Guile or Innocence?

From the perspective of present senescence, I look back fondly to my past. Events that stand out while others fade are those from my neighborhood many decades back.

Yellowed diaries remind me of details which encourage recall. I have them all with me here in the retirement home where I’m well cared for.

Caregiver Jovino de la Cruz, who tends to me most solicitously, thinks I’m hilarious, for an old coot. In strict confidence, he has listened to fragments of my recollections – which he calls “productos” of my “imaginacion.” Sweet thing and a bit of a swish, he encouraged me to take up writing.

“Poot eet down on dee papel,” he said memorably. “Don’ use too many beeg words.”

I did start with economy of verbiage in mind:

Clyde

Alice, what nice neighbor.

Her brat, Clyde, on the other hand….

Well, it didn’t matter what I thought. I was stuck.

No babysitter that night.

Work crisis. She had to go back in. Rather late.

“You’re a dear. He’s been fed and is taking his bath. Just get him in bed and watch TV.”

“When will you?...”

“As soon as I can.” She darted out.

I listened. Distant splashes. A gurgling drain.

Had to face him.

Deep breath. This will pass.

Then, there he was – dried but not clad. PJ pants in one hand.

Cuter than I thought. Trouble, I reminded myself.

Spotted me. Twirled his PJ bottoms.

“Your mom’s gone back to work. Some emergency, she says.”

“She always says that. Here, help me with these.” He passed me the flannel.

“Here, in the hall?”

“Good a place as any.”

I bent. Stretched out the waist. Waited.

Pricklet caught my eye. I jiggled the pants, “Come on. Step in.”

One foot tested the opening. The other. At last, I could raise the garment and cover temptation.

Not to be. The imp wiggled himself – yes, that part – into my left hand then my right.

Giggled like a boy being touched for the first time. Ha!

Tried to stop that nonsense. Held the elastic and reached behind him. You know, not to be threatening or anything like that.

But the way he moved, my hand strayed to his bottom.

Bright idea: Tickle him through the cloth.

Oops! He giggled even more.

Grew desperate. Slid under and kinked a finger into the right place.

He squealed and pushed back.

I stopped. He didn’t.

Me, bold: “If we’re going to be serious about this, I’ll get some oil.”

He: “You’re the one who was being silly. That’s why I had to laugh.”

He practically smirked, “I’m always serious about my butt.”

“How would I know?”

“You would’ve if you started where you are now.”

“Dynamic, aren’t you? Gosh!”

“Thermodynamic, my tutor says.”

“When?”

“When his finger’s all the way, numbskull.”

Then I knew he knew what he was up to. I hastened. Olive oil. Where’s she keep it?

He saw my quick return with bottle in hand and turned. The part I wanted to peruse, by Nature uptilted, was right there.

Grabbed the little demon. Jerked him into the nearest room. Evidently his, from all the mess.

Sat down nearest the door. He landed tummy down you-know-where. In slid my daring digit. Felt around the least bit. Gave a twist.

Heard him yawn.

“Am I boring you?”

“You could bore me a lot better with your dick.”

“Lagging, am I?”

“Jeeze, at least get two in. Foreplay’s over.”

“You’re not old enough.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Smart-mouth, I ought to spank you.”

“Why haven’t you already? Or are you just slow?”

I vacillated. Reached for the oil. Slathered my hand and whacked noisily a few times.

Deadpan, he looked back, “What kind of a warm-up is that?”

I lit into the spank, popping each boy-butt part one good one after another.

The area pinkened.

Something stiff was poking my thigh.

He kerplunked to the carpet when I stood.

Off-with-…I thought of Alice in Wherever-It-Was…the Queen rendering her snappy judgment, “Off with…!” about my clothes. Didn’t want to disobey a royal command.

Well-stripped, full-risen, I loomed.

Spaniel-brown eyes opened wide at the sight.

I slicked my offering.

He rolled. Spread his legs.

I saw. I lay. I came.

He conquered.

Let me tuck him in.

Around midnight, Alice let herself in. Found me dozing on the sofa.

Must have tiptoed to check the boy’s room.

I wakened.

She thanked me with a buss on the cheek.

Alice bade me “Good night,” the bottle of olive oil not quite behind her back.

A nice neighbor.

Liked her.

A lot.

When Caregiver Jovino read it, he blushed. “Chew tink I belief dat chew not uno ass-bandito?”

“My behavior was beyond reproach,” I rushed to assure. “Clyde was responsible for seducing poor me, not the other way ’round.”

Tsking me with his Mexican tongue, Jovino served my cold meat loaf ‘sanweesh’ and glass of milk, wished me a nice, after-lunch nap, and turned on his way out to say, “Write anotter. Good terrapee.”

I needed more time to rise to his challenge, so hid my work until ‘anotter’ day.

The occasion arrived on Tuesday. I was taking the air outside.

The home’s veranda boasted several hammocks, one of which lulled me mid-morning to the strains of “Back Home in Loosianner” sung by tin-eared Old Harold in the next hammock, strumming his plastic ukulele.

“Was dat?” Jovino wanted to know, pointing to the roll of white pages I held.

“Another memory that you won’t believe. Finish serving the iced tea and I’ll let you read it. By the way, I like mint leaves in mine, sugar remember, and a slice of lemon.”

His eyes lit espying the pages as I sipped my tea. He settled on the porch banister to read:

Oscar

We pressed against each other until I backed off the four inches or so I dared, and bonked back.

Just as three days ago, he took it in stride.

The fun went on for five or six minutes.

A banging back door (not his personal one where my best part was) stopped us cold.

“Mom, are you back already?” he called, jerking on a piece of outerwear.

Me? Fucking stranded, wet dick bereft. No idea what to do.

“What are you doing?” a voice shrilled from their kitchen’s direction.

“Trying to get good with a new – um – magic trick, you know, for the talent show. It’s a secret. Don’t come in.”

“Oscar Luis Menendez-Finkelstein, you come here. I want an explanation.”

Sounded wet-hen mad.

“About what? I’m trying my trick!”

His petulant pitch masked squeaking bedsprings. A couple of teddy bears bounced off as I grasped for – anything.

“Shhh! Be quiet and she won’t come in.”

Actually, the little smart-aleck pointed to a corner and threw his old baby blanket there. “Hide just in case.”

I crouched under light-blue fake angora with pretend-satin edges. My heart went thumpety-thump. Held my breath.

“There are two partly-eaten halves of a banana-and-peanut butter sandwich on my table and crumbs everywhere!”

“I know,” he shouted. Looked at me. Hollered, “I ate the middles ’cause I don’t like crusts.”

So glad he didn’t tell her why we never finished those refreshments.

“You’re wasting perfectly good stuff.”

He hissed, “Here, catch! Don’t waste this.”

Our perfectly good tube of KY skittered my way. Nicely waxed floor…on which I was dribbling. Coitus interruptus, if you must know. Or haven’t guessed.

“Gotta go. Stay put. I’ll be back.”

“What if?...”

Cut me short, he did: “She won’t. Just shut up.”

Off he went, “Coming, Mom.” A hand was in his crack.

How long is a long time?

Long, when you’re jaybird naked on a cold floor under a blanket. Especially one that doesn’t disguise culpability.

All the way. What a wonder that is. Like last time, his first. Took me like a champ – well, those squawks aside. And the two high B-flats.

Boy soprano, you know. Solos at church and all that. Attitude!

How my mind wandered and my knees ached.

An uneasy silence.

Finally! He was back. Shucked his shorts. “She went next door. Hot gossip for Mrs. Schwarz.”

I gawped at what he was doing to himself. Plying his skimpy frontage.

“Are you gonna stay there or what?”

This time the petulance was directed my way.

Where I’d sucked and chewed his tiny tits was red. Too red for a pubescent’s Mom’s eyes.

He noticed. “She didn’t see ’em. Dimples punctuated his now-rosy cheeks. “She was sorting grocery stuff while I cleaned up.”

Proud of himself, my five-feet-one-inch buggeree.

What was I to do? Not what you think.

“You can’t mean it,” he said at what I’d whispered. “From the front already? Hot damn!”

So pubey a punk with cherub lips deserved to be observed. To be appreciated, you know, when you’re poking him the way I was. He’d tried to bite me.

“Stop that and behave. Can’t have you making a fuss. Think of the reward that’s heading your way.”

“Then I won’t make a fuss. Use a lot of this.”

Our blue-and-white tube. First time he saw it, he liked the dynamic logo and calming colors.

He’d brightened, “It’s the same as Mom’s Sunday china. Her good stuff.”

I’d shown him how good our stuff was.

“More than last time and go slow.”

“Hold these up, apart,” I hoisted his ankles. “I’ll show you a trick that works magic.”

With aplomb, the open tube went to his pucker and a large squirt spritzed in.

The look on his face: memorable.

With no words of chastisement about the temperature, Oscar Luis Menendez-Finkelstein was ready. Old enough, obviously.

Finger tested. Springy!

I jockeyed into the saddle. Gave him a smooch and a couple of inches. Our fun from before had opened his gate. Off to the races.

Not a peep to demonstrate his vocal range. Just a snort and wide-staring eyes the same color as his blanket.

We bumped together.

“Hey,” he hushed himself, “you look funny with your mouth hangin’ open like that.”

“And you look” – I really gave it to him – “won-der-ful and feel even better.”

He was all smiles until…she came back.

“Ready to show me your trick?” his Mom called from the other side of the door.

Oscar’s rectal muscles spasmed on me. Trapped my dick!

Who’d have thought the kid had such recoverably resilient fiber, wide enough for me as he was the second time in so few minutes?

Went bonkers.

I ’bout stripped my gears.

He wrenched around me.

Panicky squirts were dying away when he managed, “Yo, Mom, it’s almost perfect. I’ll come out.”

Any teenybopper who took a man the way he did was well on his way to coming out.

Me? I kept mum. Oscar, after a flurry of finding clothes, dashed. “I’m coming, Mom!”

Me? Abandoned, naked. Corpus quaking.

Magic words to the rescue. “Let’s go over to Mrs. Schwarz’s and tell her about the talent show. Bet she’ll show up and bring a friend or two.”

The back door slammed. I, lubed briefs stuck to my frontage, snuck out the front door and strolled the other direction.

Jovino handed my pages over, shaking his head. Not before using them to hide his other hand as it scratched or tugged between his legs. “When was chew a teacher? I heard chew was.”

“Oh, a long time ago.” I ground the fresh mint leaf between my molars. “My subject, ‘creative writing,’

“Where chew teach dis chit?” He waved my pages at me.

“The Laklacoochie Reformatory on Alligator Alley. We had a few inmates with talent, a lot more with experience at sex. I taught them my motto: WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW ABOUT.”

His tongue licked Jovino’s lower lip. “Dey predators ’n’ chit? Dey fuckin’ mucho macho? Chew fuck dem?”

“Mind your manners, Jovino. Don’t be a nosy parker. Now let me drowse. Enjoy your weekend off. Have some fun. Monday maybe, I’ll have another story for you.”

I smiled.

He left, but did not return on Monday.

A new part-time caregiver perhaps as old as twenty, Gonzalo Mendez, showed up in the Sun Room after our cafeteria-style breakfast. A bit slick with grease-combed hair but affable enough, his was unmangled English.

He explained that Jovino had “tangled with the wrong crowd” and was “laid up.” He knew I was a writer and that word was my stories “turned tables on young guys getting it on with older guys.” Such was his temerity that he added, “Steamy smut stuff.”

My surprise netted the information that Jovino had blabbed my confidences to some on the staff. "Most everybody wants to read your stories, me especially because I’m a Psych major at the Community College. Taking ‘Abnormal Psychology’ this term, you see.”

Abnormal! My dander risen at this newbie’s presumption, I turned the tables on him.

 I said, “Don’t interrupt.” Then in rapid-fire order, I demanded to know, “At what age did you know you wanted a man to fuck you? How many men have fucked you? Were you a pill about it or did you manage to show them a good time? What about sucking? How good are you at that? Do you spit or swallow? How supportive is your mother?”

His sputters caused a sensation. Gerald, Sr. drew back, Old Harold snorted and twanged a string on his uke, Amos (whose tongue tended to drip on his chin) swallowed deeply, Throcky (short for Throckmorton) chortled.

I had their attention. Received a round of applause as Gonzalo fled. I bowed and went to write another memory of days long gone. Inspiration had hit!

Charley

I was being followed. This path, that trail. Quickly took turns and twists through thick ferns but couldn’t shake whomever stalked me. The botanical garden was no safe haven. Neck hair bristled. My heart panicked. Do you know how it feels to be pursued by a predator? Believe me. It’s scary.

“Wait!” his voice called although he was nowhere to be seen. “I won’t hurt you.”

Smooth as silk. Yikes!

Slowing, I confided to the bushes, “I’m so scared.”

“I know, but it’ll be all right. I promise.”

Still, the pit of my stomach quaked. There were stories about this sort of thing.

Guys that preyed on the vulnerable like me.

Suddenly, his head stuck out from a frond.

My knees shook. He blocked my way. Neared.

I shuddered. I tell you, I felt threatened. In danger. Really.

Green eyes, ash-blond hair, pinch-me cheeks, toothy smile – all the signs I’d heard about.

What could I do?

“You shouldn’t run from me,” he remonstrated.

“You’re too young, Charley.”

“But I’ll have a birthday in a week and my Aunt Alice said….”

“I don’t care what your Aunt Alice told you. No.” His Aunt Alice? Surely not. Oh shit.

Swallowed deeply. Folded my arms. Stood firm. I’d face him down.

Bravado might let me escape possible dangers unscathed.

“I’m trying to tell you,” he took a chesty breath and scrambled ahead, “all she said was that you had unusual uses for olive oil and that I could learn about them from you. I really like olive oil. It’s real slippery. I can really slurp noodles so, please.”

“Well, you’re not about to slurp my noodle.”

The look on his face was so earnest, I almost fell for it.

“Pretty please?”

He was pretty, that was certain. And wanted to please.

“Your type always tells.”

“It does not! Clyde didn’t.”

I was suspicious. “Oh?”

He rushed in with, “Oscar Luis Menendez-Finkelstein didn’t.”

“And just how do you know he didn’t, eh?”

If I had a moustache, I’d have twirled it.

Watched his blush and swallow of pure guilt. Caught!

“He didn’t.”

Twerp. I stared as hard as I could.

“Not the first time. But anyway, we’re friends so that doesn’t count.”

“As what?”

“As telling, silly.”

“What then exactly counts as telling?”

“Why somebody like Mrs. Schwarz or Oscar’s mother.”

The unassailable logic of a precocious brat. Had a point, I guess.

“Oscar’s older,” I emphasized.

“Yeah, I know. Real old.”

The way he canted his emerald eyes at me, my resistance’s integument began to fail.

He could tell! That I could tell because he opened his fly.

“I know a secret place,” he confided. “And I’ve got the stuff. C’mon. Don’t be afeard.”

The stuff? – I wondered. Had to find out, didn’t I?

I looked both ways. A small hand tugged. Off we went into dense verdure. Negotiating some thick vines, we came to an off-the-beaten-track, unnoticeable glade where he’d tucked a crumbled paper bag.

“See?” he held it proudly in my direction.

Oh no! A familiar bottle of olive oil and a somewhat-squeezed tube of KY. And what looked like a cop’s whistle on a string.

Why the little….

Peripheral movement drew me from the purloined content. Looking for all the world like some whitish-pinkish stand-in for a garden-ornament, he’d even removed his shoes.

“See? Nice, huh?” Tried to pirouette, the show-off. Fairy-as-satyr.

He’d doomed me. It’s what predators do.

Paralyzed by the thought there might be panpipes stashed somewhere, too, and he wanted to do some blowing, I couldn’t prevent him from stripping away my clothes. I mean, I was – helpless.

And hapless. You feel sorry for me, don’t you?

Thanks.

I appreciated the chance to lie down. My bed of pine needles – soft and aromatic – wasn’t assuaging enough. No, what he was after needed resuscitation.

“I can get it up.”

Ohmygodohmygod! His practice with noodles was paying dividends. I mean, my interest was rising.

A perky face, his – grinning like a monkey – came up just shy of a gag. Needed air.

“There! Told ya.” Skinny arm wiped away shiny slobber.

Must’ve remembered something he’d heard about magic being involved. Damn that Oscar! My attacker squinted and frowned and held up darling hands Lugosi-like. Made Merlin-motions and intoned, “You-are-in-my-power.”

I was. Entirely.

Ready for further torment. Yehhh….

“Answer-this-question-or-face-tor-ture: gel or oil?”

“Oil,” I chanted. “Oil.” My voice responded as if with a mouthful. His hypnosis at work.

Ere he went out of sight, he said to himself, “Oil for the derrick.” Or, I thought he did.

It’s been noticed that, in dire straits, I’m imaginative.

Back with bottle and grin, he began to dribble. Only, some hungry bug nipped his tush, he jerked, and the oil spilled. My rig was drenched!

“Ooh,” he squealed, “I can have some fun!”

The nerve!

He sat. Straddled! Faced me and exclaimed, “Whee.”

Youthful temerity.

He slid back and forth on my thighs, twiddling my balls like gum drops too big to hold onto, then taking turns with each hand to pretend my cock was a handle.

This dawned: I was his hobbyhorse. An object for play!

Degrading. Me, cheapened to a momentary toy.

Had to do something. Assert myself.

“Hey, you. You’re facing the wrong way.” I switched to a throaty whisper, “If you sit on my stomach, I can help you.”

My brain raced.

“You can? How come you’re willing now?”

“No responsible adult wants a lad to hurt himself.”

“It’s supposed to hurt.”

“Not more than it has to, if we’re going to do it right. Now turn around.”

He did!

I carried on, “Wriggle some. Coat your bottom well. Uh-huh! Lift up slightly so my fingers can do this.”

Thought the boy’d dissolve in a fit of giggles. Wrong.

He grew seriously quiet while I toyed with his teeny, tender sac and stroked my nails over his taut little seam.

Poised, he waited. Greasy hands barely supported his outreach to my kneecaps. Continued to slip, so his own dinky packet kept assaulting my poor inflexible penis.

Butt-pack, perfectly cupped by my palms and separated by the work of massaging thumbs, responded. I swear, its dead-center winked at me. Alive.

Alive!

“Let’s try a poke. Easy now. No bucking.”

I poked.

Nary a peep. Next knuckle – see if it’ll glide. Wow. A trooper. Maybe a finger-turn like this?

A sharp take of air. “Yee!” the pip squeaked.

“You complaining?”

“That’s the bestest thing that ever happened to me. Do it some more.”

When you’re given an order like that in a tone like that, you obey the boy.

Soon, I was pronging away, listening for funny sounds. No such luck. I had to pull out and try for two fingers – one nudge at a time.

Unashamed, I actually spouted – if with effort – this: “The bestest is yet to come.”

“Better be. This ain’t too good right now.” Very small voice, some strain in it.

“If you let me reach your special spot again, you’ll see.”

Took some while, but I was fingering one determined kid.

“Uh-huh,” he quoted me, “that’s it, but don’t be in a hurry.”

“I’m not impatient. Anyway, it’s you holding me down. No place else to be, to go. Just here, where you want.”

“Uh-huh,” he was redundant. “Stay there. Gosh, I feel hot.”

“Me, too. Wonder why?”

“Getting me ready to ride?”

“Ah! – a quick study. Good trait in this line of – mmm – work.” I tossed in, “Or play,” and frigged away.

Not to try your endurance, dear reader, I’ll omit accounting for what you know had to be done before the main event, and get to that. Back to the glade.

The place was so pretty. Bucolic. Sun flitting through leafy boughs….

Time came. Me, too. Sorry, I’m getting ahead. You know how it is.

One more poke all-the-way (three words that go well together).

His vowel – a sustained “O” – convinced me to invite him to turn back around, take hold from underneath of what was necessary, and to hoist himself atop it.

“Ooof! This is tough. My knees can’t take this for long.” A flare of anger, “You better hold me up or you’ll hurt me. Do your job, man!”

I didn’t mind. True, for an instant there crossed my mind the idea that I could get even for him compromising me this way. But, I’m such a pushover, I wouldn’t. Besides, I counseled myself, the resulting prosecution wouldn’t care a flip for my side of the story.

Sweat streaked his brow, neck and knobby shoulders. I held tight. He tried a hula movement on his own. My head popped through, ready to look around.

“Shit!”

“I hope not. Feels clear to me. The path, I mean.”

The face of an angel, now threatened by the descent to Hell if we weren’t careful, regarded me with some respect, earlier missing.

“Don’t you dare let go.”

Think of a wharf rat’s hiss. He was quick to change moods. His youth, you know.

“I won’t. Promise.”

“Let me down a little – a little, y’hear?”

That lovely “O” sound. Sounded like a dove.

“Okay. A little more – but slow, okay?”

As he lowered, my balls rose. Danger impended! What if I couldn’t hold out for the next three inches down? This was getting Medievally torturous, I confess. Emphasis on the evil part.

Know what? It’s true, I swear. He just sank the rest of the way and sat there, staring widely.

Gravity made him a conqueror. My hero. No curses about being foiled.

Triumphant, to go by the amazed look in his blinky-blinky eyes. And that slow-to-form satisfied smile. Obviously, one boy proud of his butt. And what was in it.

After some stock-taking, what did he do but skewer himself up and down!

Just when I thought he might go into a pole dance on me, he stopped to mull over some idea. Then – wait for it – used heels carefully to rotate himself slowly three-hundred-sixty degrees, until his innards had acquainted themselves with my every inch.

I couldn’t believe the stimulus. Why? Because, he did it again. So smoothly that the infinitive would be “to revolve.”

If he were a piglet (granted, a skinny one) and I an open fire (roaring hot), his spitted ass’d have been cooked.

Only what happened was that his shenanigan made me lose control – completely. Whether it was one seizure or several in a furious row, I bathed his rod-grabber with enough sperm to father a future generation.

Stunned, I mean stunned, my bantamweight young master looked down. “What have you done?”

He blamed me?

“Me? No, you. You totally tenderized my best feature.”

“It feels funny, all scrunched up in there and squishy. I like it now.”

His face beamed – and I realized he wasn’t going to get off me.

My turn to sweat. Would this oppression never end?

Thought I’d die when the nearest bush said, “Squeeze him and he’ll come back up inside you. Worked for me.”

Oscar Luis Menendez-Finkelstein!

“Wait for me,” chirped another bush.

Alice’s devilish brat, Clyde!

Think I wasn’t jumpy? Well, okay, I would have been excerpt for the progress Charley’s ass had made with my stalk. I mean, the kid had something going on no dick could resist.

And that, my friends, is talent.

Oscar’s the one who spoke while Charley ravished me again. “Here’s our deal. We’re a club and you’re our mascot.”

I was being ridden by a bucking bronco, the new, preternatural hatchling Charley. Could hardly catch a breath during that rodeo event and Oscar’s galloping words.

“You’re gonna be our sitter evenings when our moms go out. And Saturday mornings when they go grocery shopping.”

Clyde burst out in a toothy smile (minus an upper cuspid and a lower molar). “Mom thought it up for us. She’s great!” The slight lisp added to his charm.

“Aunt Alice,” Charley slowed to a sit-still on me, “made up the rules, too. Tell him, Oscar. I got a long ride ahead o’ me.” He jockeyed away, eyes to the sky, feeling my root all the way to his tummy, I was sure.

I closed my eyes. “Tell me more, Oscar.”

“You gotta keep your thingy ready for us. So, no playing with yourself when you’re at home. We’ll know. Any practice you need, you do with us.”

“All three?” Worry nagged my attention from the way Charley was alarming certain nerve-endings.

“No, you numbskull,” Clyde re-used his term of endearment from our olive oil fun. “Two maybe, or one, depending….”

Oscar picked up from there, “If you get a call from one of us or our Moms, you wash good, and be on your toes.”

“Or on your back,” Charley chimed.

No telling what I’d be in for with him on the loose with my body.

“Or on top of me. That was good.”

Precious Clyde! His bottom a habitat I wanted to explore more thoroughly.

My eyes implored Oscar for whatever he wanted from me. You know, question-mark-in-the-air.

He blushed. Drew a breath and leaned near my ear, “I want you to go real far, real quick. There’s a high-C in a new version of “Ave Maria” I’ve got to hit two Sundays from now.”

Charley and I made some frightful noises before he rolled off and lay back – exposing my defeated penis and hanging-low, stripped-empty testicles to the audience.

I intended to tell the boys they were taking advantage of my good nature and innocence. That it wasn’t fair. But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t because a voice – a woman’s – from another bush said, “That’s enough, boys. He’s tuckered out.”

Alice emerged. Looked on sympathetically. Handed me a cool bottle of spring water. “Here. You’re dehydrated. We’ll get you back home where we can take care of you, see you make healthy food choices, set up an exercise program, help you in every possible way.”

“These young fellows are counting on you as much as we mothers are. The better the shape you’re in, the better the mascot you’ll be for the club. Right, boys?”

She and they coaxed me, dripping olive oil, up and into my garments. The mess printed through my shirt and the top of my trousers. Need I say how unsteady I was as we paraded over the roots and pushed aside the vines to emerge from the ferns like a line of hunters with their trophy kill.

As we walked toward the garden’s entrance, one boyish voice was encouraging, “We’ll build you up.”

“Yes, don’t worry,” Alice was kind. “You’re in our hands. The boys will groom you.”

“The best pet any boys ever had.” Charley’s dulcet tone chilled me to the bone.

I walked forward, hands to my side, not looking back, only ahead to the sunset.

Small fingers grasped the index finger of my left hand. Clyde. Another set took the middle finger of my right hand. Charley.

The sky glowed.

Gonzalo apologized. Alejandro Mendez, his important uncle in Mexico City and confidant in matters sexual, urged his solicitude of me. Ha! Seems his uncle knows a site on-line where my stories may receive wide circulation among sympathetic readers. Wants me to let him read them, if you can conceive of that.

So far, only four from my early years as a grown-up have come back to me. The latest, possibly last (considering my age and condition), is about those pesky boys and their Club and how I got to be famous and became well-off.

The club – oh dear!

My mini-tyrants, the three of them, presumptuously issued fully plasticized ID membership cards. At the top, THE CLUB. Head shots, names, titles. Oscar, president; Clyde, vice-president; Charley, secretary-treasurer. Mine, with my photo and name, listed me as mascot. Embarrassingly official.

“Mom’s got one, too,” Clyde informed me. “She’s our advisor.” He grinned.

Oscar wanted me to note that, while my card bore the phrase OBLIGATORY OBLIGATIONS in small block caps, theirs said ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Somebody was trying to show off as if polysyllabically profound, the message being that I was theirs – with special duties. Their ALL RIGHTS RESERVED referred, I concluded, to their rights over me – theirs and theirs only to oblige.

Mascot indeed. More like over-driven sex-slave.

Clever devils: Clyde, age-appropriate; Charley, newly age-appropriate; Oscar, fully so. Cock plunderers, all three.

“What are these cards for?” my inquiring mind wanted to know.

“For when we’re out in public, if someone nosy asks. They’re for your protection,” Charley answered. “How cool is that!”

I ignored the cool bit. My protection?

Clyde read my thought: “If people think you’re hitting on us.”

“You want us to go out in public?” I was incredulous. A switch clicked on. Maybe I stood a chance for a change. I’d try, and before one of them could think of where we might go.

“What if other boys see me and want in?”

A nanosecond of looks exchanged. Oscar was quicker on the uptake than Charley (whose mouth was open), “We’ll tell ’em membership’s restricted.”

Silently, I considered Viagra. I was facing their hormone-deluged age’s challenge.

The initial weeks were rough. On me.

First to call had been Mrs. Menendez-Finkelstein. Right to the point she was.

“I know you’re friendly with my son, Oscar.”

Oh crap.

“You know he sings solos at church, don’t you?”

I relaxed. “I do.”

“Are you a singing teacher?”

“Why, no. Why do you ask?”

“Oscar says you helped him learn to hit a high-C.”

“Yes, I guess he might’ve said that. What’s up?” My toes curled.

“The choir master says it needs to become secure. Everybody loved the way he sang it at the end of ‘Ave Maria.’ Only it was loud, you know, and sort of screechy. He’s a nice man and honest. Now he knows, he says, how difficult it is to hit a high-C but how much better if it could be – what’s that word – pianissimo. Oh, and he used another music word – I wrote it down – dolcissimo. Anyway, if you think you could coach my Oscar to do that – and he says he’s sure you can – then I’ll be willing to pay you. How much do you charge?”

“Excuse me, but why does it matter? Wasn’t that a one-time solo?”

“Oh no. Our choir’s going to join with choirs from the Baptist and Presbyterian Churches to go on tour. “Ave Maria” will be a feature of every performance, you know, especially for the Catholics. We’re Methodists. It’s all ecumenical.”

Menendez-Finkelstein, a Methodist name if ever I heard one.

Oh well.

Despite my flimsy reason, the boss gave me two weeks of mid-afternoons off (vacation time!) from my job. I could be at home when Oscar came from school and rang my bell.

“Look,” he said, holding up a shiny, round metal thing rather like a yo-yo. “I borrowed it. It’s a pitch-pipe. Listen.” He turned until he saw the engraved G, and blew.

A harmonica-pure tone. He opened his throat and matched it with no vibrato. “Now, listen to this.” He tootled G, A, B, and C. Right up the scale, he matched the pitches an octave higher, he said. Got louder on each. “See, it’s harder the higher I go, so….”

“Yes, you’re having to push.”

“Right. So if you do the pushing, don’t you see, and we work at it – anyway, you have to.”

How it would have pleased me to slap his face, but I couldn’t. His other hand was already on me, making urgent demands. What’s a fellow to do? Why, flash the brat, of course.

I threw off my robe. “What are you waiting for, Oscar, an invitation?” I sproinged up.

In a trice, he stripped, threw himself on my bed, hiked his legs – my, how shapely! – and retorted, “What are you waiting for, an invitation?”

That afternoon, we attacked his G. My sproing stroked and poked as he sang the note over and over. Head thrust back on my feather pillow, his throat as straight as possible, he’d take a breath, hold it, and let go with his best G. I found the spot inside and began a shivering movement which quivered the pitch.

We timed that first G on one breath at ten seconds. The second at twelve seconds. Tried for fourteen but accepted twelve, a number not far below his age.

“That’s all right, Oscar. Now this time, start as soft as you can and try to get louder while I do this” – my shivering routine back and forth, slow to fast, only a half-inch.

Did a lot of that. Edged him. I was learning. His vibrato was underway.

Impatient boy, wanting to get on with it, proposed we go for A, the note above. Bingo!

It took my next half-inch. He liked singing G-A-G. Both Gs rather quiet; the A louder.

Five afternoons later and me with a sore lower back, Oscar could crescendo from G to high C, then decrescendo from the C back to his starting note. I was learning about music. Aren’t you impressed?

Please don’t think I was frustrated by this period involving only two-and-a-half of my in-demand inches. I would have been in a bad way but for the two non-singers in The Club. They’d agreed with Oscar to take turns popping over just before suppertime to host my cock in its entirety.

“Mom said you’d get blue balls if we didn’t,” Clyde beamed, proud of a new term. His mom, ever thoughtful Alice, sent him over with a nice stainless steel dispenser fitted perfectly into a new jar of extra-virgin olive oil.

One push and out came a teaspoon of the precious stuff so favored by the recently-minted adolescent. (I had not been invited to his birthday party.)

An achievement in which he took pride assured hands-free, thorough coating of my part by means of his mouth. The boy did like olive oil, as you know.

“I’ll slurp ya,” he bragged. Once, he went too far and got more than oil which, with boyish charm, he swallowed. Then burped. It dawned that what happened might have deprived him of his right. In point of fact, he asked, “But what about my butt?”

Inventively, Clyde wrapped a hand around my not-now-so-blue balls and tugged. My part found the back of his throat and, with his tongue fully mobile, perked right up! That’s when he got what he came for. Smug about it, too.

Charley reported that his choir master acknowledged his “vocal security about the G-clef” but wanted a more refined sound. Well, we didn’t know that “eee” wasn’t the right syllable. Needed “aah” and “ohh.” We tackled them.

Such a difference!

“Aahs” on the way up and “ohhs” on the way down. There was a great rhythm to that. It relieved me from having to flick around his anus and sporadically to penetrate more deeply. Surging in and out proved to open up Charley’s voice and to free it dynamically. At least, that’s what I heard from his mother as she paid me our agreed-upon rate for those two weeks.

“They’re giving him some descants to sing over the hymns next Sunday. I wanted to recommend you to several other moms who want their boys to learn how to sing high notes, too. You know, the way you did for Charley.”

I gulped.

“Only Charley said not to. That you were too busy coaching his friends, our neighbor boys Clyde and Oscar. Are they learning to sing?”

“No, ma’am. They’re doing some – mmm – physical training to get in shape. Teamwork, you see.”

She didn’t know it was me they were forcing to get in shape. They were the team!

On-line, they’d found all sorts of exercises for me. With help from Alice, they’d come up with my diet. Yuck. More salads, protein shakes, different kinds of seeds than you can imagine – and no desserts!

I tell you it was tough.

People at work commented that my color was better, that I was looking “rather fit” for my age. “What’s your secret?” my beer-gut boss asked. I could hardly tell him that a major part of it lay in being forced to fuck three boys afternoons and weekends. No. I merely answered, “Diet and exercise.”

Alice dropped by one day with something on her mind. Diminutive Clyde’s teacher had called her for a meeting. Only the meeting turned out to include Mrs. Finkelstein and Charley’s mother. Seems the school counsellor and the boys’ teachers were concerned, not because Clyde, Oscar, and Charley weren’t doing well with their studies. Seems they were shunning extra-curricular, on-campus, after-school activities with peers.

When queried, to a boy, they simply displayed their membership cards and said that since they’d joined The Club, their afternoons were taken up by “all kinds of activities.”

“I took care of it by showing them my card as advisor. ‘It’s very official,’ I said. The other ladies nodded in unison. They were in full support since they ‘never had to worry where the boys are,’ as Mrs. Menedez-Finkelstein said. ‘Very neighborly,’ Charley’s mother contributed. ‘We’ve made our own community. It is a trending thing.’”

I listened to Alice with interest. This must be leading somewhere.

“The matter of the school talent show was brought up. Right off, Oscar was volunteered to sing ‘Ave Maria.’”

“They wondered if ‘something not religious’ might be more appropriate. Mrs. Menendez-Finkelstein blew her cork, stood up with her purse, and huffed about being ‘a good Christian’ and anyway her Oscar was going to be featured soloist on a tour. ‘Being in The Club is what got him singing like an angel.’ Said she’d wait for us in the hall.”

“Did that end the meeting?”

Alice was all smiles, “It did.”

“Was my name mentioned?”

“Not at all. No need to encourage those snoops. We don’t want any distractions, do we?”

The next weeks saw me less tense. The Club members continued their “tough-love” of me.

Do this. Do it that way. Some more. C’mon. What’re you a wimp? Fuck me. You can do it harder than that. Put some energy into it. And so on.

Hard to keep track of. Easier to let them control and for me to obey.

Even ate – well, swallowed is more like it – raw oysters with Worcestershire sauce and catsup.

Difficult was that they wanted me hard the moment the doorbell rang. We rehearsed that, one at the door with finger on the bell, another with his hand on my balls. To make me answer, he tugged harder than necessary, I thought.

Call it Pavlovian if you like. It worked. I was conditioned. So well that, one day, I opened the door in the nude, myself in fully-charged readiness and startled the postman who dropped his special delivery.

Some guy named Slowcum wrote from an outfit called D.C. Films, Inc. in response to an unsigned letter he had received offering the talents of three attractively-dimpled pre-adolescents and a studly, handsome, mature gentleman. My name and address were included for Mr. Slowcum’s reference and possible consultation.

He wanted to know the sex of the three adolescents. The same (if so, which?) or a mix?

Up till then, my thoughts and nights had been so wondrous free. Never slept better. Only not that night.

Fretted. Turned. Tossed.

Who was this Slowcum? Was that his real name? What were his intentions?

Next morning, called Alice. Walked to her place mid-morning, letter in hand. Over fresh-brewed cups of tea, we discussed whether it was a trap.

“Don’t see how. Had to have been one, two, or all three members of The Club.”

“Oh?”

“I overheard Clyde saying something about ‘making money for a field trip.’ Funny, not a word about any school trip from the P.T.A.”

“When they first gave me my mascot’s card, Charley said something about going someplace as a group.”

“Whatever it may be,” Alice brightened as she felt my chest, stomach, arms, and crotch, “you’re in shape for it.”

Oh dear, again.

Now you know the story behind our ninety-six-minute five-star award-winning feature, Battman & His Buttboys.

Another time I’ll relate how the masks and skin-tight outfits worked. No wonder the studio won for Best Costumes that year. No, wait. I signed a non-disclosure form.

And for Special Effects (that searchlight projecting on a cloud over a skyscraper the moving silhouette of me screwing our crew’s Best Boy who stood in for indisposed Clyde). A tech marvel. The projection, I mean, not the Best Boy. Wailed the whole time.

Impressive numbers of paid downloads on all the world’s continents – including two by ice stations in Antarctica (one American, one Russian). Money rolled in.

Charley, our secretary-treasurer, deposited each month’s take in our joint bank account. Yes, we had one, set up by Alice, who co-signed everything.

Mostly great reviews, too.

Aruba’s The Pink Snorkel hailed the boys’ “deep-face diving skills.” 

True: They’d been taught during our week of acting lessons and rehearsals. Part of the contract. Oscar was first to achieve nose-to-pube-bone. Clyde balked but Mr. Slowcum held him to the task until he calmed down. Sure inspired Charley!

Gargle-stuff proved helpful between takes.

Brazil’s Cabana News was impressed by “the film’s dark-lit booty heaven and Battman’s duty to wield his bat.”

Yep: The whole duty-thing was in the rapidly-developed script. Clever writer picked up on that during our audition and screen-tests. My goose was cooked. Demeaned again, only this time for pay. Slowcum gave spiffy directions to everyone else but let the boys instruct me.

I didn’t mind. Just threw myself into every scene, every beautiful butt.

Canada’s Niagara Night Fun liked “the adjustable furnishings of the above-cave manor house and its largely lilac living room, provided with pale mauve bolsters,” even admiring the specially constructed sectional sofa. They called it a “sexual sofa for an occasional piece in the parlor.”

Denmark’s Danish Daily Dally headline summed up, “Acclaimed around with world with sticky descriptions of sexy fun.” Their critic especially cited “the thrill of the boy’s cries echoing in the dankness.”

The crew were attentive to getting the wet highlights of our every parts to register in the camera. Many takes meant filmatic perfection and a tired cast. But the boys were troopers – and knew just how to keep me primed.

Oysters and orders.

Estonia’s The Gay Day Review praised “unexpected drama in the use of intergenerational anal sex.” It cautioned “viewers of a certain age to take their blood pressure meds” to avoid problems with their hearts. Blood pressure. Something like that.

France’s pseudo-scientific La Revue Homosexuelle did make a point to mention the phrase “under parental supervision,” which appeared in the credits. It assured that none of the acteurs immatures had been harmed during the filming. They waxed philosophical about existential questions raised by the plot, cited Buñuel and Dali as possible sources for some of the more moments surréalistes, and dropped de Beauvoir’s name in a passage we couldn’t translate.

Alice, of course, had provided the parental supervision lovingly – and got paid for it. She made sure that Oscar and Charley e-mailed home at least once every day to let their moms know how great the trip was going – the sights they were seeing and visiting.

Yeah.

Mrs. Menendez-Finkelstein e-mailed back her caution against spending too much time exploring caves. She didn’t want Oscar to catch a cold. “Remember,” she warned, “you need to be in good voice for the choir’s tour.”

He reassured her that his throat was being kept “in great shape.”

There was more. The boys were maturing through working on tight schedules to fulfill contractual obligations.

Reviews and notices from Germany, Hungary, Ireland, and a good deal of the rest of the alphabet were in keeping with those cited.

Blogs weighed in.  Sizequeen.edu and thunderdick.com provided unkind comments about my size. Respectively, they offered to provide “ripper-uppers” and “bottom-busters” for those “underserved butts.”

Slowcum was unmoved, citing “aesthetic reasons beyond crass pornification.”

A strong dissent came from Pussy Pulse Publications whose in-house rag thought the three youngsters should have been female. “Male porn is so chauvinistic.”

You don’t want to know what Lesbo Lovers had to say.

A rival studio – name withheld – approached about a sequel. Slowcum rebuffed them, “I’ll do it my way.”

“The Green Hornet & His Hive was proposed. Identities could be concealed as before by costumes and makeup. We considered it. “D.C. Studios, Inc. will float the idea,” Slowcum’s assistant Conroy told us, “to investors, but he’s hot to make a quick killing with Tarzan & His Jungle Boyz.”

Together, we four stars asked, “What?” – aghast.

Conroy tried mollifying us with promises of “curly-haired wigs like Johnny Sheffield.”

“Bull,” I began….

“No bull,” Conroy jumped, “but maybe a chimp or two for local color.”

Clyde, quietly folding a paper airplane, launched same at the man, whose nose it struck.

“Ouch,” he lurched to his feet. “Think of the sex – swinging on vines, over fallen logs, in native huts, and how cute you’d look in skimpy loin cloths!”

“Our faces would show,” said Charley.

”And everyone’d know!” Oscar yelled.

Clyde shook his finger, “We’re in school!”

Glad Alice wasn’t there to moderate my anger, I tore my shirt, flexed my muscles, and tossed Conroy out.

Then we fucked for the fun of it.

Being in shape’s great.

My memory and writing style praised by Gonzalo, I relaxed with a mint julep. How could life be more pleasant now that so much of it was behind me?

Those boys’ sexual aggression brought me to a peak few men ever reached except in fantasy.

So much sperm so well-spent so many years ago – in an eventually worthy cause.

Me.

I reflect often on my good fortune as I drift into slumberland after viewing reruns of Tarzan & His Jungle Boyz and Battman & His Buttboys .

Never.. knew…. why…... one…..... ended……... in ‘z’ and………...... the other in…….......…..........…..‘s.’

Much is owed to friend Vic, whose good-hearted suggestions have helped this so very much.

Your opinion, comments, questions welcome.