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From ChildLover@.com Thu Jun 17 22:10:54 2004
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Subject: BEYOND BREWSTER - BOOK III
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BEYOND BREWSTER - BOOK III
by T.C. EMERSON
BOOK III
There was no sign reading; "Secret Campground for Illegal Behavior and
Moral Variance", or anything like that, but none was needed. Yes, they
arrived in good time, yes they made a breakfast that would last until
dinner, and yes everyone was nervous as a school of minnows, especially the
adult males, each of whom had apparently had a long talk with his daughter
(or sister) on the overnight trip of some hundred and twenty miles. They
eyed each other with self-conscious grins, knowing what males know about
high levels of character pitted against the extreme temptation of the
breakdown lane, a jog of the steering wheel away. While they were not at
the walking-stiffly and slightly bent over stage, anyone who knew anything
could tell it wouldn't be long in coming. (Sometimes it's simply not worth
the effort to write around an unintentional pun, and this is one of those
times.)
Nancy Fox introduced her thirteen year old brother, Gerald, a quiet,
coltish boy with an intriguing trace of black hair on his upper lip. The
art teacher cum free-spirit mentor was even more a pixie than Neil had
remembered from the open house. Billie-Jo's classmate, Meg Carver was with
her tall, athletic father, Ned, and Sonja Bristol had no less than four
handsome males, her father, Vince, and three cute brothers, Chip, thirteen,
Rob, fourteen, and Madden, seventeen, in avid tow. All the campers settled
comfortably against a sand dune as their hostess took the stage.
"The fact you are all here," she began - they felt welcome enough she
didn't have to dwell on it - "in a complicated and demanding world, braved
a night of inching traffic through the barrens on the spur of the moment,
in behalf of the young females in your lives is a neat summary of what our
non-organization is all about. The passion of the ancients, of some
daughters and fathers for each other and some brothers and sisters for each
other, with, yes, occasional homosexual relationships of close relatives,
has not disappeared from human society, which, considering the hue and cry
the subject engenders and the extremes of prejudice, both sanctioned by the
legal system and expressed by less formal entities, shows that it must be
worth something to someone. An argument might even be made that with
common household lifestyle rapidly deteriorating in an insanely calorie
oriented and material oriented world, incest has never had more than a
shadow of its importance today. What else is going to hold the family
together? We move every four years, on average, so it's unlikely to be the
schools or community, we have who knows how many channels of television,
so
Ed Sullivan's no longer relevant, and, in general we are beset on every
side, from the relentlessly identical malls to the numbing display of
grotesque excess in every supermarket, while our kids read less and less
and even speak less and less unless it's to grunt Alicia Silverstone
trendytalk at one another.
They have, we have, nothing but each other. The other day I was
watching choral singing, and every woman in the choir was at least fifty
pounds overweight. We can do better, and, the cute part of it, the reason
for us all to relax and take a deep breath, is that we can't possibly do
worse. How deranged is it to say we'd do better at the present state of
affairs to offer our children up as blood sacrifices? Have it over and
done with, rather than allowing them to grow in a society that becomes
blander and engages less anything to do with the human spirit on a daily
basis. If three children are pictured in any form or take part in any
story, one will be colored, while children of all colors have the bleakest
outlook in all of human history; a dizzying everything that blunts the
drive for anything. Buy them an Xbox and twenty games, and the only
response is a passion for the twenty-first, which is a good definition of
the word transient. It's all very simple: there's nothing else out there
except literacy, with a strong emphasis on history, and sex in an
affectionate and partially open environment, the former for the mind, for
perspective, insight, and appreciation, and the big S as a reason to be
nice and stay slim and fit, to say nothing of getting out of bed in the
morning, or, of course, right time and right circumstances, staying in bed.
"How secret is your membership, not that you have one, in this club with
no name? Let's call it about ninety percent. It's not, at this juncture,
something you'll bring up as you might your last golf score - probably
won't be playing so much as you used to, guys - or you favorite restaurant,
but, as time goes on, there may well be people you can tell. `Susie and
I
have been very close this last year,' or something like that. I think
you'll all be pleasantly surprised at how much tolerance and acceptance
there is. In fact, the whole kibosh on incest is far more the product of
yammering, brittle women, invariably fat, and disagreeable to everybody
about everything, than any deeply held social conviction or convention.
This said, it should also be noted that as an organization we do have an
abhorrence of public displays of excess affection between, especially,
fathers and daughters. We believe in reticence and dignity in all human
behavior, and, in fact, in some of the doctrine of our moral opponents; we
believe kids should do silly stuff and think silly thoughts; say silly
things, that they should laugh and play and thrive in the sun, beaming back
at anyone who gives them a friendly look. We offer no universal answer
and, in fact, set considerable store by the classic Victorians of the Jane
Austen breed; salute the forty year old father who escorts his virgin
daughter down the isle and hands her untouched to her new husband. In
fact, we're empiricalists enough and cold blooded enough to rate this as
between a one and a two on a ten scale. Yes, it's an ideal, and yes, in
the scheme of things it hardly matters at all. No sound male has ever
rejected a female because she's been close to her father or brothers and
all will tolerate a continuation of any such relationship so long as it
doesn't interfere with the home life of the couple, and, should a man
express doubt, all his girlfriend has to do is observe that one day before
long he may have a daughter. She doesn't even need to wink.
"So," the speaker went on, "that's an overview. Our underlying belief
is that girls and boys, men and woman, involved in incestuous relationships
should have ample opportunity to be with other partners, largely for the
sensual gratification, and also because people who sleep together,
especially adults and children, usually tend to talk together, and it's
hard for a kid to talk to too many adults. In this vein, we encourage an
active program of sleepovers between club members, and we join other clubs
in the area at resorts and on cruise ships, because nothing encourages the
home fires like occasional wanton excess.
"Now, as to the practicalities, we have no set policies. There are
fifty square miles of dunes out here, and we suggest you use the noise of
the surf to keep your bearings. There's a marker on the beach, a buried
dory no one is likely to move, so, if you get lost, head to the beach, find
the dory, then head directly inland for a quarter mile. The main tent has
been done up in Egyptian style; carpeting, pillows, and silks, and there
are, as you see, three pup tents for privacy. Any girl who finds herself
in an uncomfortable situation knows she can come to me, and, in fact, one
of the reasons of the enduring success of outfits like ours is that they
give kids a means of getting the word out about something they do or do not
want, without having to approach the concerned party one-on-one.
"Now," the young teacher concluded, "anyone who wants can gather in the
Egyptian tent for strip poker, only we use a variation of bingo, because
we
think it's witty to do so. After last night, napping is permissible
anytime, anywhere, and some of you are sure to doze off before midnight.
Although I doubt anyone will die of hunger before dinner, we do fire up the
grill at noon if anyone wants a snack, and if anyone catches a bluefish or
striper, that's always good for a bed of coals. "
"Is this the right place at the right time, or what?" Billie-Jo
McAlester said squeezing her dad's hand and hoisting him from the dune.
"I liked what she said about naps," Neil allowed.
"Well and good," the pixie teased back, "but do you want to kid nap me
in the dunes, by our lonesomes, in the warm comfort of the pup tent, or,
with all eyes on us, in the big tent?"
"How do you feel?" the young father asked.
"Like the circus," the girl said, "all stallions and stags and fillies
and fawns."
"Anyone special you want to watch?" he asked.
"I kind of picked out Nancy's brother, Gerald," the girl said with a
pretty blush."
"We're on the same page there," the young man admitted, "he's a beauty.
Would you like him to be the first, if he wants to?"
"Would you mind?" the girl asked in response.
"It would be my preference, though I don't suppose I really have one,"
Neil said, "but I should tell you straight up, I look at you, I look at
him, and I can't help thinking lawnmower."
"Oh, god, I thought you were going to say `lawsuit'," the girl
sputtered. By accord, the various couples and groups gathered in individual
groups on the dunes, every eye on the beautifully reproduced desert tent.
Nancy brought Gerald over to Neil and his daughter, and, responding to the
obvious welcome in their eyes, the brother and sister roosted at their
feet.
"You're bringing the world ahead, one nine year old at a time," Neil
said after shaking hands.
"There's a lot of poison out there," Nancy responded, "so any antidote
is worth a try. All it takes, with an imperative like that, is an
open-eyed view of history, with some good-old Judeo Christian filtering so
we don't have kids playing games in the corner while guests are at the
visited. It's not `anything goes', it's `a lot goes,' with a healthy dose
of `the best we can do.'"
"Interesting blend of emotion and reason," the young engineer said.
"For me, perfect," the young beauty noted, "pure emotion the first time
and every time I felt one of my brothers tense in my arms, or my dad, and
then liberal doses of reason so that we lived pleasantly and constructively
together, all mature and pretty well insulated against the vagaries that
beset large numbers of kids."
"Maybe that's the reason for the strictures," Neil observed, "a
lifestyle so fulfilling and perfect it enervates and blunts motivation."
"It is weird," Karen nodded, "if it was espoused, tolerated, and even
promoted, it would remove a large amount of the essential panic that keeps
the modern world modern. It might be something like the opposite of
keeping the working class to heel with lotteries, expensive pot, and quite
a list of other options that forces them onto the factory floor. And you
know what? It's all hooey. Applesauce. Focused people contribute, no
matter what happens between nine p.m. and midnight, unfocused people
don't. The whole kit and caboodle of moralism paints bacchanals and orgies
in every third house, decline and fall of this, the decadent decay of that,
ignoring the plentiful exceptions to what is no rule, in the first place,
and also ignoring a hundred other social influences from invasion to
epidemic to heaven-knows-what. Thin soup. Not trace of reliable evidence,
just something to catcall and throw brickbats over, and a class of
intellectually inferior individuals who are nevertheless canny enough to
turn a dollar while standing an hour a week to preach. It's bad broke an'
needs of fixin'," she drawled.
Meantime, it would have been difficult to tell whether Billie-Jo's eyes
were more tightly trained on Gerald, or vice versa. "Son," Neil said, "it
might be an idea to ask her hand in marriage before you go any further."
"Okay," the thirteen year old rasped, giving Neil to know that he'd hit
on the only comment possible which would have broken the boy's reverie.
His daughter merely nodded, thus diverting the fifty thousand or so needed
for a modest wedding to other channels. Nice kids.
"Do you want to use one of the small tents?" Karen asked.
The young couple seemed to understand, perhaps the immediacy of the
suggestion appealed to them, and shook their heads, breaking their trance
long enough to stare hotly at the young adults on the dune behind them.
The timing of the children was excellent, because a baited silence had
descended over the group of eleven. None had left for the privacy of the
dunes, all eyes were on the big tent (at least part of the time), and, as
the saying goes, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
Nancy nodded to Neil and both rose, their kids latching on as they hadn't
since they were three. They crossed the sand and entered the big tent.
"Wow," Neil and Billie-Jo chorused as their eyes fell on the sumptuous
interior. "Where did it come from," they asked in unison.
"It's kind of a movie thing," Gerald answered, "mom introduced me to
some people in the business, and they were using the dunes for some middle
shots and close-ups of a desert war film; this was the sheiks hangout, and
the company didn't have any use for it. I guess it's a little complicated,
but, anyway, they moved it and left it hidden here, so we could use it for
surf casting, then mom had Billie-Jo, Sonja, and Meg in her art class, so
all of a sudden she had the people she needed to start a club. We got here
last night to rake away the sand and set up the pup tents and the grill."
"Well," Billie-Jo said, "it's definitely worth even Taunton."
"I'm glad you like it," the boy said as he nervously led the girl to a
stack of silk-covered pillows on the center of the Persian carpet while the
others filed in behind them, gathering around in a tight circle. Nancy
played hostess by passing out the ersatz bingo cards, reminding her ten
companions that it was an honor game, with reversed scoring, as each winner
lost something. Since she'd picked bright-eyed and broadminded people for
her organization, all readily agreed, and, after a minute while everyone
settled with pencil a scorecard, she began reading off the numbers.
"D-12."
"Bingo!"
"Bingo!"
"Bingo!"
"Bingo!"
What, you were expecting maybe honor and fair play from such a crowd?
Predictable as the response was, the excited childish voices did a lot to
ease tensions in the replica kasbah. Hardly victims.
"No problem," Nancy laughed, "we'll cut for firsties, then behave
ourselves admirably."
Wink.
Wink.
Wink.
Wink.
"Please tell us you mean tomorrow!" Sonja Bristol wailed dramatically,
perfectly mimicking the plaintive keen popularized by Audrey in the
original "Vacation".
Giggle.
Giggle.
Giggle.
Giggle.
Well, the kids might not be dithering, but I am. I've never written a
scene with eleven participants, and, for sure, never written one between
the likes of Neil and Nancy, who are that lead balloon of erotic lit.,
unrelated adults.
"How to stop this?" Nancy Fox mused to herself. She recognized her
younger group as being on the verge of making the whole experience a
naughty joke, kids loving stuff like that; kangarooing around giggling
while playing this game here and that game there as if they were at a
Halloween party. At a glance, Billie-Jo recognized her beloved mentor's
plight, then her eyes returned to where they belonged and she nodded at
Gerald, who, old married soul that he was, responded quickly to his
beauty's unspoken words. The nine year old cleared her throat, rose on the
center pillow, and displayed. Gerald knelt close, apparently willing to
help the girl make good the loss she'd won. As his fingers went to the top
button of her blouse the mood - cancel the watermelon seed fight -
thickened as if by outright magic. Immediately, Meg and Sonja sought the
strong arms of their handsome males, Meg nipping her dad's arm and Sonja
making sure each of her four males had at least one hand on her chest. The
boy's sister, Nancy, moved against the girl's father, his arms going
quickly to her high, full breasts. They all stared, now as silent as a
moment ago they'd been frivolous. With the thirteen year old's first touch
the game ended. Gently he lay his little-girl bride back on a huge red
pillow, performing only to the extent he moved slowly around her, giving
all in the circle a view. The group, in turn, cooperated by gathering more
tightly on Neil and Nancy, and in a moment all was comfortable and still.
Gerald slowly unbuttoned the girl's blouse.
"Tomorrow," Nancy whispered to her guests, "we'll have music, costumes,
dancing, romance, and foreplay, but for this morning, we'll not
overceremonialize: Gerald will just take Billie-Jo. This is only a thing
that happens, it's wonderful and all of that, and even worth an occasional
trip through Taunton, but it's physical, transient, though transient in
special cases runs well into the decades, and, all things being equal,
probably only a fraction as important as any other major family event.
Better to grow up with books and no sex than sex and no books, but best to
grow with a healthy mix of both.
"This is not to say we're in any hurry. The sea breeze will start in
an
hour and the tent will remain cool and comfortable all day. I think I
mentioned for the youngsters to be sure to use the bathroom, and we're
stuffed to the gills, so a few hours are at our disposal. Nothing we can
do will help make the experience memorable, that would be like helping
Niagara with a teacup, but we don't want anything that will intrude on what
might happen if each girl was alone with her first partner. By this, I
mean that it's common for free-spirit lovers to be very curious about each
other, voyeuristic, in a word, and to tell each other true stories about
their first experience, or any other extra special experience, and to
fantasize, as long as it's clearly identified, about what might happen with
other partners. This has," the teacher went on, "the beneficial
side-effect of making each girl remember especially well exactly what
happened, and it's exciting to the males because they know someday their
daughter or sister will be in the arms of a strange male, telling her story
in graphic detail, making them, vicariously, significant participants.
Growing up with a father and three excellent brothers, I have some insights
into how males feel and fantasize, and, to be honest, I find it sexy, in
very moderate doses, myself.
"So," she concluded, "relax and be happy, for it is tomorrow that we
dance."
Gerald's gentle fingers kept at Billie-Jo McAlester. The girl
maintained her display pose, hands behind her head, as he found her last
button, then spread her blouse open, exposing her training bra with the
nine year old's immature nipples bulging hard against the silk. The boy's
eyes then flicked for a moment to Neil, and with a nudge of approval from
Nancy, the girl's young father positioned himself behind the slim teen and
stripped off his polo shirt, easing his hands behind his head in emulation
of the posing girl. By accord, Ned Carver stripped Meg, and the four
Bristol males got Sonja naked, then shucked out of their own summer
clothes. The shuffling lasted less than a minute, then gave way to quiet
whispers and gentle panting as the various couples and groups tried to
recover from the shock of their new intimacy, not helped in the least by
the fact they were watching a cute boy being openly molested by an athletic
young adult as the girl in the tiny pink training bra gazed up at the
males, wide-eyed and glowing.
Storywise, the inventory was as follows. Billie-Jo, Meg, and Sonja had
relayed Nancy's tales of her family to their respective males, and the
three female students, and three of the underage males, didn't have stories
of their own. Gerald had one story, since, present time, place, and
company, a story was a story, and a story was not Neil's or Ned's or
Vince's conventional first time.
"I was an easy-going, tolerant kid," Gerald began, rapidly and
completely engaging an audience most willing to be carried away so their
interlude in prenuptial paradise could be extended - what good the golden
ducat once it's been used? "and this happened two years ago."
"You're curious, too, Ger," Mr. Forest said, "that's a good
combination; friendly, curious, and flexible. And you pull it off; in
another boy of eleven, it might be wishy-washy and unfocused; acceptance
by
virtue of indifference, but you're more an activist; want to explore things
rather than just reacting, yet not try to disassemble things, see at what
point they break, also like many your age, but appreciate them for their
worth or beauty and try to engage, find out more."
"Yes," the boy said, "but what good does that do? They only pay you for
concrete this and ironclad that, hard stuff like insurance formulas and
technical specifications.. Being sort of accommodating and interested in
everything except fashion is something anyone can do."
"The answer," the scout master said, "is that you're pre-ordained to be
a writer, and so by an instinct as feral as that of the hummingbird, you're
subjected to a backwater existence, and not for a year or two, for two or
three decades. It's a dead tough row. You'll get to see your friends and
classmates succeed in the material world, may even have one who does it on
cash, while you languish and meander, slowly soaking like some exotic reef
sponge in a vat of mellowing wine - decades. During this time, you
practice incessantly, that part will be easy because I see it in you; the
absolute, always devotion to what you will one day be, in fact, it will be
very difficult and frustrating for you not to practice, though practice may
be entirely mental, without so much as a pencil and pad at hand. You have
to give up math, you simply can't take the time for it; give up grades in
everything, give up the respect of your parents and teachers, perhaps end
up more or less the butt of your class, the meantime reading as obsessively
as you will one day practice, but not practicing, and remaining utterly
indifferent to what anyone thinks about anything. You are headed where
they never will go, and if you stop to explain it, you can hardly help
coming across as a poltroon. First, you have to be lucky enough to simply
survive, because you have to live before you have anything to feed your
talent, in your case, genius, and that means safety last, so many of you
writer turtles, and most of the best ones, never make it off the sands of
the beach. Then, you have to wait until you are forty years old to try
fiction. In the meantime you must think of it as the monster that ate
Stephen King. He didn't wait, and victimized himself by his impatience -
to the extend if he did publish something good, at this juncture, it would
be ignored, as he's a bit way Abba."
"How can you be a `bit-way' something?" the boy wanted to know.
"All you have to want to do," the twenty-four-year-old leader said, "is
set a trap for bright eyes, you know, to see if you can catch any."
"And then what do you do?" Gerald asked.
"First tell him that Abba is by far and away the greatest rock and roll
band of all time, measured then and now, and in terms of both, and this is
almost impossible, excellence and consistency. Perhaps only "Married with
Children" is as dud free over a long period of time. Once you're sure you
understand that, you're set to begin computing the conundrum of a society
that uses the group as an icon of cluelessness. That's why you have to be
forty before you can write fiction; before that, the absurdity seems merely
comic and you don't have any suggestions to make, plus, you may find
yourself over-reacting, and what writing is all about is understatement.
Killing with kindness, when the killing's warranted, in the first place.
"
"So what do I write about?" the eleven-year-old scout asked his
scoutmaster.
"There is a new venue," Abe Forest replied, "on the Web. That's why I
started this conversation by alluding to your tolerant and curious nature.
There are several major alternative sites who will publish you and grant
you immense readership from day one, and you don't have to write fiction
-
in fact, the most popular stories are written by outright amateurs who are
just telling about what happened to themselves, or someone they know.
A,B,C, done, with just a few touches to the dialogue if you can't remember
every word actually spoken. No plot, no mystery, no conflict and
resolution, in most cases; probably more a typing exercise than any
creative challenge, but something you actually can do at your age with
little risk of aping your commercially successful masters and dooming
yourself as an artist."
"How alternative?" the boy asked.
"Well," the older male mused, "in science fiction, pushing a Warp button
would incinerate a real crew due to the extreme impact of their hitting the
walls behind them, or bulkheads, if you prefer, so not that alternative."
"But there are no significant sci-fi story sites on the Web," Gerald
observed.
"Martians built it not," the teacher and scout leader agreed.
"H'mm," the boy responded, "you don't want me to take math, and I don't
think algebra built the Net, in the first place."
"It's a forest with many trees," the elder male said, "and one mighty
oak. Why don't you try barking up that puppy?"
"Because I'm not old enough?" the boy asked, blushing though the
conversation was more obviously going where he secretly wanted it to.
"In the modern era," Abe replied, "you will, in a very real sense, live
to an age of several hundred years, based on both the inputs and
experiences you'll have beyond what was known to all of history, who
thought stained glass was item one. It would be difficult not to be old
enough, but I suppose you could if you really wanted to."
"Sure," the boy grinned, "I love knowing about one half of the first
eighth of what's going on."
"Well," his teacher again mused, "they say wide-eyed innocence, but
that's only a point of view. Who's to say one's eyes won't get wider yet
when they lose their innocence?
"Do you think that's a chance you'd be willing to take? That you can
experiment with intense feelings and not have something burn out so you end
up with shorts and crossed wires?"
"As long as it was you," the boy replied.
"Do you know that's why I asked you to spend the afternoon with me? All
day, Sunday, too, if you want?"
"Not quite half," the boy said, "and we could stick to books and writing
and the computer and that would be fine with me."
"We are, or, rather, we will be," Abe said, "by giving you something to
write about, and nothing lightweight for popular culture, but acorns for
more oaks - an unparalleled opportunity to contribute significantly, even
at age eleven, in fact, if writing wasn't so dependent on understatement,
I'd be more emphatic, calling in hosts of angels to sing hallelujah, and
waving a baton at a wall of tympani while trumpets flourished in a dazzling
fanfare a thousand horns strong."
"Yes," the boy agreed, "cartoons. I knew there had to be some innocent
explanation. But I can't..."
"There is a good cartoon," the teacher interrupted, "Eminem with a
sensuous Haley hanging off his right hip, his mother's dead head firmly
grasped in his left hand, but they're pretty rare, and, for sure, they
didn't build the Web and Net as we know them."
"Glad we're off that page," the boy sighed.
"Best left to the Acme people," his mentor nodded in agreement.
"I wrote a sequence for that," the boy responded, "before I knew I
wasn't meant to try fiction."
"I only advise being wary, seeing the trap others fall into," Abe said,
"so, if you despoiled yourself by writing it, might as well tell me. Call
it a pop quiz."
"Okay," the boy said. "The coyote gets a big parabolic mirror from the
self-same Acme organization. He sets the mirror high atop an east-facing
crag with a long string attached to a peg holding the mirror up. When the
roadrunner comes, he pulls the string, the mirror drops, and it's beam
fries the bird, but he's ordered the super-deluxe parabolic mirror, with
foil wings, so all Wile gets is a mouthful of ash."
"Yes," Abe said, nodding, "raw and concise. Lots of activity and the
loss of a venerable institution in a few dozen words. In thirty years
you'll be able to do that long-ball; page after page, book after book,
meantime, there are other things to try in the name of padding out your
first times-we-live-in century; a contribution you can start making within
a few hours, and, if you want to stay on Sunday, that could run to ten
thousand words or more, depending on how fast you can type."
"My dad," the boy replied, "in the name of edification, arranged a
stringent dating program with Ms. Mavis Beacon over the summer between
third and fourth grade. If I'd been in your troop then, I would have typed
my way clear of her clutches in a week, but it took me a month."
"How fast?" Abe asked.
"I can draft at just over a hundred words a minute with maybe one error
per line," the boy said, "but I'll never be any better at it than I am at
spelling. Like math, spending time to correct the deficiency ends up
making you non-competitive in any field."
"Knowing what to put aside and leave behind is important in any field,"
the man said, "but a writer is lucky; he gets to leave everything behind,
because anything that won't be left will probably add to his work. You'll
suffer in a transient sense, but when you finally step to the plate, you
won't need the roar of any crowd, because the sensation of seeing that ball
disappear without dropping an inch needs no celebration or acknowledgement.
It is entire of itself, and unapproachable."
"And here I am fiddling with strings and coyotes," the boy murmured.
"Brilliantly," the teacher said, "the glowing first green shoot of the
future tree. The vintage is exceptional, and thus especially deserving of,
a, gentle handling, and, b, sufficient aging. Neither can be hurried, but
both can begin.."
"'Gentlemen, start your vines,'" quotth the child, sticking with half
the slightly missed metaphor.
"You should be the last published of anyone born before 2030," his
friend said, "lots of pruning, little growth, then you'll end up like those
four-thousand-year-old trees, immortal, in your own words. Tough act to
beat."
"Who'd want to?" the child said rhetorically.
The couple had been sitting on the sofa in Abe's comfortable bachelor
apartment. The host went into the kitchen to retrieve soft drinks and
returned to the leather couch.
"How do you feel about staying the night?" the man asked.
"I want to," Gerald replied.
"Okay," the scout leader said, "I guess I've hinted enough at what I
want to happen between us to drive you off if you feel really uncomfortable
or confused and to know that I'm not abusing your trusting and tolerant
nature or trading on your friendly ways. Hope I'm right in that."
"I'm just plain-old scared," the boy said, "and I know it's dumb,
because loads of boys learn stuff with older males, and you can't tell them
from anybody else, but I guess I'm afraid I won't do things right and you
won't want to teach me everything."
"That would be science fiction," the man said, "or just plain-old
warped, speaking of which, it so happens Jennifer, my nine-year-old sister
is visiting, and not only visiting, which implies a passive
characterization, but is avidly in pursuit of knowledge relevant to how
much of a woman she can be despite her tender years. She's mature enough
to know she can't make these discoveries on her own, and tends to dismiss
her dolls because they don't really drink the tea she serves them, leaving
her ample time to set her sights elsewhere." There. More hints. Would he
disappear in a puff of smoke, cartoon like, after all, or sit fast like a
bold young literary lion and overall gender-perfect champion?
"I guess I didn't know what scared really was, after all," the boy said
with a shy smile.
"Then start with your Roadrunner story," Abe suggested, which shows us
why he was so highly regarded a teacher.
"What if she's a vegetarian?" the boy asked.
"Then use the ashes to fertilize a tree for a memorial garden," quotth
his older friend.
"And then she'll want to hug the tree," the boy murmured.
"She's but a child," Abe noted, "one of an impatient breed and one who
just might not be inclined to wait the odd two or three decades."
"We're in the same grove there," the boy announced.
"Then it's high time for some magic," the scout leader said,
"specifically, taking something as prosaic as five minutes on the average
clock and turning them into eternity. Andy Rooney often did it with two,
but he cheated by trying to make them funny, and, anyway, two is less than
half of five."
"If it's worse than five minutes of algebra," the boy responded, "I
might not live long enough to see how it ends."
"Yes," his teacher allowed, "but you're young enough to try, and nice
enough to play along in the name of the benefit of the doubt."
"Okay," the boy said.
"What's going to happen, starting very soon," the teacher explained, "is
that I'm going to kneel in front of you for said amount of time, five
minutes, then begin sexually molesting you, in uniform, by touching your
inner thighs and slowly running my fingers up inside your underpants. To
be assured my definition of eternity is undisputed, my attentions will be
devoted to your right leg while my sister's hands, learning from mine, will
touch your left leg. We've pacted not to race, so it will be a sensuous
and lingering experience, thus enhancing the infinite duration of the
slow-ticking clock."
"I think it's already stopped," the youth whispered.
"A bad sign," the older male mused, " because Jennifer and I are going
to be naked. You'd better not dwell on that - I'm trying not to, at the
moment, myself - as her breasts have just begun to grow and she's never let
a male, including me, see her bare chest. "
"Running backwards, now," the boy managed to whisper, nevertheless
finding in his quaking loins the strength to stand in front of the sofa.
Jennifer, a pretty fourth grader, entered from the bedroom and stood in
front of her brother.
"The anticipation enhancement period will start," Abe said, undoing the
clasp at the neck of his sister's elegant cocktail sheath, "when we kneel
in front of you."
"Yes," the pretty kid nodded, "and it will be just as hard on us as it
is on you. All my life I'll regret not exploring your beauty at the first
moment of opportunity, as well as the delay in fully exciting my loving
brother for the first time."
"I'm just glad I can type pretty fast," the boy whispered, "otherwise
eternity would amount to time at the keyboard getting it all down
properly."
"I know what you mean," the girl whispered, standing a foot in front of
the eleven year old, "but I'm afraid I can't be of much help. I know
what's going to happen, but I've never even seen a picture of an athletic
young adult ejaculating freely on the chest of a child, boy or girl, and
it
doesn't take much imagination to know that the feelings and sensations will
be very intense, and therefore take a good deal of time to transcribe. I
mean," she continued, "it would be sensational enough if I just whispered
the details to you while we were alone together, but to actually have you
watch, to have your beautiful eyes hot on my chest and his penis after he's
taught me to fully coax him, and I'm totally ready and eager for what
happens, well, getting all that down, even with all the writer's toys, will
have to take a long time, don't you think?"
"But keep in mind, yourself," the boy responded, "that in the modern era
immortality is a single click of the Send button away. Three of us,
forever rendered, all in return for significant behavior and the time
required to type it out."
"So he doesn't know about the camera?" Jennifer asked her
twenty-four-year-old brother.
"We kind of got off on tangents," Abe admitted, "guess I forgot."
"Maybe eternity isn't a thing to be toyed with," Gerald observed,
sounding more wry than impatient.
"Well," the girl responded, "neither is our participation level on
Kazaa, and to bolster that, we have to supply original art, because
pictures get uploaded ten times more than stories do, and, if you publish
on the alternative sites, and reference the photo files, we'll have Supreme
Being status in no time, which, in turn, will bolster our self-esteem, and
everyone knows how important the community of credentialed behavioral
scientists says that puppy is."
"But if it's that important," Gerald asked, "shouldn't we try living
without it for awhile, you know, so when we achieve it we'll appreciate
it?"
Since O.J. and the Broward County leftist,
ultra-inclusive-and-completely-confusing ballot, and the veep's scavenging
U-turn, it's difficult to toy with logic in a lighter vein, as it might be
difficult to write a skyscraper drama in the aftermath of Tough Times at
the Twin Towers, yet, if society chooses to become perverse enough, the job
becomes feasible, if in a backhanded way. This is an awkward way of saying
Thanks, folks, and it could hardly help be taken but askance if I were to
add: keep up the good work. Society's job is not to wind the clockwork of
the cynic, or at least so one would suppose, but when it does such a
dependable job isn't it, in turn, incumbent on the maven of doom and gloom
to reap the windfall? Are not fools as entertaining as wits?
Correspondingly, should "foolish" be left to wither on the vine out of
prejudice, especially at a time when folks need every laugh they can get?
Smokers have a quarter the suicide rate of their freer breathing
colleagues, because they have something to look forward to on the worst
days. Doesn't it then follow that something equally bad for you, laughing
at your myriad deficiencies, instead of rectifying them, might have the
same quality, lending a certain validity to the clown? Remember the
wondrous scene from "Empire of the Sun": "Try not to think, so much!"? But
you're not thinking at all, and if the burden of having to do it all for
you results in, shall we say, chafing, well, whose fault is that? You
can't behave like children and expect to be spoken to as if you were
grownups, thus all the kidding. This is a subject that tends to overheat
if warmed up at all, intruding on even the most sensitive scenes of the
most elegantly wrought novel, heedless of the impatience of others, and
hoisting the reader on his own petard It frees the mail of checks, and the
e-mail of f-mail, giving the author, in consequence, not only ample subject
matter on which to strop his razor, but even greater amounts of time to
devote to the edge. This in turn, frees the writer of additional readers,
complimenting the cycle, with the logically defective result that he
becomes his sole audience, which, in case you were wondering, is perfectly
just because he does all the thinking. You have become a comedy with no
dead ends. The Tower of Venus with her forty million dollar endorsement
deal while daddy sees racism in every star and prejudice in every stripe
-
nothing but funny. Arie Fleischmann. How many teacher's had to look at
that clever face - every answer always perfect, spelling beyond the
profound - without a moment's grace or joy, which, of course, is only funny
if you view teachers as test teaching morons ever on the lookout for the
dreaded intrusion of artwork showing three white kids together. Under
these circumstances, the press secretary becometh amusing, proving, since
people like a little proof in their sustenance, no dead ends. See how it
is as I say it is? Glad we agree, because my objective is not to
demonstrate that rampant inconsistency is the hobgoblin of a great mind,
but that you are, individually and collectively, apt hobgoblins of any
measurable mind. Human nature, itself, falters at "keeping it light" under
such circumstances, but I was born and bred a writer, and nothing else
suits me quite as well, so, unable to sustain a charming repartee, I return
us to the subject of photography.
The tableaux evolved slowly. Abe nodded in the direction of the camera
hanging, cat proof, on a wall, but seemed loath to retrieve it. Little
Jennifer also looked, perhaps a little anxiously, but remained frozen in
front of her brother, her only way to avoid melting into a quivery mound
of
jelly at the tall athlete's feet. Gerald was a guest, a stranger on his
first visit, and didn't wish to overdo the my-house-is-your-house thing.
Instead, the brother released the clasp on his sister's party
little-black-dress, disabling Gerald, even if he'd been a bolder boy,
because the girl's soft brown hair was up, she wore diamond earrings and
a
trace of pearls around her coltish neck, though why her petal delicate
milk-white skin needed any gilding beyond the tracery of her blue veins was
anybody's guess. Gerald stood, arms at his side, knowing Infinity had
married Eternity and decided to honeymoon, forever. Yes, he was a boy, and
Jennifer was polite in not openly staring at him, but all boy, and,
moreover, not only a scout, but a scout in full uniform. Presence of mind,
the little old lady at the curb, the oncoming bus - one didn't rush in, but
the situation called for intervention, and any bus was ephemeral and could
be banished with a little mental discipline, especially under circumstances
where the need was obvious and urgent. And his greater-than-boy spirit
became involved: how could one not share this beauty? Maybe the little old
lady could cross on her own steam, but the Internet? What was to keep it
going at the gigantic scale necessary for the preservation of advanced
cultures, and all dependent cultures? It needed content as does a
railroad, and here was content going to waste, all because he lacked the
ability to prioritize and was unable to sublimate reason to emotion, making
him nothing more than a peasant. "I think I can get it," he murmured to
Abe, looking at the camera hanging on a cup hook beside the mantel.
"Would you?" the teacher responded, his eyes momentarily warm with
relief.
"I'll trade it for five minutes," the boy said, blathering a little and
realizing immediately that wit was not a thing of peasants, and he'd better
get a grip before he tried another quip. Blushing, he set about proving
time and distance are indeed related, with the time it took to peel his
eyes from the elegant sprite in front of him, glowing kid though she was,
multiplied by the distance to the mantel - good, something to hang on to
-
neatly summed up as Emotion equaling time to mantel and distance to camera,
squared. The journey of a thousand steps begins with a mental mile, if
you're a very lucky eleven-year-old boy, and so nothing happened for the
longest time. Abe didn't molest his kid sister, merely stood panting
gently behind her, Jennifer stood, hands at her side, looking every age
appropriate to a receptive female, and Gerald hung tight, wavering slightly
on his shaking knees, but not succumbing to the sofa. And the set-piece
did finally change, the uniform, as uniforms will, took over, because,
after all, if someone didn't act responsibly, who would? The Web would be
served, the Net would be served, Kazaa would be served, and soon tens of
thousands, and quickly hundreds of thousands, would serve themselves. The
electronic superhighway might sag to the strain, but if the fairy tale were
to be realized beauty would win over the beast, spam would be legislated
out of existence, people would continue to participate and upgrade, and all
would be well. Thus both burdened and inspired the steps of the boy, thus
the execution of marching orders as old as history on clay. Thus it came
to pass, the instrument was not only obtained, but the boy returned to
stand again in front of the beauty in her black wisp of silk. And how do
we really measure the hero? By his distance from the action? It wouldn't
seem plausible, but there's no proof god does not assert himself between
this ground station and that satellite, and, in his mysterious way, make
possible the unseemly. In short, Gerald had to step back from Jennifer and
Abe, in order to frame them properly in the viewfinder. Three feet, four
feet, that was about right. If the boy demonstrated heroic behavior at the
outset, and that could be nothing more than panic mixed with heedless
bravado, the real test was of sterner stuff. Abe had undone Jennifer's
cocktail dress and was gently stripping the right strap from her slender
shoulder, easing it down toward her elbow as she stood panting openly to
his touch. Luckily for the survival of advanced culture (and, while dated,
this term is easily defined: if you can set a clock with a remote, you are
advanced, if you can't, you'd better hope for a better afterlife), Gerald
was an avid photographer, so he subconsciously thumbed on the camera, noted
the speed of it's first beep, a reliable indicator of battery life, and
raised it to his right eye, held vertically. Abe eased the strap ever
lower, bent over his sister so he could train his eyes on one lovely square
inch after another as he bared her chest for her young husband. Gerald
made an establishing exposure, then waited, maintaining his four feet of
separation with all the discipline of a brownshirt. The camera beeped,
signally the strobe light was ready, and Abe eased the black silk from the
nine year old's swollen right nipple. Digital cameras offer a real
challenge. Under all circumstances, the shutter release must be pressed
half, and held at half until the camera has adjusted itself and is ready
to
receive an image. This can take several seconds. It gave Gerald pause.
If he spent a lifetime waiting for the red light to go out, what would his
upcoming five minute time-out amount to? Since he'd just made an exposure
under identical lighting conditions, the camera, with its fresh batteries,
responded quickly to its half-button, and the red light went out just as
Jennifer's nipple was fully revealed by her panting brother. All scout
now, the boy held the camera still as death, and eased the electronic
button home. The instrument clucked, converting a twentieth of a second
to
eternity, during which Jennifer's hands raised to link around the back of
her brother's neck, and she raised up to her full height under his chin,
arching her back and craning her neck to stare up at the tall athlete
towering over her own tall, slim body. Gerald snapped her in full welcome
display, wondering if the intensity on their handsome faces would conflict
with the beauty of his strong hand just below her strawberry-size, pink
nipple. "If they happen to compliment each other," the boy mused to
himself, abstractly, "maybe someone will have the sense to roll Iridium's
eighty-three satellites into the Net so the whole thing doesn't collapse
in
delirium." This was abstract in the sense, scout though he was, the boy
didn't have it in him to check his picture in the electronic camera instead
of gazing at Jennifer as Abe made ready to totally bare her young chest.
Yes, no time to be wasted dwelling on the past, he must concentrate on the
present. The girl was on her tiptoes now, stretched like a ballerina, and
Abe's left hand was easing the remaining spaghetti strap from her slim,
delicate shoulder. How he hadn't fully touched her, how he resisted her
whimpering and restrained himself from fully molesting her, Gerald knew
not, but if his leader could exhibit iron control of that magnitude, he
could keep the camera still. And he did. There was her perfect, girlish
nipple, there, the red light went out, the click, and humanity's sigh, lost
on the panting photographer whose thoughts tended to focus on his upcoming
molestation.
Jennifer's eyes flicked from those of her handsome brother, to her
pretty bare chest, to Gerald, and back up to the beauty huddled over her.
Now Abe did molest his sister, his hands roaming gently over her breasts,
caressing, fondling, and pinching gently. He also took time to peel her
sheath ever lower, finding her panting belly and it's tantalizing
combination of silky, hot smoothness and boyish toughness as intoxicating
as her swollen nipples. Gerald began pacing his panting and when the silk
dropped below the child's pretty bellybutton, the youth was ready, camera
to his eyes, still for half a dozen heartbeats, and wink, click, whirr, the
soft sounds of a tangible god (or at least a highly useful one).
Abe kept stripping the girl, getting her slowly more and more naked,
finally skinning the dress carefully to the floor and helping her step out
of it, then folding it neatly over an arm of the sofa. Wearing just red
silk panties, the child turned to the young adult and made quick work of
his buttons and the belt and zipper of his shorts. Gerald readied the
camera, crouching to frame the picture, and was on the spot in capturing
his scout leader's huge adult penis as the girl freed it from his briefs.
Did Gerald stare or lose control? Not this boy. With a few deft pushes
of the camera's button, he'd enabled the video/sound mode, and, now on his
knees, he zoomed in slightly as Jennifer's tiny right hand found her
massive brother. "And to think you're full of sperm," she cooed
breathlessly, "just like my beautiful husband." Gerald, realizing there
were limits even to the most well-meaning of deeds, stopped the camera,
wondering, to take his mind of the here and now for a moment, if the
ambient light was sufficient to render a clear image. It was not the time
to replay the sequence and check because Jennifer now had Abe completely
naked and was standing facing him, displaying, as he knelt, his erection
jutting high between his rugged thighs, and removing everything from his
sister save her diamond earrings and pearl necklace.
"One family picture before we molest your husband," Abe suggested to
Jennifer's nod. He moved to the couch, and she sat in his lap, wriggling
so his seven inch circumcised penis stood high between her slim thighs as
she again arched her slim, young body, linking her fingers behind her
brother's neck and gazing up hotly into his eyes. Abe removed his hands
from the child's swollen nipples and Gerald took their portrait. Then the
temporizing was over. The ornate silver clock on the coffee table was
quickly set to twelve, straight up, and the odd extra seconds were consumed
by Gerald's placing the camera beside the antique timepiece and standing,
his legs slightly spread, his arms at his side. Abe and the almost-naked
nine year old knelt again a foot in front of the young teen, and the second
hand ticked through the noon position.
It has been said that the first day of eternity is the time it would
take a single swallow to transfer all the sand of the Western Hemisphere
to
the Sahara desert. To Gerald, it was more like perpetual anti-motion. The
clock made its normal ticking noises, the second hand marched to the
escapement, but nothing happened. The definition of time became something
that would never pass, though, more realistically, it only stood absolutely
still for absolute genius, and, since there's not quite any such thing, did
creep along with all the deliberation of a creeping continent Ten seconds.
Another definition of time is that it always follows itself. Ten more
seconds. This is a writer that hates counters in films, partly because
they're forever running backwards, which seems counter-productive, but
mostly because they're an author's cop-out. Saccharine, if not downright
tedious suspense in a plastic box, with not even the anticipation of
knowing when zero is finally reached, everybody will be blown away, thus
preventing any more stupid-clock movies. Inevitably, since I make no
secret of the fact I think six or eight million Americans should be feeding
the fish instead of clogging the works, there will be those glad I have
painted myself into a corner, subjected to the very moment-by-ten-second
moment I scorn in mortal writers. This brings up a third definition of the
subject at hand, and that is that it's something that can be filled.
Veteran readers will groan, I suppose; I'm always certain they read for
the tawdry content and bemoan the essays, but it simply amounts to this:
genius may never be absolute enough to stop the clock, but it's fox clever
when it comes to filling it. Even the word weary and prattle hardened will
have to admit it's been a long time since there was any news of Samantha,
Randy, Andrew, and other former frequent guest players. All readers, new
and old, can join in dismay over the news that there is no news. Andrew's
up in San Jose, with Bev, recuperating from open-heart surgery, Randy is
ever flaky, showing up from time to time, then vacating for days at a time,
and Samantha remains a virgin, at least as far as I'm concerned, though
living alone with Linden and Melissa, who are down from the city to
chaperone in her mother's absence, seems to have given a new interest in
at
least kissing. She spends an hour or two a day as our better than perfect
non-marriages moves quietly into its second year, and if anyone can
fantasize a fuller life than dwelling softly in paradise with the ultimate
in island girls while churning out reams of deathless fiction, write it
down and sell it.
Fleas. There's a mystery worthy of a mind. I've lived much of my life
in homes with multiple cats and dogs, and rarely even seen one of the
critters, ditto, the last five years with up to eleven cats and kittens in
residence. Last week two sick-from-birth kittens (two months old) died on
successive days, and suddenly the circus is not just in town, it's in the
living room. The surprising thing is the four surviving cats, two with
white chins, don't show a sign of vermin one, while they pop magically on
my feet the minute I sit down. They're of no particular bother and don't
seem to bite, but that could change, so I've taken on the role of the
hunted turning hunter, rubbing them out the moment they land. My version
of Zen. At one moment I'm showing how much value there is in extreme
practice by outstripping my always lesser literary peers, and the next, I'm
using the same diligence to slowly annihilate my population of mysterious
hoppers, sans spray, fire, or ethnic cleansing in any gross form. None of
that, I just rub them out, one by one, occasionally, two by two, and lo,
as
I return the numbers inexorably decline.
I know what you're thinking: this is a cheap writer's trick to make you
empathize with the time dragging with glacial ponderousness for our three
characters (not to mention the denizens of the tent), but I would ask you
this: who was it who taught you to become so entirely engaged in what you
read? Remember what they always say? The oldest trick in the book? Well,
what if the whole book is trick? Buffed, polished, and detailed to the
last Payday peanut under the passenger's seat? This seems to emerge, over
time, as the number one motivation, teaching many to read, to endure with
patience the vicissitudes of the virtuoso, with faith that the payoff will
be along in due time, and not only well worth the wait, but verily and
forsooth enhanced by it.
The veterans know. The longer I dither and puff around the top of my,
well, barnyard hill, tempting David's patience as well as yours (and he's
my publisher, editor, and critic, perhaps friend, if someone who
contributes 1.15 million words to your archive can be called a friend), the
hotter the incipient climax. Maybe no other writer can use fleas to
inspire his readers, but I have managed to do so so recently it would be
pointless to deny it. I earn my forays over yonder hill and down the dale
to the east, or I wouldn't be here. Now, with everyone caught up, I'll
show you how.
If time was infinite, what word was left for related voids, for example,
for "worst". Had the first minute been the worst? They said Tuesday was
the worst of the five work days, how did that fit? How about "subjects"
as
eternal fodder? Subject, Jennifer's pretty left breast, subject:
Jennifer's equally startling right nipple; subject: Abe's huge erection
probing from the trace of black hair trailing his athletic belly. Wouldn't
a sensible version of the language have a group of super nouns? Words or
phrases you could use to halt a story in its tracks, without cheating the
reader? Preteen breast. Adult erection. Shouldn't they, of and by
themselves, conjure sufficient imagery to save the story teller much
tedious detail? Seminal fluid. Well, there was so much of that it was a
bit obvious for the subtle context necessary for special phrases to
maintain their special allure, though one would not want to dismiss it
entirely.
"Would it work on film?" he wondered, having at hand a lifetime to muse
and reflect. "A boy almost motionless in front of a naked adult brother
and pixie sister, dressed in a neatly pressed scout uniform, just standing
for five minutes? Would the audience yawn or drool? Andy Warhol had
hoodwinked the leftist trendyites with an eight hour film of a man
sleeping, but he conked his hair like fashion's adz, so he could get away
with stuff, begging the question of Was it art? The film, "Addams Family
Value", had cautioned, effectively, he thought, against hand puppets, so
they were out. A soliloquy? Mime? Pretend he was doing the weather in
the Southwest, where it was forever seasonal? The only sensible thing the
boy could think of was making like a ref and calling time out, but that
brought UP time, and four remaining minutes of it.
How long would a congregation remain silent if the minister went into
a
trance at the pulpit? Wouldn't nervous coughing begin within half a
minute, and the sexton appear from the wings in less than a full minute?
And that was god the almighty, buttressed by family, angels, saints, and
centuries of faith. Could the technique be used on criminals, make them
run out the clock as he was doing, and thus forever still their perverted
passions? And how about as birth control? Make newlyweds curb their
appetites under similar circumstances, and what were the odds they'd get
tired of each other and go their separate ways? Try as he might he could
find no silver lining in the situation, and, to give credit, he was a bit
young to be cynical enough to pass the whole charade off as a writer's
exercise in slinging el bull, vamping, showing off, or all of the above.
What if Captain Ahab had stared over the gunwale of a longboat, just stared
at Moby Dick for paragraphs? Rhett and Scarlet, o'er the tall cotton? Al
and Peg Bundy pulled it off, but that was frivolous comedy, not sensual
drama. Romeo and Juliet? If only they had held their tongues, left
ladder, rail and rungs, turned glowing eye upon livid breast, peeped not
peeping from their nest, their time they may have spent in jest, instead
of
conquering it with their lasts breaths. Cartoons filled it with the babble
and antics of morons. The president left you wondering when he would
arrive, now that the suit was here. It made old people old, never stopping
until every last one was dead (it had even killed Mozart). It could be
conquered with money, but it took time to earn the money. It was the last
friend of the condemned, the only thing keeping him alive. It leaked into
every bottle and infiltrated every jar. It was no man's friend, yet there
was always more of it. God's Indian gift. Special enemy of the liberal,
showing his quick-fixes for what they are. Silly, in a word: why didn't
it
happen all at once and last forever? Deadly when vehicles or large animals
try to occupy a particular space without parsing it correctly. Malleable
only in the hands of a writer who may compress or expand it at will, at
least for awhile. An aspect of any discussion, is, of course, quality
time, that which parents spend taking their offspring to play dates, and,
in at least some families, the interval devoted to returning them to the
fold. The international edition of Time is so anemic one wonders if any
commerce at all takes place, and, if time permits, wonders how an Anglo
magazine titled: "Happy and Gung Ho" might fare, advertising-wise, in its
place. Time is ephemeral, abstract, controversial, subjective,
conditional, and relative, but, vague or specific, it does posses a
singular virtue, and that is that sooner or later it's time to be moving
on. (Please time - pace - your elation so as not to hyperventilate.)
The stuttering second had made it's last sweep, half-sweep,
quarter-sweep; five minutes became five seconds, and they could handle
that. Abe nodded to his pretty sister and the nine year old touched the Boy
Scout between the top of his green knee sock and the hem of his shorts,
using her left hand on his inner thigh. Abe copied his sister, and both
looked up at Gerald to see if he might want to indicate a sexual preference
on his part. No, the boy just stared back, eyes huge. They responded to
the welcome, shoulder to naked shoulder, easing their hands higher and
under his shorts. Yes, there were not underpants, Abe's invitation had
been explicit enough that it hadn't taken fervent optimism to find a moment
to shuck out of his Hanes while using the bathroom.
"Abe," Jennifer said, "show me how an adult male usually takes a young
boy."
"From the back," the athlete said, indicating that his sister should
replace his hand on the scout's leg win one of hers, "like this." He rose,
and moved behind Gerald. "It usually happens, the first time, in the
shower. The adult offers to wash the child's hair, or, in many cases, the
boy suggests this would be nice, so their first touch is like this." He
mimed washing the eleven year old's hair for a few moments. "If it isn't
a
shower scene, then, for example, a teacher might be guiding a student at
the blackboard and touch his shoulders or neck." This, also, the brother
demonstrated.
"What does the boy do?" the girl wanted to know.
"If he doesn't like it, he'll do anything from gently avoiding the touch
to stringent verbalizing. If you can't make `em eat peas, how you gonna
touch `em `tween belly and knees? Most boys, and I've done this three
times before Gerald, will stand still and pretend nothing's happening,
becoming inarticulate in a state in which confusion and hope create extreme
excitement. At this point, as the adult becomes slightly more overt in
gripping the boy's shoulders, and it could definitely be a young female,
and rubbing his neck, he will say words to the effect that the boy should
put a stop to anything that makes him feel uncomfortable, then he'll free
the child and move away, giving him an opportunity to change the subject
or
leave. " Thus saying, Abe removed his hands from Gerald and sat on the
armrest of the sofa. The boy went nowhere, and whispered, "You're
beautiful" to Jennifer, not changing the subject.
"This stage reached," Abe said, returning to his position behind the
standing boy, "the adult returns, again begins fondling the child's neck
and shoulders, and they might talk for a few minutes on general subjects,
or, if in school, complete a few formulas on the blackboard. Slowly, the
adult male moves closer, being careful not to overdo. It's much like
Posted By Nikki
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