.
                  "You look like a teenager," the girl observed.
                  "I get carded like one, too," the pilot grinned.

                  "Do you like your sisters?" she went on.
                  "Super much," Rob replied.
                  "That's Rick and me, too," the girl said.
                  "He's done well," Rob said.
                  "It keeps us apart," the girl responded.
                  "Not for much longer," Rob said.
                  "We're headed in the right direction," came the smiling
response.

                  They cruised for some minutes.

                  "You look like Rick," the girl said.
                  "Thanks," Rob replied.
                  "I think that's why he hired you," Nancy went on, "he's
good at details like that.  Not that medical school looked bad on your
resume, or anything like that."
                  "He said you and I would be spending a lot of time
together," Rob acknowledged, "so maybe favoring him had something to do
with it."
                  "How do you feel about flying me back and forth?" the
pixie asked.
                  "It beats tinker with the cowl flaps," Rob said.
                  "More amazing by the minute," Nancy intoned.
                  "Being with you is just that," Rob agreed.
                  "I'm meant to have a personality," the girl said; "I
don't like the idea, but if it's the only way to be with Rick two or three
days a week, I'll try anything."
                  "Maybe there's a chicken suit in the cargo," Rob laughed,
"they made a movie about them, so someone must think they have
personality."
                  "What I need is a mermaid suit," the girl replied, "that
would fit in better.  Rick and I can't go into a restaurant together, and
never mind the celebrity thing, without people staring because somehow we
look, I guess, extra right for each other.  In all ways right for each
other.  The money is where the Olsen twins were, so, not to put too fine a
point on it, there we float on the Carib sea, yours truly, since she wants
what her brother wants, topless, because I'm young enough to get away with
it, and Rick in a thong, and we're wrestling with leaders and gaffs and any
freaking thing swimming down there with the sharks, and, on top of it all,
I'm meant to stop panting over Rick long enough to grin at the camera and
say, `Nice fish.'"

                  "Beats learning lines," Rob noted, to the girls laugh.
                  "Isn't that the truth," she said, "it's like a summer off
of life itself not having to memorize twenty pages because some director
thinks it's cute when I wrinkle my nose."
                  "Lot's of girls would think it was cool someone cared,"
Rob said.
                  "I know," Nancy admitted, "but I've got to keep trying on
personalities until I find one that's right.  Hollywood prima donna, you
know the other word for it, an aloof celebrity.  I think I'm done with it."
                  "I'm a wanna be writer," Rob said, "and our stock in
trade is meant to be conflict and resolution. No way out of it, you have to
fit a lot of characters with yoyo personas so they can threaten the good
guys.  The Joker, The Penguin, Anthony Hopkins; somebody or something nasty
in every story."
                  "So you can't have a personality, either?" the girl
asked, eyes a little wide.
                  "Fellow puppets, I'm afraid," Rob said, "commerce and art
pulling the strings.  It's best to keep your head down, least you be taken
for a clown, or worse, show any lack of clown."
                  "I don't know," Nancy sighed, "there was Haley Mills,
then the Olsen twins, now me.  Am I meant to go up, or down?  More Meryl
Streep in `Out of Africa', or Ricki Lake in `Hairspray'?"
                  "You could study Tyne Daley," Rob suggested, "and become
exactly the opposite."
                  "You may be a writer," the young actress said.
                  "When I'm forty," the pilot replied, "I'll take it
seriously.  Live a lot and write a little."
                  "And keep personality out," she reminded him.
                  "Save a special piano wire, just for it," Rob agreed.
                  "And if that doesn't work, there's the chicken costume."
                  "Yes," Rob said, "if you don't discover a personality
before First Places on Wednesday, I may be making another trip for said
item, making yours the only fishing show with a cowl mascot."
                  "Chicken cowl mien, and I'll have the snow peas," Nancy
giggled.

                  "I don't know if it's okay to flirt with a ten year old,"
Rob said, "but I think the sweet peas would better suit you."
                  "Rick didn't bring us together to practice swordplay,"
the girl said, "so, yes, it's okay if you flirt, and, if you don't, I'm
building up my courage as we go along.  And I can build up a lot of courage
in almost four more hours."

                  "Do you want to keep it light and frivolous, like a one
night stand, or are you interested in something more mature.  For example,
me asking you personal questions about Rick."
                  "More mature," the girl replied, "especially as we're
going to be flying together all summer."
                  "And you're sure it won't interfere with anything that
may be going on between you?" Rob asked.
                  "We've talked about it, being with others," Nancy said,
"he wants it for me, So I don't get lopsided, in his words, and I think
he's right.  It's super and it's exciting, but it's not sacred.  We're
humans, not gods, we live, we don't exist, and I can't see how lying with
him while he quizzes me about you will put much in the way of distance
between us."
                  "Besides," Rob added for the girl, "you need someone to
marry when you're ready."
                  "I do," she admitted.

                  The plane droned on.

                  "Do you think Rick will marry one of your sisters?" Nancy
asked.
                  "I think the happiest marriages tend to be where there's
a strong father-daughter relationship, plus older men are much better
lovers than pups, so, as far as I'm concerned, he'd be perfect for Tracy or
Sandra."
                  "Are you a pup?" the girl asked.
                  "Compared to what I'll be in twenty years, yes, compared
to what I was when I was sixteen, no."
                  "Do girls become better lovers?" the ten year old asked.
                  "No," Rob said, "not if their first partners teach them
to use their mouth and hands.  Assuming they like being with a male, in the
first place, that's all a girl can do; they don't have to learn
self-control; in fact, the more they abandon it, the more exciting it is.
With a male, it's just the opposite.  He has to hold a beautiful girl in
his arms, and not lose control for a long time.  Even an hour."
                  "Can the girl help?" Nancy asked.

                  "I'm glad I wasn't drinking a Coke," Rob gasped, "it
would be coming out my nose."
                  "I can't remember," Nancy said, "from what we talked
about if its good to be a clown, or to be a not clown."
                  "It's okay," Rob said, "it's just that the more a girl
helped a man to control himself, the harder it would make it for him to do
so.  In fact, the only way a girl could help, that way, would be to get
fat."

                  "So many helpful girls," the girl mused aloud, "in lard
we trust.  I knew there must be a reason."
                  "And so many boys helping the girls, all round and
roly-poly.  Who said chivalry is dead?"
                  "Nobility," the girl said, "it does a body good."
                  "Sixty percent can't be wrong," Rob agreed, "impossible
in a democracy.
                  "Do you talk about stuff like this with Rick?" he asked.
                  "Since we're betrothed," Nancy said, "I can trust you.
It's the reason for our show.  From time to time we'll each comment on how
trim and fit the other is.  We have several closing scenes where we
deliberately go off in private, letting the audience imagine the rewards we
get in return for a mild case of the hungries."

                  "Nobility is where you find it," Rob observed.
                  "I know, weird stuff, against all the rules, but look at
the alternatives, plus, look at who made up the rules in the first place."
                  "Mad killers," Rob said, nodding, "dripping altars and
the sizzling irons."
                  "Thousands of years of it, in hundreds of cultures," the
pretty girl added, "but, probably, to be fair, only when population control
acted as an imperative."
                  "We're on the same page there," Rob said, "and there are
other madmen than clerics.  Revised history, or, more accurately, complete
history, tells us Winston Churchill was the greatest warmonger of all time,
yet, without the thirty million European casualties of World War II,
there'd be standing room only."
                  "It's the end of time," Nancy said, "obesity,
dysfunction, debt, Wal-Mart..."
                  "The miracles at the end of the Industrial Revolution,"
Rob interrupted, "reduced to appliances, commodities, and novelties."
                  "And on top of that, they killed Napster."

                  That brought a long moment of silence from pilot and
passenger, though, it must be noted, the cargo seemed indifferent.  The
grief over what fine print could wreak on humankind passed slowly, and
perhaps some drummer, somewhere, had enough for that second bottle of
whisky.

                  "I thought of something," Rob said after ten minutes, "it
may already be in your concept..."
                  "Sure," said the girl.  She couldn't help be a little
disappointed.  Everybody did, think of something, have an idea, suggest
this, and suggest that; it came with the territory."
                  "Other couples," Rob said.  "Brothers and sisters or
fathers and daughters.  Before and after.  Photos and video of before, then
after they've been watching you a few months.  Invite the winners for guest
appearances."
                  "Phew!" the girl sighed to herself in relief.  Out loud
she informed Rob he'd just paid for another year of medical school.
                  "I'd rather save it for the baby," he replied, "let him
master neurology."
                  "Daughters only, for such a beautiful father," the pixie
said, staring into his eyes to be sure he got the message in its entirety.
                  "Let her master neurology, then," Rob readily agreed.

                  Two minutes went by.

                  "Do you suppose we'll ever fight about anything?" the
girl sighed.
                  "Somehow I can't see your coming to me fresh from Rick
and leaving me strength for combat," the young pilot said.

                  Nancy reached to him with her left hand, taking his right
hand.  "How about when I come to you with his daughter," she whispered over
the drone of the cruising engines.
                  "I'll feel the same as he does when you go to him
carrying mine," Rob said, "no harm, no foul, no challenge, no swords, no
seconds."
                  "It must be that nobility we were talking about," Nancy
said.
                  "However bad Churchill was," Rob replied, "the French
managed to slaughter sixteen thousand a year on the field of honor, if
flicking a glove in a dude's face has anything to do with honor."
                  "Good," the girl said, "then we've got lots of bad
company.  I was worried about our marriage winding down to a humdrum
repetition of tedious days."
                  "There's always your driver's license to look forward
to," Rob said, "just six short years."
                  "And," the girl said, "my first not having a period.
That shouldn't even be two years, seeing how bad my husband and my brother
are."
                  "Maybe you could do worse," Rob said.
                  "Not my style," the girl responded, "I want to be totally
and wantonly wicked with two, not a little bit wicked with Tom, Dick, and
Harry."
                  "Get it into your system," Rob quipped.  Nancy got the
joke, didn't mind the stretch, and smiled up happily at the handsome young
adult beside her, still holding his hand.

                  "Rob?" she asked after a few minutes, "do you know what
my big problem is?"
                  "What?" he responded.
                  "If I have to wear a top on the show.  How long before
that happens.  When will we start getting emails from higher and higher up
until someone says halter the bitch or jerk her contract on a morals
clause."
                  "Remind me never to drink so much as a medicine cup of
water while we're together," Rob choked.
                  "At least you'll never be drowning sorrows," Nancy
rejoined.
                  "Drowned is drowned, my love," the medical student
replied.

                  "Are either of you sisters wearing bras?" Nancy asked.
                  "Tracy, the eleven year old," Rob said.
                  "For physical or psychological reasons?" the girl
queried.
                  "The latter," Rob replied.
                  "Does she like it?" the girl asked.
                  "I think it's just an excuse to have me come in her room
and help dress her in the morning."
                  "And undress her at night?"
                  "Now that you mention it."
                  "Do you like looking at her when she has it off?" the
girl asked, her hand now squeezing, her voice low and husky.
                  "Very much," Rob said, returning the commitment with his
hand, his voice a masculine copy of hers.
                  "Has she started to grow at all?" the ten year old wanted
to know.
                  "It depends who you ask," Rob answered, causing the pixie
to giggle once again.
                  "You."
                  "No."
                  "Good."
                  "She's pretty awesome as she is, so you may be right,"
Rob acknowledged.
                  "And Sandra?" Nancy asked.
                  "She may be a little ahead.  I can tell them apart in the
dark."

                  It was Nancy's turn for a spit take.  Trying not to
giggle had the same effect of a girl trying not to coax her lover, but the
sound was pleasing and infectious.
                  Tears dried, she snorted a few times.  "Would it be okay
if I took my blouse off?" she asked.  Rob looked into the intent brown
eyes, his welcome obvious.  "Not up here," he replied.  "I'm not into
stunting and mile-high club type stuff."
                  He reached into the door pocket to his left and pulled
out the chart.  "Pick an island about a hundred miles ahead so we can do an
efficient letdown," he said.
                  The girl started from his finger tip, chewed her lip for
a moment, then stabbed an island with her pixie finger.
                  "Okay," he said, "now we're going to pretend I've been
paralyzed by being shot by a love bolt, or something, and all I can do is
talk.  Your task is to get us from here, onto the airstrip, without adding
power at any point.  You are also to pretend a dowager empress of extreme
up-tightness is sitting in back with the cargo, and she has a fresh cup of
boiling tea in her hand."
                  "Don't tempt me," the girl giggled.  Rob guided her hands
to the wheel and switched off the autopilot.  The plane was suddenly alive
in her hands and she grinned with pleasure.
                  "It's stiff," she said.
                  "The faster, the stiffer, aerodynamics is the same way,"
he said, glad she didn't react to double entendre.  Nerves.
                  "Okay," he said, "now just trim it forward until we're
going about two-fifty" He was amazed to watch her use the electric button
on the yoke, but reach instinctively down with her left hand to check the
operation of the manually operated wheel between the pilot and co-pilot
seat.
                  Had she flown before?  No, she said, not up front.
                  "Call Bimini," he said, "and tell them we're diverting to
Sealess Island and we'll re-file when we're airborne again."
                  Her only mistake was saying `hello' into the microphone,
then she read the tail number, as she'd seen in movies, and gave the
message.  The controller designated her Angel One, and said he'd be waiting
to hear from here.  Rob handed her the check list and guided her through
the procedures which weren't intuitive.  With a taller student, he would
have slid his seat back and dozed off, letting the novice figure things out
for himself, but the pixie's legs didn't reach the rudders firmly enough
for positive control, so he stayed where he was, and took the chart back so
he could study it in detail.
                  "They always bounce the plane around when the passenger
has to take over, in the movies," the girl noted, "am I meant to be doing
that?"
                  "Not unless you wish to bathe in the dowager's tea," Rob
said.
                  "I think you're just pretending she's back there to make
me nervous," the girl giggled.
                  "Priscilla Carbola, pretend?" he aped, "she'd like to
hear that news."
                  "What would she do?" Nancy asked.
                  "Criticize us for making a straight-in approach, instead
of executing a traffic pattern," Rob said, "and stand by for more errors.
She does not like being taken lightly."
                  "Did she do in the Kennedy boy?" Nancy asked,
                  "Just for the publicity," Rob said, returning to the
perusal of his chart -- always something new to find if one concentrated.
                  "Too much television," he thought to himself, having
almost spoken out loud.  The space shuttle waited until the last second to
lower its wheels, and the girl did likewise, but she did lower them.  The
engines sighed back to idle just when they should have, there was five or
ten seconds of drifting, then a lurching, squealing touchdown, and a little
wobbliness as her relatively short legs worked the brakes.
                  Sealess Island wasn't treeless, and the girl chose a palm
grove, instinctively using heavy throttle as the plane waded through the
sand.  She turned it perfectly and earned her wings, in the mind of her
instructor, by straightening the nose wheel for a couple of feet before
bringing the machine to a smooth halt.  Rob killed the engines, and they
popped the doors and scrambled out to avoid the rapidly building heat in
the cockpit.
                  "Do we need anything?" Nancy asked.
                  "I don't think so," Rob said.  So they joined hands and
walked through the grove of palms to the beach.
                  They stripped shyly, and walked off at angles, into the
water, then she swam to him.
                  "What do you think?" she whispered, glad not to have to
compete with the engines.  Rob looked at her chest closely, and she gently
took his hands and brought them to her.  "I couldn't tell you and Tracy
apart," he said, softly.
                  "No one's touched me like you are," she whispered back,
just loud enough for him to hear her over the lapping water.
                  "Not Rick?" he asked.
                  "You'd be amazed how much I don't know," the girl said,
shyly.  "We have a ritual.  It's always pitch dark.  He never touches me
more than he can help, except where we're together.  No kissing, talking,
excess touching, just him up and his arms and me lying under him with my
legs spread and my arms up over my head."
                  "How do you feel about that?" Rob asked.
                  "I'm not allowed to wiggle my hips or respond in any way,
even by breathing hard, to what's happening.  His theory is those who break
one rule do well by not making a habit of it.  He's complete with me, and
we've never used a condom, but everything else is off the brother and
sister table, so to speak."
                  "Will that change after today?" Rob asked.
                  "Yes," Nancy said, "he's not a fanatic about it, he just
thinks it's fair to leave me as much a virgin as possible."
                  "So you've never been kissed?" Rob asked.
                  "Never," the girl said.
                  "When Rick's with you, have you ever climaxed?" the pilot
queried.
                  "He won't let me," the girl replied, shyly.
                  "You know what I think?" Rob asked.
                  "What?" Nancy said.
                  "It's a good thing he's marrying you off young," Rob
replied.
                  "Duh'uh," the girl intoned.
                  "I want to feel you up from the back," Rob whispered,
"like a child molester usually starts with a little boy or girl."

                  Nancy's eyes grew hot, and she turned away from the
six-three athlete.  "I won't be with you like Rick is, because of the
water," he said, "but if you want to come back against me you can still
feel me against your back."
                  The girl responded by moving a step back, and Rob
encircled her with his hands low on her belly.
                  "They start like this," he whispered, "after they pull
you blouse out of your shorts, then they move slowly higher, depending on
how much privacy they have for what they're doing with you."
                  "But they'd have a boner, like Rick, right?" Nancy asked.
                  "Yes," Rob said, "you'd feel against the middle of you
back."
                  "Do you molest Tracy and Sandra this way?" the girl
asked, her voice a deteriorating whisper.
                  Rob husked in her ear, "I have been for a year now.  All
the time.  In my apartment at school, in the car, in the labs and
classrooms, out in the woods, beside the trail when we're skiing, in the
morning, before they go to school, as soon as they come home from school,
alone and together, an hour a day any time either or both are with me."
                  "I take it that's a Yes," the imp grinned, looking back
over her shoulder, then she bowed her head to his touch and her hands rode
gently on his as he found her chest and tiny nipples.
                  "Do you want to hold me while I get a boner?" Rob
whispered.
                  "Yes," the girl hissed, and he felt her tense in his
arms.
                  The young man guided the girl to shallower water and she
turned to face him, wet head against his chest as she looked down between
their bodies.  "Touch me," the adult said.  Her hands found him, her left
cupping him, her right gripping him firmly and holding still.
                  "It takes a minute after a male's been swimming," he
coaxed softly in her ear.
                  "No wonder they always stay on the beach in the bimbo
movies," the girl whispered back.
                  "The beaches in Los Angeles are artificial," Rob said,
"the water is cold and gray, the rocks are covered with gray slime, and
it's almost always windy and cloudy, those are other reasons not to go in
the water."
                  "It's sexy talking to you," Nancy said, "do you talk with
Tracy and Sandra a lot?"
                  "We're a lot like you and Rick," Rob replied.  "The girls
display when they're receptive, and we find a private place.  It's very
physical, maybe even clinical, I guess."
                  "You hold them still?" she whispered.
                  "Same as you guys," he said, "I think it's the way a lot
of brother mount their sisters; a love need, a physical need, but not a
romantic need.  Something like that."
                  "It's very satisfying," Nancy said, "just feeling him
throbbing in me like a bow twanging, and imagining what's happening, even
though I've never seen it.  Imagining what his sperm looks like and how
much he's leaving inside me."
                  "You won't feel that with me," Rob said, "I'm going to
take you as a lover, not a brother."
                  "Just be sure to tell me," she whispered, "if I'm still
conscious."

                  He grew suddenly and fully in her hand.  Her breathing
became ragged as she watched and felt him swell to seven, then eight
inches, hotly thick, his glans flaring hugely as she stroked back his
foreskin and held him naked against her immature female chest.  "Take me up
on the beach," she mewed, her legs folding.  The six-four athlete picked
her up like a child, waded the ten feet onto the beach, and lay her on the
hard-packed coral sand.
                  "This is how I lie for him," she said, raising her arms
fully and spreading her legs widely.
                  "No wonder you've never been kissed," Rob said, lying on
the damp sand, perpendicular to her right shoulder and rising on his elbows
to stare down into her schoolgirl face.
                  "That sexy, eh?" she asked, her eyes huge.
                  "Beyond any possibility of imagination," he said, "and
that's an understatement."
                  "How would you feel if I'd just been with him?" she
whispered.
                  "Animal instincts run pretty hot along those lines," Rob
said, "so your first kiss would just have to wait."
                  "Then I'm glad we're going to him, not coming from him,"
she said with a soft smile that was her last on the planet with virgin
lips.  Rob lowered to her lips, found her, and placed his right hand low on
her wet belly as she nibbled tentatively at him in welcome.  Her lips
warmed quickly and melted to an alluring softness, a tender trap to beguile
and tantalize, with a hot eel begging freedom and frantic to escape its
tomboy mouth prison.  Of course, it never got very far because it met its
mate almost the instant it was free, and, though the tangle and tussle was
epic, it eventually seemed to accept its roots and returned home so the
girl could once again speak.
                  "How many Fourths can one July have?" she murmured in
wonder.
                  "Think how it would be if young Fawkes had actually blown
Parliament to kingdom come," Rob whispered into her delicious little girl
mouth, "that's how it feels to me.  One huge kaboom after another with
cannons, cymbals, and a stadium of mad brass."
                  "If I passed you a note during all the commotion," the
school girl asked, "what do you suppose it would read?"
                  "I love you," he whispered into her beautiful mouth.
                  "I love you, too," she whispered back, her hands coming
to his face and drawing him Fourth.

                  Early on the Fifth, their lips parted.  "I don't kiss
Tracy and Sandra," Rob whispered in the child's right ear, "but I do
masturbate them when I molest them."
                  His right hand moved beyond her slim young belly.  Her
hands came to his powerful swimmer's shoulders, so much like her brother's,
and she raised her hips high off the damp sand, walking her ankles apart
and mewing encouragement.
                  Rob found the perfect thighs of the little girl, molested
her for several long, tender minutes, then found her wetness as she gasped
and shuddered against him, biting, clawing and sweating with his every
movement against her bucking young loins.
                  Vaguely the ten year old wondered why they called in
`cumming' when she was so obviously going away.  Far and fast.  One a
rocket.  Everything dropping, plummeting, crashing; so much surf, so little
time, and would he never...
                  She screamed her brother's name twice, then howled Rob's
again and again as her legs slammed together and she convulsed wildly, her
head lolling, her face slack, her eyes rolled back and useless.
                  "He left a lot of me for you," she whispered in a half
giggle some minutes later.  She was beginning to breath normally, and the
trade winds were drying her delicate, white skin.  Rob was back on his
elbow, staring down into the gamin face, adoring the bright pride in her
huge, brown eyes.
                  "I think an eight pound daughter from me, to you, to him
would be a suitable reward, what says my angel love?"
                  "Pul-ease,' is what the angel of the first party says,"
Nancy smiled.  "Six pounds, and we'll bring her up on Wheaties."
                  "That gives me an idea," Rob said, now tickling her
slightly parted lips with an egret feather."
                  "What?" she asked.
                  "Let me write an episode," he said, "when one of the
winning couples has a child.  They can bring her with them on a second
visit and we'll hint at, but not actually spell out the baby's parentage."
                  "The most special surprising dear young friend of John
and Debbie Doe," the girl responded, "oh, I like it ever so."
                  "Good," Rob said, "there's such an avalanche of old
people and fat people out there, the thought of making any of them live a
moment longer than they have to has lost its appeal."
                  "We're going to be such power hitters," Nancy observed.
"Really have a show that does something.  That says to millions, keep in
fantastic shape, and this could happen to you.  For the girls getting
raped, that this isn't exactly Sunday school behavior, but it happens to
one girl in five, and some girls love it.  Point out the advantages.  If
Rick and I were an ordinary brother and sister, we'd be together every day,
we wouldn't have to waste time on social posturing, take chances with
disease or emotional involvement with the unfit, and anything that happened
would be part of a life long involvement."
                  "Practice, too," Rob said, "don't forget that.  The
chance to be together alone for hours, so you can become really good lovers
in the physical sense.'
                  "Not that it takes much."

                  She giggled happily.  "Did Tracy cum the first time you
took her that way?" she asked.
                  "No," Rob admitted.
                  "So it takes some," she said, wisely, "and if that's
true, it follows that more is better than some.  Proof is what just
happened between us.  That big dent in the sand didn't get there by itself.
It got there because you were beautiful and urgent with me, because you
stayed with me..."
                  "Don't forget the loving you part," he reminded her.
                  "How would I know about that?" she smiled, "I wasn't even
on the planet."
                  And suddenly the soft, contented eyes blazed anew, brown
and hot, "Can boys go where girls go?" she whispered.
                  "Yes," he said.
                  "Teach me," she blushed.

                  He lay on his back, legs spread as her's had been, guided
the seventy pounds of her beautifully proportioned feminine body to his
muscular right thigh.  She bent to him, and he let her go, linking his
fingers behind his neck and staring at the naked mermaid leaning to him.
                  Her tiny right hand found his glans and played, wetting.
She stroked tentatively, staring into his eyes and gauging his tension
between her still wet thighs.  Her left hand wandered his belly and chest
as she settled into a firm, rhythmic stroke, masturbating him much as he
had her.
                  "Tell me," she whispered.
                  "I will," he answered.
                  "Is there any way I can make it last longer," she asked,
feeling him cording between her slim legs.
                  "Not without taking a bullet," he gasped.
                  "Oh, Rob," she whispered, "I love how you look, how you
feel, I want it to last forever, to be your girl all day.  Don't cum."
                  "Oh, darling," he managed to pant, "you'll have to
absolutely forbid me.  Threaten torture, bankruptcy, exposure, think of
something..."
                  "We could talk about the show," she said, "what it's
going to be like standing at the plate and nailing a five-hundred-foot rope
week after week.  Watching McDonald's crash and burn as ten million kids
abandon the golden arches for what you're going to do all over my chest.
Turn some victims into lovers, free others by letting them say I know what
it's all about, and I don't want any part of it.  Empower kids to feel what
I felt with you, what I feel as you tense, trying to concentrate on every
word I'm saying.  It should be there right.  Sacred and guaranteed.
Neither condoned nor tolerated, but avidly pursued.  Family life isn't
complete without it.  Sell a million jump ropes a months, because that's
what Rick and I do together.  Empty the theaters, empty the malls, flood
the libraries until the malls are converted into libraries.  Clubs,
organizations, huge attendance at parades and functions, so everyone gets
the message red hot off the grill, leave us alone.  Brothers being nice to
their sisters, fathers to their daughters, mothers to everyone in the happy
family.  No secrets, no subversion, no lies, no creeps, or, at least, less
of all of the above.  Divorce rates through the floor.  Shower babies
galore.  Mothers nursing daughter and sister at the same time and with the
same breast.  A wholesale detachment from greed and Wal-Mart with a
paradigm as ancient as Egypt, itself.  Not new, old.  Not wrong, right.
Not bad, perfect.  Not over, `till death do you part.  And so many millions
would find new things.  New facets.  New techniques.  Eventually, though it
might be a hundred years, girls would learn how to keep their male partners
from ejaculating, from cumming, from covering their chests and shoulders
and necks and faces and lips with the hot spurt of their thick, white,
gushing seed, and allowing some of the spray on the heaving chest so the
feline little creatures will have something to lick and carry to their
lovers with their pretty, pink tongues."

                  Now she lay fully on him, his arms softly around her.
They kissed softly and gently, murmuring welcome.  She indicated she could
wait no longer, by biting his right nipple.  Slowly they rolled on the
packed, white sand and she again spread widely for him.
                  "Do you guide Rick," he asked, looking deeply into her
eyes.
                  "He finds me by himself," she replied.
                  "Guide me," he whispered.
                  "Yes," she said, finding him in moments with her right
hand and masturbating him, thrilling to the immediate tension bolting his
body like an electric shock.  She left him when she was sure, and he
entered like a stallion with his first filly, penetrating slowly to her
cervix, then entering gently to his hilt and staring down into her glowing
eyes.  Her hands came gently to his heaving flanks, cradling him just under
his bunched shoulders.
                  "You're still wet with sperm," he whispered softly to
her, "do you want to feel me against your nipples while you're slippery?"
                  "Yes," she whispered.
                  He lowered slowly as she arched, then came fully on top
of her as her hands slid down his flanks to his hips, urging him fully into
her womb, then returning to the corded muscles of his swimmer's back.
                  "For a husband, you make a great brother," she said, "if
you were high over me, and my arms were like Rick always wants them, I
couldn't tell you apart.  You both make me feel pregnant.  Saturated.
Complete."

                  He rose to her coaxing, and he lifted his arms, one at a
time, so she could stretch under him, then they froze, panting gently,
gazing into each other's eyes.
                  "Have you molested Tracy this much?" she whispered.
                  "Almost," the young male said.
                  "Did it end while you were inside her?" she quizzed.
                  "On her belly," he whispered back.
                  "Rick will be the first?"
                  "Yes," he said, "and Sandra, too, I've never gone this
far with her."
                  "Will you start cumming in them after Rick has?" she
wanted to know.
                  "If you want," he said, lowering again to her childish
body so he could kiss her still-damp hair while feeling her slim bare chest
against him..
                  "Definitely," she smiled, and he could sense it against
his neck,.  "they have made a spectacular male animal of you, and quitting
while they're ahead is not an option."
                  "Do you like talking?" he asked.
                  "I love it," she cooed.  "It just seems to make us last
forever."
                  "Tell me about your first time with Rick," the young male
said, "how old were you."
                  "It was two years ago," she replied, "when he was doing
`NYPD Blue', and I was eight."
                  "How did it start?" he asked.
                  "I asked him about his first time," the gamin child
replied.  "We were on a camping trip.  He told me, and when I wanted to zip
our two sleeping bags together, he let me."
                  "Did he help?" Rob asked.
                  "He wanted to, but his hands were shaking too much to be
much use."
                  "Wonder of wonders," Rob commented, then added: "What was
his first time."
                  "It was with a boy," she replied, "for which I cannot
blame him one eensy tiny weensy itsy bitsy bit, while they were making
`Lonesome Dove'."


                  "Rick, wait up, eh?" Allen Rigby shouted.  The twelve
year old reined in his animal and slid from the saddle.  Rick Schroeder
turned his feisty three year old, sitting calmly as the horse fooled
around, then nudging the filly back to where Allen was bent over Batman's
right foreleg.

                  "Just like in the movies," the boy said, half a grin
spreading across his wide mouth, "she done come up lame."  He was a
freckle-faced redhead, his short hair a deep, almost brunet, auburn.  Rick,
for all he was worth, tried not to look again as he slid from Miss Monroe;
kept trying not to look at the lanky, coltish pre-teen bent over the hoof,
bare chested in his overalls, with one strap hanging down over his right
arm.

                  They were five miles from the nearest road, ten miles
from anything more than that.  Allen was the wrangler's son, and the two of
them were out checking the two p.m. sun to be sure there were no glints or
glares from Tesuque Trailer Village [two year home of the author].  The
line from the script read: "There's nothing like riding a good horse over
new ground."  The Sangre de Christo melted into hard rolling pinon-studded
prairie so sublimely at this one spot seven miles due north of Santa Fe,
the art director had insisted the entire trailer village be strung with
camo netting for a pristine backdrop.  They'd found no glint of aluminum
siding or auto windshield, and had let their ponies run a bit as they
headed back for the trailers.

                  "I knew it couldn't be a loose shoe," Allen said as the
older teen approached.
                  "But it looks very loose to me," Rick said, making the
boy giggle out loud.  By a neat equestrian trick, Batman had picked up a
rusty old horseshoe, pressing one of its nails deep into his own right
forehoof.  "Whoever lost this shoe probably knew Kit Carson, Wyatt Erp,
John Fremont, Zeb Pike, and all of them, personally," the boy said,
fingering the lightly rusted iron.

                  Now, just happy can a boy be?  Count it up.  One, he was
out for the first time on the four-year-old gelding.  Two, on the morrow
they would bring up a camera and shoot what was probably the most beautiful
single scene ever filmed.  Three, he was with a famous actor, his personal
choice as cutest of stage, screen and comic.  Four, Batman was going
nowhere in a hurry.  Five, he had an epic souvenir, if he could just pry it
from Batman's hoof.  Six, Rick was at his right flank, trying to help.
Seven, Rick was bare chested under his Oshkosh union suit.  Eight, he might
also have dressed without underwear.  Nine was the pinon forest, trees
seldom over ten feet, woods with a view, and the prospect of the vast sweep
of the Rio Grande Valley between Los Alamos and Santa Fe was at once the
most subtle and grandest on the planet.  Even riding a not-so-good horse it
shimmered and saturated, overwhelmed, seemed to ring and echo itself from
the weathered intricacies of a stunted pine to a line of sight of a hundred
miles.  Very serious Indian country stretching to Taos, east and west to
vast cattle-only wastelands, but ending twenty miles to the south as the
valley yielded to the vast gravel pit that made up half of New Mexico.

                  The boys worked patiently as Batman looked on.  From the
start, they were intensely aware of each other, of each touch of the teen's
well-developed upper arm to the boy's slender and delicate counterpart.
Neither made any move away from the other, neither was bold enough to try
anything.  Finally working the stuck nail free without breaking it.  Allen
presented it to Rick, who refused it flatly.
                  "Maybe there are other things," Allen said, "if this shoe
came all the way off, the rider would have had to stop."  He knew it was
improbable and a stretch, but Rick took up the notion and soon they'd
broken off dried branches from a tree and were walking side-by-side poking
at the desert floor.
                  "Were you embarrassed in that cathouse scene?" Allen
asked after some minutes.
                  "Yes," Rick replied, "but I guess it was realistic.  You
know, if you were young and inexperienced, and someone wanted to wash you
off, that's probably what would happen."
                  "In the book," Allen said, "your character did things
with other boys when they were out on the trail.  Did you read that part?"
                  "Yes," Rick said.
                  "Do you think that happened a lot?  I mean out there for
weeks with no girls."
                  "Yes," Rick said, again.
                  "If there were like a hundred boys, you know, just
imaginary, on a long trail drive, how many do you think would want to do
things together."
                  "A lot," Rick said.
                  "Do you think you would have wanted to, you know, if I
was with you?"
                  "Yes," Rick said, his mouth dry and his voice husky and
shaky.
                  "I would, too," the boy whispered back.
                  "We've got to be friends, too," Rick said, "those are
scarce in this business.  Best friends, okay, not just buddies, friends?"

                  Ten.  That was a new friend.

                  "And it's not that you look cute in those overalls, which
you do, by the way, but what you said about Fremont and Pike.  That you
know things like that.  That they mean something to you.  That you care.
That's what makes me want to be with you as much as I can."
                  "I liked the way you stopped the second I called," the
boy said, shyly.  "It was like you cared."
                  "I do," Rick said.
                  "Me, too," the boy replied.
                  "Pretty mushy," Rick allowed.
                  "Too much for this `poke," the younger boy grinned.
                  "If we're two stallions, we'd better act like it."
                  "Let there be no confusion."
                  "Do you know what to do?" Rick asked.
                  "Touch each other," the younger boy suggested.  "I guess
sometimes they must have tried kissing, you know, if they really liked each
other."

                  "It's not in my contract," Rick said; "there's not a
single word about standing in the most beautiful single place on the whole
of planet earth, and kissing the cutest and nicest boy I've ever known in
my life."
                  "If `Variety' finds out, we're chopped liver," Allen
giggled.
                  "My next Morals Clause will take up a full page," Rick
acknowledged, shaking his head with a dramatic sigh.
                  "Are you old enough so it will be rape when it happens?"
the boy asked.
                  "I'm nineteen," Rick said, "so rape it will be according
to every law book and lawyer in the land."
                  "That makes sense," Allen said, "though, of course, when
one considers the half million or so locked up for weed, it's hard to see
the law as the sterling guideposts the Greeks imagined."

                  "I can't not rape you," Rick mused, half to himself, and
half in bewildered wonder.  I see them both peering at me from the screen,
shrugging their bare shoulders, seeking intervention.  The god that made
the valley made the nightmare brown scorpion, and, if he's that confused,
who am I to straighten things out?

                  Good little players, they shrugged it off.  Millions
smoked weed in peace and security, millions of boys submitted to, and often
instigated, their own rape by a mature male.  I should inform new readers
that I essay up from time to time.  All I have to do is type the word
Samantha, and there's half a coronary for the veterans.  So, how do you
like the opening?  I can't -- can not -- believe I finished "The Tarzan
Mushroom Hunters" yesterday, midday, and by nine p.m., the following day am
over 7,750 words into this yarn.  I'm exceedingly hard to impress.  Celine
does it every time I push Play, but I count myself too lazy to exercise the
metaphor in a more personal way.  If you're impressed, it would save me a
lot of troublesome back patting.

                  We can't return to those thrilling days of Lonesome year
without a note in tribute to Larry McMurtry.  Only the short stories of
John O'Hara taught me more about my art.  The very opening of "Lonesome
Dove" is a model for the opening of this story, though, to be honest, I had
no idea the novel would land us west of the Sangre de Christo.  I write of
this simultaneously ethereal and majestic section of the Rio Grande with
the most mixed emotions.  I drove it a thousand times, lived in it (or
nearby, in Santa Fe) for four years, was thrilled to see it as a backdrop
for the "Good horse/new country" line from the television series, yet it is
the same valley my wife crossed for the seed of her new lover, that he
crossed when he wanted to be coaxed into cumming between her long, slim
legs.  Many times they undoubtedly crossed it together, her left hand under
his right thigh as he drove.  I know the feeling.

                  Queenie and her mother were by today.  They haven't moved
in; meant to happen in a couple of days.  Daisy flat out suggested Queenie
sleep in one of my empty bedrooms, and the girl smiled happily.  She is
just totally stunning.  Very long legged and high breasted.  Total
cheekbones; electric smile.  An almost bizarre hypochondriac, she comes up
with symptoms faster than a Los Vegas dealer comes up with a losing hand.
I think it's just to obtain jinglings, as Samantha calls them, but she's
wonderfully creative about the whole thing.  I told Daisy I wanted Queenie
as a spare girlfriend for when Samantha goes to jail.  She though that was
a great idea, and Queenie, properly, Lois, smiled once again.  We did some
dishes together.  Lifetime experience.  And there were two of them today.
Samantha went missing looking for tea.  Everyone took off looking for her,
leaving Rhageedha alone with me for an hour.  She was in my lap almost
immediately, entirely on her own.  We played solitaire.  I molested her
gently with both hands for half an hour, occasionally helping her with the
mouse.  When I pulled her back, she came in an instant, fully, no
hesitation or sign of discomfort.  I never look a child in the eyes for
more than two seconds, but this was an exception.  She gazed back from her
huge brown orbs and smiled, beautifully.  We made out for twenty minutes,
breaking so I could see her smile from time to time.  It was getting dark,
still no Samantha, so I walked her home.  Samantha was safe and sound when
I got back, three brothers in tow.  I suppose she's actually reasonably
safe, if she just wouldn't run around in Speedos.  Anyway, I try to make
these essays short.  It doesn't always work, but I try, blaming any lack of
success, not on the cable, which used to be my inspiration (in quotes), but
on three utterly beautiful and superbly personable young girls, fifteen,
fifteen, and seven.  (19,997 more and I'll equal Wilt Chamberlain.)


                  "And I cannot be not raped by you," the boy added,
helpfully, allowing final dismissal of a subject that seemed likely to
become silly.

                  "I think the man stands behind the boy the first time he
molests him," Allen said.
                  "Like this," Rick whispered, pulling the coltish twelve
year old against his powerful teen chest.
                  "Inside my coveralls," the boy coaxed.

                  Rick found the slightly soft belly of the freckly kid,
first with his right hand, then with his left.  "No wonder beef cost five
cents a pound in the old days," he whispered.
                  "Does it really feel good?" Allen asked.
                  "Yes," Rick said softly, adding: "so good there was so
much beef the railroads came for it."
                  "History and the single boy," Allen said, beginning to
pant.
                  "Rape as paradigm," Rick added, his voice now also
effected by the rush of his mature teen hormones.

                  "Rape as religion," the child whispered, "and yet so far
above god."
                  "Do you want me to rape you out in the sun, where He can
see?" Rick asked.
                  "If you think the `Enquirer' doesn't have a satellite,
yes," the boy replied, adding: "Let's get naked here and we can hang our
clothes on the tree."

                  The first stripped the horses, retrieving the Navaho
saddle blankets as protection for their bare feet.  The undressed on far
sides of the pinon pine.
                  "Are you really big?" Allen whispered through the dwarf
tree.
                  "Yes," Rick said, "you, too?"
                  "Yes," came the return whisper.
                  "We could close our eyes and pretend to wrestle on one of
the blankets to get used to each other," Rick suggested.
                  "Okay," the boy replied, "I'm younger, so I'll be the
filly.  You come and find me, but go real slow on account of there might be
thorns."
                  "Okay," Rick whispered over his shoulder.

                  The June breeze swept the vast valley with whispers and
tendrils of rustling call; with it came an almost inaudible hiss from human
lips.  Rick started out on his hands and knees, eyes mashed shut.  His
penis jutted hard toward mother earth, like a stallion fresh over the
fence.  He moved slowly, reviewing in his mind the lightly freckled torso
in the overalls, the shy, boy-teeth smile, and what that milk white bottom
might look like in the soft cirrus-filtered light flooding the immense
valley.

                  He listened intently, blind as a bat.  Yes, a second
sublimely gentle hiss on the early June breeze.  He turned in the best
direction he could, and moved slowly ahead on his hands and knees, half
shocked to feel his erection, already the longest and hardest of his life,
swell dramatically.  He felt like warning his little victim that if he
heard a foreign sound, it would be his sperm jetting from him onto the dry
grass and sand, but he said nothing, just inched along.  They had hours to
file their report with the A.D., and this was obviously the entirely best
game in all the whole, wide world.  Creep, creep, creep.

                  The next hiss wasn't a mistral of the prairie breeze, but
half a snake it was so close.  Rick froze.  He'd watched the crew play
poker a time or two, and learned about raising stakes.  "Okay, Allen," he
whispered, "I want to find you with my tongue, then see if I can tell what
part of you it is."

                  He was positive he heard a giggle, but so choked was it,
he could tell neither from where, or how far off, it might have originated.
He took it as a yes, and crawled on, an inch at a time, circling to the
right, his tongue extended like that of a fabulous snake, his handsome head
describing an arc from left to right, and back.

                  "I'm going to rape you repeatedly, for years," he
whispered.
                  Only the soft wind.  [Note: not always.  The Valley could
use a sign reading Wind is Hell, especially in the spring.]

                  "I just got religion," he tried, "Lord, can't you behoove
yourself to help just this one miserable sinner find his way?"

                  Silence.

                  "It's not a big snake," Rick whispered, "but it's very
close."

                  Wind.

                  Tough audience.  One last effort, then it would be back
to palms and knees against the thorns of long-dead cholla.  "It's Tyne
Daley," he intoned.

                  A kid can do a lot of things silently, but retching isn't
one of them.  The gulping distress, however manfully muffled, had to be
less than ten feet away.  Rick homed in, the delay by having to creep, pick
out a thorn before it broke his skin, and creep again, was enraging, was
making him hurt from his knees to his belly.  Served him right for playing
what was obviously the entirely stupidest game in the whole, wide world.

                  It took whole minutes.  It hurt.  The sun felt good on
his long, naked back, otherwise, he was blind and beset.  No more funny
stuff.  Biblical, of prick and pain.  New friend, or not, he wanted to conk
the kid, who seemed not even to breathe the merest path into the ocean of
air from the west.  Shouldn't he be able to smell something so near, so
delicious.  A rattler could, an animal with a brain the size of a peanut
could home in, mount, and be off for dinner in the time it took him to inch
three feet across the hostile desert floor.

                  But inch the actor did, and, as in life, succeed he did.
Now there was no mistake, the boy had to breathe, just had to, and the wind
obliged by calming, completely.  Inches now.  Then his heat, then his
silky, milky skin, soft beyond belief against the nineteen year old's lips,
slightly tangy with a hint of salt against his tongue.  The boy began
panting with the first touch, shaking as the touching went on.  He was so
perfect from head to foot, both coltish and padded with a sheen of juvenile
fat, that it was hard to tell where he was raping the little boy.
                  "I can't tell," he whispered, "I give up."

                  Silence, other than the breathing which was so muffled
the clever tyke must have grabbed a fistful of blanket to hold tight
against his mouth.  So, tricks weren't going to work.  That left his teeth.
He grabbed the child in his mouth, biting gently but increasing the
pressure slowly.

                  Silence.

                  Then it was that he was touched by the miracle of
inspiration.  "Does your penis hurt?" he asked.
                  "Yes," Allen whispered.  He had the boy, judging by his
voice, on his right flank, near his lowest rib.  He let go with his gentle
teeth and completed the game.  "Pretty close," Allen said.
                  "Are your eyes open?" Rick asked.
                  "Not yet," Allen said.
                  "Let's stand up so we can look at each other," the older
male suggested, "we can put our hands behind our necks like we were posing
for a body magazine, do you want to?"
                  "Yes," Allen whispered, hoarsely.
                  The blind led the blind and in a few moments they were
standing on the blanket, two feet apart, posturing and arching, then, on a
count of three, they opened their eyes and stood rigidly staring at each
other and down at their own huge erections.  Rick spread his legs and
squatted slightly, lowering himself.  Wordlessly, panting gently, Allen
came to him, standing slightly on his tiptoes so their joining would be
perfect.  It was.  They met with the softest possible touch, and, carefully
moving their hips, caressed each other, hands still behind their necks, but
bent to each other so they could see and whisper.

                  "Will you sperm if we keep doing this?" Rick asked the
twelve year old.
                  "Yes," the boy whispered.
                  "Do you want to, or do you want me to molest you more."
                  "Later," the boy said, his voice so ragged his meaning
was obvious.
                  "I'm right with you," Rick said, "so let it happen to me,
first."
                  "Okay," the boy whispered.
                  "I'm going to cum on you in a minute," Rick warned.  By
accord, but the young males positioned themselves so their hot, swollen
glans were pressing tightly against each other, pink tip of the boy to the
more purple tip of the teenager.
                  They stared and continued their all-but motionless
thrusting against each other.
                  "I'm cumming," Rick whispered, and in seconds a hot jet
of his teen sperm sprayed from between their joined boners.

                  "It's happening to me, too," hissed the sweating
pre-teen, and in moments neither young male could tell whose seed was
splashing on their bellies and thighs.  They grunted to each other,
coaxing, hands still behind their necks.  Inevitably, the slipped apart,
and seconds later they were holding each other and kissing wantonly as they
continued wetting each other's bellies with gush after gush of thick, white
cum liberally mixed with the more watery semen of the pre-teen.

                  Slowly they sank to the wool blanket, Rick on his back,
Allen in his arms, chest to chest, so they could experiment with licking
each other and kissing.  In minutes they masturbated each other in the
classic way, Allen at the tall teen's right hip, then the mature male
leaning over the shoulder of the boy, holding him in his left arm and
jerking him off with his left.  This brought a near total collapse back to
the useful blanket with Allen trying to focus his mind on the issue of just
how much luck a single, long-forgotten horseshoe could bring.

                  Eleven.

                  "Do you know how the story ends?" Nancy asked Rob.
                  "No," the pilot replied, half stunned at remaining so
hard and so still as he listened to her melodic, ten-year-old voice.
                  "Rick said, `I know someone you would like to meet.'"
                  "Have you met him?" Rob asked.
                  "No," the girl said, "but they've stayed friends.  Allen
Rigby is our director."
                  "How do you feel about meeting him?" Rob asked.
                  "I'm a married woman," the girl said softly.
                  "To a much older and very tolerant man," Rob said.
                  "To a super man, at that," the girl agreed.
                  "Seriously," the young man said, "if I see you with
someone else, I'll just fantasize -- you know, recreationally -- not
claim you as a birthright or anything."
                  "Well," Nancy said, "three could work as a limit.  I
always thought just my brother and one husband, but maybe I construe too
narrowly."

                  "Darling," he whispered, very intimately.
                  "You feel just like Rick," she smiled, then her eyes
glazed at the shock of the hard pulsing deep within her
                  "Oh, that was so, so, close," she whispered, wet and
happy from him, smiling up at him, delicious in her welcome, "tell me about
your first time," she encouraged, "then we'll go all the way together."

                  "It wasn't with a girl, either," he responded.
                  "I didn't think a female could have taught you so much
about being a male," the girl chortled.
                  "He was nine years old," Rob said, settling against the
beautiful young body spread beneath him on the tropic coral sand, "and his
name was Danny Fielding He was just the kid in the middle of the line," the
twenty-two year old began, "I was fourteen and I had to baby-sit for him.
Not much of an ego builder for a teenager, but that was then and this is
now."
                  "Pretty cute," the doll said, "Allen made a cowboy out of
Rick, and Danny made a babysitter out of you."
                  "So many comics, so little time," he said, kissing her,
"besides, the skill sets will come in very useful one -- of -- these
-- days."
                  "One to put meat on the table and one to cut it up for
the piglets so they won't choke," the girl noted.
                  "Plus one to make piglets, in the first place," he added,
kissing her on the forehead, and beginning his story.


                  "Robbie," Mrs. Lester called up the stairs, "Kitty
Ellsworth broke her wrist and apparently managed to do it before
skateboarding the entirety of three feet, so Abby Fielding is totally stuck
for a babysitter.  Danny has had his rabies shots and his teeth have been
filed, so flee this house and to her rescue."

                  The boy wanted to be moody, and might have prevaricated
at the injustice of the situation, and in the world, at large, but he'd
just started his algebra homework, and no twerp, no matter how twerpish,
was worse than that.
                  "And don't forget you maths book," she called as he
donned his letter jacket.  Outrage reaches a point of no retort, so he
grinned at the handsome, crew-cut face in the mirror, and bore it.

                  "This must be the biggest pain in the butt of your entire
life," Danny said moments after the front door closed.  "I'm nine, and I'd
hate to baby-sit for some kid, for a teen it must be so totally uncool I'm
surprised you didn't come over through the woods and knock at the back
door."
                  "I could try again," the fourteen year old said, "maybe
I'd get lost in Sloeman's forest and spend the next four hours with
mosquitoes one can swat without fear of reprisal."
                  "Don't the other ones get mad and bite you?" the boy
asked, his huge brown eyes half way between smoldering and flickering.
                  "I play hardball," the teen said, "I need all that kind
of practice I can get."
                  "It's pitch, pitch black in the woods at night," Danny
said, "so I'd like to see you pick then out of the air under those
conditions."
                  "Maybe I could home in on their immature, squeaky, silly
voices," the teen growled, but it was far too late.  Their eyes were
locked, the bonding had been instantaneous and to the bone, they both felt
it, and the older boy was shocked by it.  To Danny, it was a chapter two.

                  "No television, videos, stereo, or telephone, so I'm
afraid you're rather for it," the nine year old said in a perfect British
accent.
                  "So that's why you're alive," the older boy said, adding
all there was in his house were books and magazines, too.  "Duh'uh, look
around," the kid responded, and, indeed, once he'd somehow unhooked from
those huge brown eyes, and looked around, sure enough, fourth rate
furniture, first rate library, rich in periodicals.  Danny picked one up at
random.  "They don't have anything to write about, anymore," he said, "but
it's fun to watch them try."  The boy blushed, his translucent English
complexion pinking just slightly, "I know I shouldn't be cynical," he said,
shyly, "that's why the television went.  I patterned on Pinky's friend, you
know, The Brain.  My mom thought it was funny, but not for such a number of
hours as would befit myth or legend.
                  "'Rule this!' quoth the lady of the pile, exchanging unto
my hand ye remote for ye tome."
                  "So you're to develop as an amusing child," Robbie said,
"I think perhaps parents do it for their own entertainment."
                  "You, too?" the boy asked.
                  "A failure, I'm afraid," Robbie sighed, "dreary texts,
frightful exams, credentialled union teachers, and, to be sure there is
lots of salt in every wound, algebra."
                  "Forsooth, it has left ye wanting, indeed," said the nine
year old, shaking his head but not far enough to break eye contact.  "But
remember how I said I was The Brain?" the boy asked in his wonderfully
soft, childish voice, "well, it's for-the-most-part true."
                  "And dideth thee toil aside from all, unnoted by any,
forsaken evening after evening?" Robbie asked his ward of the evening.
                  "Not exactly," said the bright-eyes, "so stretch your
mind and ride with me.  Allow appearances not to deceive.  Looketh upon thy
dorky young neighbor, yea, with respect, for behold, it came to pass at an
earlier hour of this very day that thy neighbor of the first part did
willfully and wantonly, with precise foreknowledge of inevitable
consequence, lend to Miss Kitty Ellsworth, of this locale, one, each,
skateboard with bearings freshly lubricated by hypodermic needle forsaking
all but the rarest of marine mammal oils."
                  "You don't look dorky to me," Robbie said.
                  "Just to the mirror, then," the boy said.
                  "Stay away from it then," the older boy advised.
"Classily cute nine year olds are no better looking than anyone else when
they get to be teenagers, and it's usually the plain looking boys who end
up being cute."
                  "You looked dumb, too?" the boy asked.
                  "Just regular, like you," Robbie said, adding: "Good
choice with Kitty."
                  The boy brightened.  "That was the psychology part.  I
had to get my mom to want her, in the first place.  Talk about a tightrope.
I had to pretend I didn't like her, you know how mothers are, when, like
all the other kids, I hated her pompous, Southern-nitwit tripe."
                  "Add a drop of exotic oil," Robbie said, "and here the
two of us are standing for ten minutes, me roasting inside my jacket."
                  "Kitty's still in the emergency room," the boy observed,
reaching for Robbie's jacket.
                  "Won't be the last time," the older boy said, finally
breaking eye contact to take another look around.  Good chairs with good
lights, and everything else could stand in line.  Nice and dusty.  No one
wasting time there.  Not excessive; not greasy, cloying, or thick with
Dickensesque decay, like the house of an old person with big dogs, just
prioritized.  What was called `human' before an urban subset mandated
froth, glitz, and schmaltz (in case anyone misses the point) -- form over
function -- as the national standard (didn't invent it, just crammed it
as the easy, lowest-common-denominator, quick-profit sell).

                  "What are you reading?" Danny said, going to a chair and
picking a paperback off the arm, indicating an opposite chair for his
guest, and reading off the title of the fat volume.
                  Robbie held up his maths book.
                  "You agreed to baby-sit me, thinking you could get out of
it, but your mom reminded you before you were out the door," the boy mused,
sadly, adding: "Now do you see why the TV's history."
                  "One more episode, you'd be on cheese for the rest of
your life," Robbie said.
                  "Or I would have cracked Dixie doll's skull instead of
eight bones in her wrist."
                  "You wanna come over and watch, sometime," Danny said, "I
mean we don't have a set either, but we could pretend."
                  "I'm meant to go to medical school," the older boy said,
"so I could teach you how to trepan, in case there's an accident in the
future."
                  "I'm more a poisoner," Danny said, "leave bags of this or
tubs of that anywhere near her, and she'll blow up like all the others."
                  "The psychologist in me says that the ramifications of
ego deprivation extending over a relatively minimal period of time
resulting from her loss of status as a cheerleader would at least pay, in
part, for her dumber-than-a-clock bigotry."

                  "Here! Here!" yelped the boy in his deviously precise
upper, upper class accent.  At heart, though, they were a nice enough pair
of lads, so it is with no small pleasure we permit them to turn the page
and allow the wayward miss of their acquaintance her separate passage, nor
were they without guilt themselves, for they loved not the inroads of
socialism nor those genetically linked with it.  Loved them not at all,
little bigots that they were.

                  They talked for awhile, coming down off the intellectual
high of their initial meeting.  Both seemed to realize they'd pushed the
limits of loquacious wit, and that word play could be as lethal as it was
beguiling.  They settled comfortably on sports, high-fiving each other when
they found they agreed The Intimidator got exactly what he deserved, the
skuzzy little mushmouth, and wasn't it sad he didn't live long enough to
realize it.  They `fived' again on the bra display of the soccer girl,
feeling there was justice in its setting the feminist cause back five
years.  Women were not much to write home about, but their moms were okay.
Nice boys.

                  "Do you want a choice?" Danny asked.
                  "What kind?" Robbie said.
                  "Start your algebra homework, now, then give me a bath,
or, give me a bath, then study."
                  "Kitty didn't survive through your front door," Robbie
observed, "and I'm meant to bathe you?"
                  "Kitty didn't survive through my front door," the boy
replied deliberately, "because I wanted you to bathe me.
                  "Weren't you a little suspicious?" the nine year old
asked.  "A kid my age needing a sitter, for four hours?  That's The Brain
again.  I had to make up a story about a pair of drunk bikers loitering in
the woods and checking our locks, last time I was home alone, to get Mom to
take an interest."
                  "She thought bikers would be a danger to you?  What was
she, born in a cabbage patch?"
                  "More subtle," the boy said, "she thought it was a fake
story, a call-for-help, as it were, so dawned the sitter idea."
                  "All so you could get the back of your neck clean?"
Robbie said, too terrified to grin, too hopelessly in love, by now, not to.
                  "I never thought of that," Danny whispered, half to
himself.

                  They sat gazing at each other for several minutes,
radiating and receiving radiation.
                  "Do you really want me to?" Robbie finally asked.
                  "Yes," the boy replied.
                  "I guess that was a stupid question after all the tricks
going back to the dawn of time," Robbie said.
                  "I spent two weeks out in Sloeman's gathering enough
copperheads and timber rattlers to convince Mom to move from our old place
to here," the boy said.  "I had to create a whole cock-up, complete with
phony footnotes, to convince her our old place was on a migratory run, and
this neighborhood was not."
                  "Then a bath, it is," the fourteen year old responded.

                  "I'll go up and run the tub," the boy said, "then I'll
call down pretending I left the shampoo in the downstairs bathroom, which
is the last door on the left, down, that hall, then you bring it up to me."

                  With that, the boy was off.  Robbie settled back in the
comfy old chair and caught his breath, waiting for the surf crashing
between his ears to moderate to the point a guy would have a chance to ride
a little more than the unfortunate Kitty's three feet.  Over time, as do
ice ages, it happened.  His thoughts drifted an inch from the upstairs
bathroom door, then a foot.  It did no good.  The sweet, childish voice was
calling, its innocent trill echoing faintly down the stairs.  Well, a child
in need was a child, indeed, and what would a little more foam be amongst
those ever rising, higher curling, crashing, booming, surfing waves.

                  Robbie went down the hall, found the shampoo, slipped out
of his sandals, T-shirt, shorts, and briefs, looked down at his long, slim
boner, and walked slowly through the strange house, aroused more than he'd
ever been in his life at just the thought of sexually molesting a little
boy.  He toured slowly, liking the book-proud quarters of the Fielding
home.  Then the stairs, then he tapped at the door.

                  "Come in," squeaked the brave little faltering voice from
the tub.  Robbie swung the door wide.  The boy stared from his cloud of
bubbles.  For two minutes they remained frozen, eyes hot, quenched only by
the sight of each other.
                  "I knew you'd forget it," the kid said, holding up a
bottle of shampoo that had been floating under the suds.  Robbie looked
down at his hands, vaguely observing that the bathtub boy was right.
                  "Also," Danny said, "I knew you wouldn't trust me not to
splash you and get your clothes all wet.  I'm two for two."
                  "If you add the snakes, the prowlers, and the skateboard,
you're about five for five."
                  "If I add the absolutely most beautiful male animal I
have ever seen, dreamed about, or conjured consciously or subconsciously,
I'm six for six."

                  Enough maths?  Fair enough.

                  Robbie crossed the carpeted floor of the master bath and
knelt beside the oversize tub.  Danny handed him a bar of soap and a
sponge, and the teen went to work on the naked little boy, soaping his
face, then, inspiration being a fickle mistress when it comes to dawning
love, licking his lips clean.  He poured a Tupperware of water over the
English schoolboy face, then amended his folly by rinsing his tongue on the
same lips, as the boy helped with his own lively little tongue.

                  "Nice sorbet," the child said when the last trace of soap
was gone.  The comment made Robbie's boner swell painfully.  Why would a
boy who had just eaten dinner want to cleanse his pallet?  He'd heard talk
about perverts, as all the boys had; was this the reason the subject came
up so often?  And what reason was that?  Technically, what?  He was sure of
only one thing, he was in the right place at the right time to find out.
                  "It was meant to be punishment for wanting to splash me,"
Robbie said.
                  "I wanted to very badly, you know," the boy trilled, "to
douse you and souse you, soak you and damp you, sop you and mop you; to
causeth drips and rivulets, to incite a flow, to lord over you as master of
a drizzle of drops."  .
                  "Speaketh thee with wet tongue," Robbie played along, "of
damping the garb and hamper of this manly prince, and thine mouth shall
ne'er again on this worldly plane belong to thee."
                  "Take thee of it with haste, for scant use it serves so
long as my face is pocked with other air-loving orifices."

                  They kissed so long Danny had to take his hand from
Robbie's face in order to add more hot water to the tub.  Ten minutes.
Half an hour.  Ten more minutes, gently, fervently, lastingly.  Nor did
they break as the boys opened the drain and the teen brought a towel to the
nine year old as the water drained, helping him dry off, then lifting him
from the tub and lying him on another bath towel spread on the bathroom
floor.
                  They lay perpendicular to each other, Robbie at Danny's
right shoulder, the older boy's right hand on the nine year old's slim
chest, his left fondling the boy's face as they toyed with each other's
lips, tongue and teeth until almost an hour had passed.
                  They were far from spent with each other, but they wanted
to know things.  Robbie planted his elbows at the boy's right ear, and
gazed down at him while the boy gazed back up.
                  "Can I take the towel off you?" the older boy asked.
                  "Yes," Danny said, raising his hips.  Robbie unwrapped
him, and pulled away the terrycloth.
                  "You're almost as big as I am," he whispered, unable to
keep the thick musk from his voice.
                  "I do not, repeat, do not take showers at school," the
nine year old said, "if I did, it would be sleepovers seven nights a week,
and who can read on a sleepover?"
                  "How did you get so mature?" Robbie asked.
                  "I went to a nudist camp built on shaky morals," the boy
said.
                  "I've heard of whispering pines and shady oaks," Robbie
said, "even quaking aspen, but that's a new one."
                  "Actually," said Danny, "it's the morals that are new.
People did just fine without the troublesome things, relying on decency in
their stead."
                  "What's the difference?" Robbie asked.
                  "If you were eighteen, instead of fourteen, and did
what's going to happen later, and were gentle, that would be decent, but
immoral.  If you'd called me a faggot freak when I said I wanted you to
touch me while I was in the tub, that would have been moral, but not very
decent.  There is a huge difference."

                  "One has a clergy, the other makes do without," Robbie
said.
                  "Thus the dog and pony show from snakes to shampoo," said
the younger boy, "because you're the only boy probably in the world who
would have come up with exactly the right response.  I'm lying here
coloring myself very, very lucky."
                  "I like English white, just fine," Robbie said, now
openly molesting the boy's chest and belly, trailing his fingers ever
closer to the slim, five-inch penis jutting from the child-like hips.
                  Gently he resumed kissing the beautiful gamin face,
slowly his fingers found the dense growth of black peach fuzz in a crescent
above the child's huge erection.  He fingered the soft growth, leaving
Danny's lips to whisper into his mouth.
                  "Does this mean you have sperm?" he asked.
                  "Yes," Danny said.  "When I found out, I started hunting
all those damned old snakes."
                  "I've heard it's meant to be a change of life," the older
boy deadpanned.
                  "I'm on the extreme side of extremely early," Danny
noted, "not emotionally ready for the experience, thus it was imperative
for me to have one partner I could trust and love."
                  "And I beat out Kitty Ellsworth," Robbie said in mock
wonder.
                  "You beat out the world," Danny grinned, "a boy can tell
that kind of thing."
                  "If he can tell that kind of thing," Robbie observe, "he
must be able to tell his best friend in the whole wide world, who loves him
very much, all about being a cute little black-haired, white-skinned boy in
a nudist camp built on shaky morals."
                  "They say an invitation's ninety percent perspiration and
ten percent inspiration," Danny replied, "so Master Daniel W. Fielding
requests the honor of the presence of his friend, Master Robert Paul
Lester, where doth the heavenly hot rayeth shineth not upon fabrics of
nimble fingers and intricate machine."

                  "And," Robbie replied, "the master of the second part
does thank, and accept with the greatest pleasure, the kind and generous
offer of his best friend in the whole world, Daniel W. Fielding, and
further promises to array himself in such a dearth of fabric, cloth and
material as to make the great Levi, himself, weep for lack of business."

                  "Who takes you to the camp?" Robbie asked.  "Who's taking
us?"
                  "Mick Jagger," Danny answered.

                  A Celine Dion lyric pounded through Robbie's surfing
brain: "Stop the press, hold the news."  Boys have stared at each other
since the days of the caveman.  Silly stares.  One-upmanship stares.  Angry
stares.  Friends don't stare, but lovers stare.  Pitiful stares.  Bold
stares.  Almost any kind we can think of.  They come and they go, leaving
only one item of note.  Never had two boys stared at each other as Danny
and Robbie did on that bathroom floor.  The older boy actually began to
sweat, waiting for the younger boy to giggle and claim a got-ya.

                  Did not happen.  Not in five minutes, not in ten.  There
are unwritten but finely understood rules to boy's games; how hard an
Indian burn, how close at mumblepeg, where, when, and who you wedgie, if
you must, in the first place; how large a boy you manhandle into a locker.
The list goes on.  Danny broke them all.  Just returned Robbie's intense
gaze with soft eyes of depthless friendship.
                  "When?" the older boy finally asked.
                  "It depends if we want to stay here or go to Spain,"
Danny answered.

                  "Does it, now," Robbie said, and finally the dam broke
and both boys giggled helplessly for minute on painful minute.
                  "If we go to Spain," the boy finally choked, "we can
leave tonight; Mom will drive us to the airport when she gets home from her
conference.  He'll be here in a week, so we can wait, if you'd rather."


                  The canvas was turning into a mural.  A smaller scale was
called for.  "I'd really like to watch you get molested by a cute man,"
Robbie said.
                  Danny thought of the common novelty sign beloved of
office workers: "What part of NO don't you understand?" it read.  He hadn't
heard any part, at all.  Apparently they had a priority deal.  "I'd like to
watch it happen to you, too," he responded.

                  "Should I call my mom?" the older boy asked.
                  "No," Danny said, "she's cool, she'll like the surprise.
My mom can make up something about dark, dangerous streets to explain why
you're staying overnight.  In the morning we'll call from the Volcanic
Eggs, which is a nice enough place however awkward its name in
translation."
                  "Shouldn't I go and get some clothes?" the still mostly
shocked boy asked.
                  "Picture it," Danny responded, "Mick with a nice enough
looking nine year old, and a drop-dead, coltish, lanky fourteen year old,
and the day to kill.  Might he, or might he not, sooner or later, be in a
mood to take them shopping?"
                  "Would I, or would I not, be in a mood to wear them?"
Robbie said.
                  "Well, it is a nudist camp," Danny reminded his guest,
"but, very discreet, for all of that.  Half Ascot, half Di's last beach."
They tried to deadpan it out for the sake of cool, but no, it didn't work,
and in a moment they were gasping helplessly, naked in each other's arms,
soft as dead snakes, in love until their toes curled.  It was a pretty
funny scene, but in mere moments the novelty of being flaccid in each
other's presence shocked them back to reality.  In a flash they'd
manhandled each other and were sitting, knees touching, Indian style,
staring down at one another.

                  "I thought it might be a year before this happened,"
Danny said.
                  "I never dreamed of it, at all," his older friend added.

                  Again, they challenged the level at which stupidity can
no longer be ignored, and lost, falling into each other's arms and rolling
gently across the floor as they wept, sawed their tongues, and thrust at
each other with what had so recently been their huge, wet, circumcised
boners.

                  "We must be really nervous to be giggling so much,"
Robbie said.
                  "I was really scared my first time," his young friend
admitted.
                  "Was he gentle with you?" Robbie asked.
                  "Totally," Danny said, "but you know, even if he's really
famous, when a man pulls your underpants down the first time, it's pretty
scary."
                  "Did he have his on?" Robbie quizzed.
                  "No," Danny said, "none of them did."

                  "Did they talk to you and stuff, or was it like you were
raped."
                  "We talked," the boy responded, "it didn't happen for a
couple of hours after they picked me up.  They made really sure, but, in a
way, that makes it scarier, because you're letting them do the things they
want to do.  Tempting god to sharpen his knife and lick his chops, so to
speak."

                  "Where did it happen?" Robbie asked.
                  "In England," the boy said.  "I guess a roadie had taken
a picture of me, and they knew I always walked along a certain road back
and forth from town, so, one Friday afternoon, a year ago, there was a
high-end Bugatti, my mom in the back seat, telling me it was okay to spend
the weekend hanging around with the guys, if I wanted to."
                  "That sounds like the first day of the rest of someone's
life," Robbie noted.
                  "When they, there were a couple of his friends along,
started talking about a party at Michael Jackson's, I wasn't too sure about
the life thing except to wonder if it was possible to actually die of
excitement.  Then they asked me questions about what bad men did with
little boys, and if they looked like bad men.  That was in the days before
bad meant good, so I said no, they didn't look like bad men.  Then they
told me they wanted to take me to a special camp where there were lots of
young sailors from the navy, and in some parts of the camp, nobody wore any
clothes.  They asked me if I'd like to visit the camp with them.  It went
on so long I figured I must be alive, so I started nodding my head, Yes.
                  "When I finally came halfway to and looked around, there
were two tennis players and a red-headed boy who was an actor in London.
They said it would be an hour to the camp, and asked if I wanted to talk
about what would happen when I was there, or just ride through the
countryside and look at the scenery.
                  "I said I'd like to talk about what was going to happen.
They asked me if I knew anything, and I replied that I didn't think much
happened at Winnie's house in Pooh Corner.  They thought that was pretty
funny, and we became friends.  They took down all the stuff about me and
put it in a book, and gave me a special card with a private number.  That's
how I know he's in Spain.  Then they asked if I'd ever seen a man at a
nudist beach, like naked, and I said no.
                  "They said the two tennis players, they were both
fifteen, had been on a broken schedule for the last week and wanted to so
something together while I watched them.  They said the word `masturbate'.
They asked me if I knew what it meant, and I said I'd just heard it in
school, but I didn't know.  The actor, Kersey, he was thirteen, came over
on my seat and whispered that all older boys did it, and that it was the
first step.  He wanted to watch, too, so the three of us got in the
rear-facing seat, and the tennis players sat on the big leather seat at the
back.
                  "Mick was a little uptight they couldn't wait, but he'd
been on broken schedules so he kind of knew how they felt.  He told them
not to take too long, and closed the sliding door to the front, which, he
said, he didn't like to do because it reflected as being secretive on his
reputation.
                  "The tennis players were sorry about it, but Mick was
cool and ended up laughing and telling a story to make them feel
comfortable while they undressed."

                  "Does this get better?" Robbie wanted to know.  They
tried avoiding each other's eyes, again, to little avail.  "I wonder if
we'll ever see each other the way we were, again," Danny finally mused, and
went on with his story.

                  "Bick was from Sweden, Norris, from Oklahoma.  They were
both fifteen, but they were totally different.  Bick was six feet, really
leggy and overgrown, with big hands and feet, while Norris was like a
little boy, but really wiry and tough; maybe weighed a hundred and ten,
where Bick was closer to one eighty.
                  "They were just wearing shorts and T-shirts, so they
kicked their sandals off and took off their socks, then stripped down to
their underpants so we could look at them and they could look at each
other.  Kersey whispered to me and asked if I was uncomfortable.  I said
that was outrageously so, but could think of only one palliative.  He
laughed and said he knew exactly what I meant, then he suggested I get them
naked so I'd be used to it when they got me naked at the camp.
                  "I got down on my knees and they let me touch them
through their underpants while Mick and Kersey bent over us and looked.
Then I pulled Bick's down and took them off his feet.  Then Norris.  Than
we sat back down to look at them.
                  "We rode that way for quite awhile, just looking,
watching them get wet from being excited.  Bick wasn't circumcised, but he
was so big it looked like he was.  Norris looked even bigger, because he
was so much smaller, like a little boy, except there, and where he had some
hair growing.

                  "After awhile, Bick reached over with his right hand and
started touching Norris.  He spread his legs really wide, putting his right
one over Bick's left leg, and let the big player do what he wanted.  That's
when the masturbating started.  He did it to the little boy in a really
regular way for a few minutes.  Then Norris started sweating and panting
and coming up off the seat, so he did it a little faster and harder with
his right hand.
                  "Kersey whispered to me again and told me Norris was
going to cum off in Bick's hand.  He said I'd have the same feelings Norris
was having, but there might not be anything else.  Norris was really
sweating and panting from what Bick was doing, then he grunted, `I'm going
to cum," and started showering sperms in the back seat, all over himself
and Bick.
                  "Before he even stopped spraying off, he got his right
hand wet from Bick's chest, and masturbated him hard and fast.  There was
more sperm from Bick, and it was thicker and whiter.  You could tell whose
was whose even though they were both really wet.

                  "Mick got down on his knees and licked them both off
while they ran their fingers through his hair, then they dried off with the
towel from the bar, and dressed.  We kept talking like nothing had
happened, but it was more exciting than anything since the Big Bang.

                  "Did you get any sperm on you?" Robbie asked his cute
young friend.
                  "Not `till later," the boy said.  "Kersey got some on his
right knee, but Bick and Norris really liked each other, so they were
careful to satisfy each other."
                  "How would you have felt if they'd pulled you on the back
seat with them, and ripped your shirt open, and got really hot on your
chest?" Robbie whispered.
                  "I think it's time to watch each other," the boy said,
and in a moment they were again sitting, knee to knee, Indian style.  They
didn't say anything, just gazed as they each suddenly grew as hard and full
as they'd been when Robbie had wrapped the young boy in a bath towel.

                  "Mick would have licked me off," Danny continued,
answering the question.
                  "Did he lick you off, later?" Robbie asked.
                  "Yes," the little boy with the huge penis replied, "then
he'd kiss me."
                  "With sperm in his mouth?" Robbie asked.
                  "Yes," the boy repeated, his English skin coloring
slightly.
                  "Nicer that soap?" Robbie asked.
                  "Not nicer than a little soap with a lot of you, by a
long shot," the boy replied, "but still pretty okay.  I'd do it again, and
not only that, I'd recommend it to my very, very best friend of all my life
in the whole wide world."

                  "Thy friend of whom thee speaketh, rather thunderstruck,
sits here with you, lacking, in the paucity of his neglected mind and
forgotten soul, any words with which to say, Thanks, dude."

                  "I stalked you the way they stalked me," Danny observed,
"so it's not as random and fickle as you might imagine."
                  It was Robbie's turn to blush, and he did.  The
compliment was profound.  To be picked by the one who'd been picked.  If
there was higher than that, he hoped he would never find out.

                  "So the behavior was good for the rest of the drive?"
Robbie ask to get his cute little choo-choo back on track.
                  "The behavior was always good," the boy said, "even in
the nudist area.  Decency wasn't the rule, it was the only rule.  Mick told
me later he'd never done anything in a car.  He laughed, but I'll bet it
doesn't happen again real soon.
                  "We got there in a few more minutes and parked the car.
It was awesomely cool, because no one took any notice.  We had to carry in
our own bags, sign at the desk, get ice, and make seatings at the
restaurant.  Everything was just average except that a doctor looked at
every guest and they had to take a health polygraph.  Condom free zone."
                  "I should sincerely hope so," Robbie intoned.

                  "It was fun to watch Mick relax.  No kowtow.  No, `I'll
be your server, tonight', no arugala and less mesquite.  We had to wait in
line for twenty minutes to get the key to the nudist area become someone
had lost something, and he would just say It's never like this on the road,
and smile.

                  "Bick and Norris crashed in our suite, that, and room
service, we did have, and we had retro burgers, hamburgers cooked the way
used to be, on the rare side of medium that.  They made you dizzy they were
so juicy and good, then we kept looking at the key on the coffee
table. Kersey was thirteen, and he said the tradition was that the youngest
in a group pick up the key when he was ready.  I was glad he told me,
because I was the guest and waiting for one of them to pick it up.



                  I've decided I have two relationships with my brain.  On
the one hand, I've told it to be monumentally lazy, so it only sends me the
best, and, on the other hand, I'm prickly enough it doesn't wish to risk
reprimand (look at the poor Jews) for forwarding anything other than what
no other brain can send.  Like Judy Garland, I look on it as an entirely
separate entity, which, by some flick of fate, happens to be housed in my
body.  I understand it no better than you.  I was training it to write
commercial fiction, but then I was divorced, so there seemed to be little
left of the life she represented, that our family would have represented.
Her mother talked of Thinking love, with her husband.  Thus, under what
seemed civil and morally above board, was, in fact, the very Victorian
horror popularized in lurid reporting of this defective era.  No kids to be
embarrassed at my sobriquet of history's greatest pornographer, and, if
anyone else is embarrassed, the chances are they're lucky I didn't come
after them with a machete.  (With the exception of Dickie Dunham in
"Stonington Stories".  I used him unfairly, and out of spite.  It was
Jeanie who threw me a vicious curve, and in vengeance against her I alluded
to the mental capacity of her slickly handsome replacement for me.  Dickie
was allowed to grow his hair, I was stuck with prison cuts, extremely
unflattering.  To set the record completely straight, I'd be surprised if
Dickie had read a single unlisted book by the time he finished college,
where I'd read some thousand or more.  Girls.  And, while setting the
record straight, I should acknowledge, somewhere in these texts, that, all
thing being equal, Anne is likely dean of a nursing school.  The horror of
my reality was that not only was she a nurse, she was a highly respected
practitioner, and, to rub salt in the wound, studying for her master's so
she could teach.  Her nobility contrasted not well at all with my slow
progress as a writer, with it's variant lifestyle of reading and thinking
all the time.  Slacker misery against productive honeybunch.  Yes, noble
nurse, but that anyone can do. (And who'd want to nurse all those fat,
nasty, old people, in the first place?)  She probably hadn't read ten books
since college, her IQ was nominal, why choose academics when she had a
totally exceptional artist's talent and perhaps genius?  Because she didn't
want to be an artist?  It's not your choice.  I didn't want to read the two
thousand nine hundred bad books I read, to find the hundred good ones.  See
the hundred of dumb movies, watch the thousands of hours of numbing
television, for the one engaging hour in a lucky week.  It's not something
you want, being an artist, it's is the only thing you are, and if you don't
race it until the rings burn our, you will lie in the most utter of agonies
on your deathbed, crying out Why? and If Only.  So few get what she had, at
her level.  In fact, my more recent theory is that she met Tom Cruise long
before I left for Belize, and sabotaged from there on out.  If he was worth
her death as an artist, he must be the wonder guy of wonder guys.

                  On my behalf, I'll also point out it was a free ride and
a half.  I had a nice amount of money coming in from the family, so I could
have dithered away in her shadow -- I think I'm a good enough lover to
get away with it, plus, I'm funny -- and not only made the marriage last,
but made it happy.  The possible exception, of course, would have been if
we'd had an attractive, flirtatious and predatory daughter.  I made little
secret of my liking, shared by so many millions, for very young girls, and
I mean very young.  I would have made every effort to leave any female
child entirely in her care, but, a willing young girl is every dream of
countless millions, and I could not promise best behavior under any and all
circumstances.  Since this is a twenty percent subset, there's a one in
five chance Tom Cruise [lawyer, not actor. see other works] did what I
might have.

                  Anyway, it would have been a nice set of coat tails; I
was handy and alert around the house, good company, it could have and would
have lasted for decades.  At the cost of my career.  Therein, aside from
her taunting last kiss, and failure to return Joseph Daniels of Robin's
Brook farm, standard poodle of a hundred pages in "The Pirates of Rickety
Pier", or even send me a note when he died, mailed, anonymously, from a
major metropolitan area, lies the basis of my anger, and her immortality.
Those are the only fights I have with my brain.  I tell it these people;
mother, sister, wife, ignored the good and went ape over the rare
scintillas of bad, considering, I am, after all, an artist, not a banker,
and yet Old Wiseguy wants to immortalize them, not as corner lot tomb
stones, but alive, vivid, who they were, as they were: immortality with a
capital I.  Granting this, while denying godlike status, means I must paint
myself as troublesome, complex, mercurial, and not flinch when others say
Loopy, or something worse.  If that isn't complicated enough, I have to
pretend none of it's happening for pages at a time, and write fiction as
well as I'm always reminding you I do.

                  "The Samanthian" She gets so much copy, we might as well
give her a masthead.  She can stand against the wall and dazzle for ten
minutes at a time.  Rhageedha brings out the best in her, like a candle
suddenly burning into loose gunpowder.  Such a beauty, my Samantha, and
such a riot, and so un-open about it.  Mostly quiet and self involved,
often silent for hours.  Then a fireworks display of simple, pretty-girl
personality, and back to Moodyville, where Bev says she spends most of her
time.  Too much television.  Once you get used to it, it's heavenly.  I
work, not much else; don't want some cheery flower always full of happy
news and sunny observations.  I love cloudy days, too.  Anyhow, we had our
first uncontaminated visit since she stole Jessica's necklace.  Tomorrow
Queenie is scheduled to arrive.  Also, there's meant to be a troublesome
thirteen year old as part of Daisy's extended family.  Met her two or three
years ago, so Queenie says, but it's a blank.

                  Rhageedha may well be New York quality.  She is
electrifyingly vivid; tiny delicate face with huge brown eyes, extremely
sensitive mouth, brilliant teeth, and an almost shocking quickness and
responsiveness.  (Something like a brighter, quicker, female version of
Mark John Jeffries, of television advertising fame.)  Totally the opposite
of Samantha, who is more privately and subtly radiant when and if she
chooses.  Queenie would appear to fit exactly between my moody one and my
vivid one, her beauty open, obvious, and overwhelming, no personality
necessary.  My long saga in search of a digital camera is meant to end
tomorrow, with the arrival of quarterly funding, so, who knows, maybe I can
get Malcolm or someone to post portraits on the Web.  In the meantime,
after a one-hundred percent romantic draught for good-old twenty-three
years, there is a burst of feminine sunlight which may be as overpowering
as any lighted for any man, ever.  Boy, do I deserve it.

                  So, that's my self administered electroencephalograph for
the moment.  Brain and I will continue to argue about granting status as
forever young to those who done us wrong, but he rules the day job, so,
fare-thee-well, all who deserve to do so.


                  "Once I knew the key was mine," Danny continued, "I gave
it to Mick and he piggybacked me and held Kersey by the hand.  We unlocked
the gate and went in.  Mick had timed our visit to coincide with a Viking
festival put on by Nordic sailors from three different navies.  What was
evident even in the changing room, if that's what you want to call it, was
that Hitler was not all wrong in his Aryan thinking.  A lot of them were
cadets just a few years older than I was.  They were really quiet and
friendly.  Most of them read a lot, which is why they were there, in the
first place, and they liked to teach chess and painting, anything a boy
wanted to do if they had the equipment for it.  So we sat around in the
lounge for awhile, getting to know some of the sailors.  Finally we met
Gerrend, Constantine, and five others from Iceland.  Gerrend was the
lieutenant, he was nineteen.  Constantine was a cadet, twelve.  It was
lucky, because they'd been traveling a lot in the past few days, like Bick
and Norris, so they got excited when Mick said he was going to take my
shirt off in the lounge, then take me into the locker room."

                  "Duh'uh," said Robbie.

                  "I know it was okay, now," Danny said, "but I was nervous
at the time.  I had four posters of Mick in my room at home, and I didn't
want to disappoint him, or be dumb and too overeager, like when I almost
thought I was dead when they were talking about going to Neverland and
staying over with Michael.  But Mick told me he'd brought two other young
boys to the club and they'd liked it, so I knew the things he wanted to do
with me in front of the sailors would be okay.

                  "He got me in his lap, then I put my hands up, and he
pulled up my jersey.  Then we stood up, and he held my hand while we went
through the door.  Inside was really nice; simple, not fussily clean.  Two
sailors from another ship were getting in the shower, and they turned and
looked at us."

                  "What happened?" Robbie asked, proving he'd one day make
a great lawyer by knowing the answer to questions before he asked them.
                  "They got big boners," Danny said.  "When I pulled Bick
and Norris' underpants down, they had boners the whole time, but Raul and
Phil, the sailors in the shower, got them while we all watched.
                  "Did you know it was because you were bare chested?"
Robbie asked.
                  "No," the nine year old replied, "I just thought they
might be looking at Kersey.  He was cuter than I was."
                  "What happened next?" Robbie asked.
                  "Mick sat me on a bench and stripped in front of me.  I
undid his shoes and helped him take them off."
                  "Did he touch you while you were doing that?" the teen
quizzed.
                  "No," Danny said, "he sort of braced his knee against the
bench for balance.  Once I had him barefoot," the boy went on, "he stripped
out of his briefs so I could see him, then the two naked sailors came and
stood close beside him, and the sailors from the "Oscard", the Icelandic
ship, stripped and Kersey got naked and stood beside where I was sitting.
Then he nodded in Mick's direction, so I sat in his lap and Constantine
took my shorts and underpants off.  Then Constantine stood in front of Mick
and me, and Kersey, who was really tall for thirteen, stood behind him and
put his left arm around Constantine's chest and held him while he spread
his legs wide and got really close to me so he could whisper while the
others listened.  He was super excited because he hadn't done anything
during the crossing because he'd been seasick, and they'd all crashed the
minute they reached the club.  Not only that, he'd only been with a man
twice, and this was his first time with a younger boy.

                  "Kersey said he'd only been doing mature stuff for a
week, so all three of us were pretty virgin.  Mick molested me while we
talked, just like Kersey was doing with Constantine, rubbing his chest and
belly really gently, like a massage.  It felt unbelievable, and looked like
you wouldn't believe."

                  "I believe," Robbie said to the boy on the carpet of the
master bath.  "Do you want me to try it with you the way Mick did it, and
Kersey was doing with Constantine?"
                  "I've never been in love before," the boy replied, "I
don't know if I can stand."
                  "Maybe that's why they call it `experimenting'," Robbie
observed.
                  "It would be levitation, at that," the bright-eyed child
replied.
                  "Methinks you're halfway there," Robbie said, looking at
Danny's waist.
                  "'Tis but to succumb to the inevitable," the nine year
old acknowledged, rising on his knees.  Robbie stood fast (stood up fast),
lending a hand.  Slowly he brought the naked young boy to his chest, gently
holding him around his slim chest as Danny swung his feet to the edge of
the bathtub, using it to help support his weight as he spread his legs
wide.
                  "Like this?" Robbie whispered in the child's left ear.
                  "This is how it started," the boy replied.
                  "How long before Mick started touching you?" Robbie
quizzed.
                  "He started when I began to buck my hips in his lap," the
boy said.
                  "Did he touch you with his right hand, or left?" the teen
asked.
                  "Right hand," Danny answered.
                  "Did Mick say anything?" Robbie wanted to know.
                  "He said it had happened to him when he was my age, and
that nine was perfect because it gave a boy two years to look forward to
being eleven, which was the best human age."
                  "Sounds like he knew what he was talking about," Robbie
said.
                  "I don't waste a lot of time trying to think of something
negative about it, but for-sure, nothing has popped into my head, then, or
since."
                  "So all preachers are wrong, all the time?  It wouldn't
seem possible, but then Roosevelt slopped American into the mother of all
cataclysms, and he's a national hero.  Right and wrong.  The only one who
was right, was Hitler.  Without him, we would not have made it to Slaughter
House Six."
                  "But you can't blame the media," Danny said, "I mean look
at Richard Jewell, the bombing guy from the '96 Olympics.  He had a billion
dollars worth of free advertising, and not a single job offer."
                  "That's why I mentioned preachers," Robbie said.  Danny
responded by swinging free of the teen's left arm, and turning to look at
him, his brown eyes on fire.  "You are the most awesome lover I ever
imagined," he whispered, "you are out of this world.  You are so clever and
funny I'd be your dog."
                  "Write it with a marker on a piece of paper," Robbie
suggested, "and hold the paper in front of you in front of a mirror.
That's my feeling for you expressed in three letters."

                  The religious issue settled for the moment, Robbie gently
reclaimed the child.  "Tell me how he took you?" he coaxed.
                  "Just his thumb and index finger, a little bit," the
now-shaking boy whispered over his right shoulder.

                  Danny spread his coltish legs more widely on the border
of the tub, thrust his hips to Robbie and whispered he was ready.  They
both stared down as it happened.
                  "Really gentle, like this?" the morally-stricken teen
asked in a hoarse whisper.
                  "Yes," Danny was barely able to respond, thankful for the
athletic body that seemed tireless in holding him more gently than he'd
ever been held in his nine-year life.  "Kersey and Constantine moved back
so everyone could get in close to see what Mick was doing with me."
                  "How much did he do?" Robbie asked.
                  "Not too much.  Just a little more than you're doing.  He
whispered we couldn't do to much, because he wanted me to stay excited for
Constantine and the other sailors."
                  "Same psychology the church uses," Robbie said.  "Life
after death, but you're dead when you find out.  Then it won't be the same
thing.  If you went too far with Mick, it wouldn't have been the same
thing, either."
                  "You leave the clergy no option but admitting they're a
big target," Danny said.
                  "They'd burn us in hell -- most eternally -- for
doing this," the tall athlete replied, "and have often burned others, here
on earth, so, in my book, they're some kind of target."
                  "As they disobey their vows of poverty and eschew
simplicity, we disobey and ignore them.  Seems fair enough, to me," Danny
said.
                  "Or maybe we're just selfish dilatants, rationalizing our
lack of tithing on the vain assumption we could better use the funds."
                  "That's something we are too young for," Danny giggled.
It was a nice break.  Robbie was, in fact, more mortal than super, and
welcomed the tensing of the boy in his arms as a signal they'd gone far
enough for the moment.  He let Danny back down on the floor.
                  "We could go in on my bed," the nine year old suggested.
                  "Great," Robbie whispered, "but don't forget where you
were in your story."
                  "As if," the boy responded, and the scene changed in a
few moments.  Meantime:

                  The five from the "Oscard" joined with the young sailors
just out of the shower, allowing Kersey and Constantine places of honor at
the center of the crescent the males formed around Mick Jagger and Danny
Fielding.  The nine year old lay back on the rock star's chest and spread
his legs as widely as he could, rising to meet the gentle touch of man on
boy.  Mick fondled the child's pink, swollen glans, turning the tip of his
penis purple as Danny gasped and writhed in the powerful arms of the lanky
adult.  Slowly the experimental first touching became a tentative stroking,
and when the boy responded readily with his hips, the older lover took a
rhythm with him as the other young males, arms at their sides, heads bent
to look down at themselves, each other, and the man and boy, gathered as
close as they could.

                  "Tell me well before anything happens," Mick said,
"because we don't want to go too far to stop, until later."
                  "It feels like the world's biggest sneeze, between my
belly and my knees, no rhyme intended," Danny whispered.
                  "Bless you, my lad, and best we stop then," Mick
responded, slowing on the boy, then gently fondling him as the older teens
from the ships gently eased Kersey and Constantine back to their former
positions in front of Danny and Mick.  The tall redhead once again bent
over the beautiful Nordic juvenile, and this time there would be no
stopping.  Kersey lifted Constantine, and the boy spread his legs, landing
his beautiful young feet on either side of Danny and Mick, assuming a low
stance so the other could watch the adult and the tall, athletic boy.  His
strokes were strong and fast on the youth, and Constantine responded by
shaking and whinnying.  "It's been so long," he whispered, "I'm sorry, I
wanted it to last more for you."  Then he threw his arms up behind himself,
linking his finger's behind Kersey's neck and bucking his hips high in the
air.  "I'm cumming," he grunted.

                  His semen was boy thin; watery, but hot, copious, and
supercharged.  Guided by the sweating, panting thirteen year old, he
sprayed again and again on Danny's beautiful face, in his hair and on his
neck and shoulders.  The other sailors bunched in close and whispered
encouragement as the boy shook and bucked to Kersey, who now clenched the
child's five inch penis tightly at its base, holding him tight and almost
motionless as he guided the hot streaks of twelve-year-old sperm.
Emulating, Constantine, Danny threw his hands up behind Mick's neck, and
arched against the youngest of the sailors.  This got the older boy's sperm
all over the child's straining chest, and then his heaving belly.

                  At the end, Kersey guided Constantine to Danny's hugely
swollen glans, and let the last weakening pulses wet the younger boy in a
gentle, final sharing of Danny's first full experience.
                  The nine year old lowered his arms back to his side, half
caught his breath, and allowed his imagination to be beggared.  There were
four more sailors of the "Oscard's" crew, all strapping older teens, all on
the go for the last entire week; all fit and well rested.  Beggared wasn't
the word for it.  Plus, Kersey's right hand was now dripping with thin cum;
what would that feel like to the next of the young males?
                  He'd have to wait to find out (and, of course, it would
be years before he'd know, exactly) because Mick pried the young body from
his lap and lay it on the locker room bench, then knelt beside it, and
began licking, starting at the child's navel and working up over the thin,
white, panting chest to the birdlike shoulders and finally reaching the
Mazda zoom-zoom boy's fine English face covered with long tendrils of still
hot cum.  Luckily for Danny, there was a lot of sperm on his lips, so the
first kiss was a salty shock that segued in half an instant to a sizzling
wonder of hot tongue and growling lips as the males went awesomely
cannibalistic with one-another.

                  The next cadet was a mature fifteen.  While literacy and
grace were the A-list requirements for the Semen's Club, as the saying
goes, size counted.  In spite of being a slim, young teen, the fifteen year
old could have measured all but seven inches, and he had a powerful
thickness fully matching the length of his penis.  Kersey guided him to the
bench, which fit comfortably against the knees of the new boy's spread
legs.  Two shipmates braced the older child at his heaving flanks, and the
redheaded boy guided the blond-haired, blue-eyed cadet to the lips of Danny
and Mick.
                  This did nothing to spoil their latest, lingering kiss.
Indeed, both partners lying on the bench seemed to welcome the intrusion,
and eagerly laved the young sailor's swollen, purple glans with their
combined tongues and lips.

                  Christo was able to stand it for two minutes, then three,
then he began to tense rapidly and pant openly.  "I'm cumming, Mick," he
managed to whisper, and the three males holding his slim, writhing body
could feel an almost frantic quaking.  Kersey held him perfectly between
the man and boy.  His sperm came in a sudden, pulsing flood, both males on
the bench letting much of it flow from their mouthes and down over Danny's
cheeks.  Both throats also worked avidly, and all the males grunted in
unison at the sight of the pulsing throats and gushing semen.  Even
Constantine, who had every reason in the world to curl up at the end of the
bench and take a nap, gazed on in awe of the spectacle.  Indeed, all the
young sailors were generous in exchanging positions for the best view of
what was going on between the three active males.  And there was time.
Christo seemed to vent the pent up fury of half the Atlantic Ocean as he
continued ejaculating through Kersey's clenched palm and over Danny's
tender, childish mouth.

                  "I'm sorry," a horse voice panted from amongst the
sailors.  Neff Hanson, seventeen, had lost control.  Luckily, he'd been
molested repeatedly by a favorite uncle and two of the uncle's friends, so
he was able to turn the lemon of his premature ejaculation into lemonade by
arching his back, lacing his fingers behind his neck, and cumming all over
everything.  Danny, thinking he was in paradise, sensed Christo's slowing
pulses, and opened his eyes.  Guess what he saw.  Same old same old, even
to the same-old Kersey almost instantly taking the strapping young cadet,
sphinctering him firmly and low with his thumb and forefinger, and holding
him still as a motive work of art.  Thus encouraged, the seventeen year old
added the Pacific to the Atlantic, and, from eight swollen, uncircumcised
inches, a chapter, nicely brought out, by the way, in the Semen's Club's
epic history.
                  "This hasn't happened since my first time with my gym
teacher," Neff managed to expound, and, with all the time he had, might
have been able to at least outline a story, had his voice been up to the
task.  But no, his secrets remained with him, for the time being, as Kersey
squeezed and fondled, coaxing in urgent whispers.

                  Ten times, ten hard sprays, almost a minute, the flying
heat of his first release, dominated by Kersey, finally soaking Mick's left
flank and Danny's wet belly.  For another long minute, the
seventeen-year-old boy leaned over the bench, as the young redhead coaxed,
mewed happily, and brought the older teen's flow to a gentle end.

                  Mick rolled gently off Danny and stood, kissing Christo
and the older cadet, first for an instant, each, then slowly, back and
forth, sharing what had happened in his mouth.  Danny lay back on the
bench, half glad for the breather, but mostly hoping it wouldn't last out
the minute.  Trying not to show any signs of impatience, the nine year old
copied Neff's stance, arching on the bench, hands behind his neck and legs
spread wide and wantonly.  Danny needn't have worried.  Mick's mouth was
free of sperm in half the youngest boy's sanity limit, and he returned to
the little boy, bringing him once again to his lap, facing the next cadet.

                  While Neff had cum the hardest, Olf was the largest at
nine full inches, with corresponding girth.  He was not circumcised, and
Danny panted at what it would feel like to make him look like a circumcised
adult.  The child's hand went from small to minute as it approached the
swollen Nordic teen.  Kersey held him for the young boy, and tender hands
did the rest.  They slowly peeled back the foreskin, then remained
motionless as the sailor began to cum immediately.  This time, the sperm
was guided to Mick, who rose violently to welcome the gushing penis.  Danny
used both his hands, previously described, to hold the new male hard
against Mick, intoxicated by the sight of the sperm flowing heavily from
between his fingers.  Intoxicating, like heroin, except here there would be
not search to replicate the initial high, none would be needed, for nothing
could top Danny Fielding's first steps into life's forever minefield.
Others aren't so lucky, leaving us to ponder the wisdom of a consensus
making Danny's experience more typical than exceptional.  If I say maybe we
should ask Mick Jagger, you'll know I'm kidding, and I seldom fool around
without giving all the warning in the world.

                  Speaking of which, there was a Capt. Marrayatt story in
one of the kid's reader, instantly identifiable because of his glass-smooth
entry to and exit from his story in progress.  I keep trying to get better
at it, but I guess it's the same old saw; get everyone in sight downright
hot and bothered, then trip in without even knocking.  Some say I do it for
word count, others see it as an ego issue, vengeance weapon, or bossy
preaching, you know, the know-it-all kind.  Me?  All of the above, plus, I
just think it's good manners to say howdy, from time to time; tell what's
happening down home, scoff at this or that, agonize over turning out a pair
of pants for six bucks, almost anything can happen, and, just as cement is
dependent on aggregate, so are my novels.  Dimension, texture, timbre,
character, resonance, luminosity, and vitality all come from real life,
leastwise, my life.  For example, at the moment I'm feeding thirteen, if I
count Bev twice, which would be conservative.  Supporting three households,
one of four, one of five, and my own, now, with the re-arrival of Linden,
and his girlfriend, Melissa, numbering three.

                  Also, Linden and I are in the first stages of building my
secret maritime weapon, "Fin Seco".  A fifteen foot cross between a bass
boat and another design, vastly better than the `panga' skiffs now
ubiquitous in all harbors.  My design is much cheaper, lighter, faster,
more comfortable, easier to fish and swim from, much better looking and
three times safer.  So far we're at the sketch stage, with an outline taped
on the living room floor.  Where the money will come from, I don't know,
but come it probably will.  Thus, I doff my artist's beret for the cap of a
naval architect, at least an hour or two a day.  Think of it.  What if I
become famous for revolutionizing the light boating industry, and the press
starts snooping around?  My dirty little secret runs to one million words.
(I mean, sure, there are the inevitable attempts at comic relief, but who
ever heard of a funny judge?)

                  "The Samanthian" can afford to skip an issue.  Things
have settled so calmly between us, we just hum along like oldyweds.
Everything I say demeaning and debunking sex as unnecessary and having
little to do with happiness is evident in our current relationship.  We are
sex-free, beyond making out and petting, and happy as clams.  If it took an
ounce of pressure to move her a mile, I wouldn't push her an inch.

                  This is turning into a very extensive rewrite.  Second
day back on the job, and, you guessed it, six thousand more words.
Stopping for a week was a real challenge; going back and refreshing my
memory on all the characters and situations took hours.  More commentary on
the subject, of special interest to my fellow writers, is ahead.  (I'm
updating, midstream, having already done so, downstream, so to speak.)  And
this might be a good place to deal with a tad or two of errata.  When I
said, elsewhere, I was numero uno in the Web contributor's department, I
meant for the year 2001, and possibly for this year; not overall, though
I'd venture to say I'm high on any list in that department, too.  Also,
about writing -- "taking dictation" -- like Wolfgang Amadeus, I've done
so much revising on this script, I'm in danger of perjuring myself.  I will
modify the claim by pointing out that over eighty percent stays as
originally written, and, though I've made hundreds of changes in this
document, I have not deleted a single sentence, and perhaps ten words, in
all (while adding six thousand, and counting).

                  What it all means is for the reader to determine.  I
mention it to provide reference points for other writers, because we are
always quizzed exhaustively on technique, and it does play a role.  My
secret weapon is actually my bed.  I've mentioned this elsewhere, but it's
important enough to stand repetition.  The head of the bed is six inches
higher than the foot, allowing a more upright reclining position.  I lie on
a foam pad on the left (facing the foot), with the computer and monitor at
my right waist.  The merit of this system can be stated very simply.  It
adds ten hours to my workday.  The fidgets from sitting for more than five
or six hours may be acceptable for a secretary typing routine
correspondence, but these self-same fidgets, no matter how minor, are a
chronic distraction and take the edge off the creative process.  The down
side of the system is that it's only perfect if one touch types.  If I had
to hunt and peck, I'd need a bracket to hold the keyboard at a proper angle
above my stomach.  Thanks to Mr. Richards, I can clatter away, blind.
Another thing I've found, just these last few days, is how essential RAM is
to using a word processor.  Even the slightest delay is cumulative, and, to
a fast typist, a great distraction because you find yourself waiting for
the end of a work to appear while you're beginning the next one.  With the
added RAM, the cursor responds instantly, so the lag factor, however
apparently minor, is eliminated, making for cleaner, faster transcription.

                  Neither of these are minor factors.  Comfort adds hugely
to productivity, because writing is a waiting game.  It takes me eighteen
hours to write six-thousand words.  Much of the time is spent in neutral,
simply waiting for the copy to surface like the fortunes in one of those
toy mystery balls.  This can take anywhere from a few seconds to ten
minutes, to, rarely, the best part of an hour.  If you're fidgeting in a
chair, the words may be blocked, or you may try to hurry them because
you're uncomfortable and end up using the first ones rather than the right
ones.

                  And, to try to address the subject fully, along with the
magic bed, there is a magic to do with sleep, or, more accurately, waking.
I don't know if medical science has a word for it, but there comes a point
when one is fully rested -- Hark! -- is the best one-word description
of the feeling.  This can be an elusive demon.  It can come, just as an
example, after six hours of sleep, being up for an hour, then taking a ten
minute nap.  It's like an electric switc