My name is John Thomas. The name of the boy who’s training me (John) to be his fuckboy is Eric Svalberg. In the previous chapter, Eric introduced me (John) to anal sex for the first time. In this chapter, we find out whether or not John has a gag reflex. We also find out how Eric really feels about me (John,) and why.
When we got to Eric’s house late that afternoon (Sunday.) Eric announced that he was home, and that he had brought a friend with him. This time, both his mother and his father were home—both of them had weekends off from work. I had already met Eric’s mother (Beth,) so Eric introduced me to his father (Liam.) Unlike the case the previous Friday, when I had met Eric’s mother, there was no time pressure preventing his parents from performing the full parental inspection protocol for new friends of their son.
They asked all the questions you’d expect, and I answered them truthfully; I told them nothing that I haven’t already mentioned in the previous chapters. The key issue was the reason I was hanging out with Eric (called it!) So we both explained that I was there to help Eric with his math homework. And, since that was actually the truth, it helped get us past the parental suspicion filter: Parents tend to have reasonably good lie detectors, especially when interrogating their own children. “Lies by omission” are much harder to spot, though: Sherlock Holmes might notice “the dog that didn’t bark,” but most people wouldn’t.
With all of that out of the way, Eric—who had great self discipline (as I came to realize over the coming days and weeks)—took me to his bedroom in the basement, which is where he kept his school textbooks when he brought them home to do homework. He didn’t lock the door this time: There was no point to that—unlike the last time I had been here, when we had been up to no good, before Eric’s mother got home (the previous Friday.)
He retrieved his Algebra 2 textbook, located his homework assignment, and showed it to me: The assignment was to solve a list of linear equations.
I told him, “I can solve these for you, but I’m guessing what you really want is to learn how to do that yourself.” And then asked, “Am I right?”
He confirmed that that was correct, so I proceeded to explain how to solve each of the assigned problems, explaining the reasoning, and the requisite techniques and procedures; I won’t bore the audience with the details. We spent about two hours on that: He wasn’t dumb, but it was obvious that his math education had taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque, somewhere along the way. I told him so, and suggested that we should focus on fixing that. He agreed.
Checking the time, we realized that it was now dinner time, so we both went back upstairs to the main floor, where we found Eric’s father watching the TV news: It was one of those Sunday interview programs; they were discussing the latest Watergate revelations.
Eric’s mother (Beth) was in the kitchen, getting ready to make dinner. When she overheard me talking with Eric’s father (Liam) about the Watergate news, she came out to the living room to ask whether I would like to stay for dinner.
“Sure. I’ll just need to get permission from my mother”, I answered.
“Great! Let me know your phone number, and I’ll call her to get permission,” she said. This was 1974; there was no internet, and no mobile phones. Most people had one phone per household—what we now call a “landline.”
I checked my watch, to see whether my mother would probably be home. It was a borderline case—but that was only because it was a Sunday. So I gave Eric’s mother our house phone number, which she wrote down in an address book, and also told her my mother’s full name (Rose Thomas.) But I informed her that it was 50/50 whether my mother would be home yet. So she dialed (literally—it was a rotary phone) our number, and my mother answered. At the time, rotary phones and push-button phones were both quite common. But everyone just called making a call “dialing,” just like we still do today.
Eric’s mother introduced herself, and explained why she was calling. Our two mothers chatted for about 5 minutes or so. We could only hear one side of the conversation, but it was obvious that the subject was myself and Eric. I did hear Beth ask my mother whether I had permission to stay for dinner. I didn’t hear my mother’s answer, but what happened next was that Beth gave my mother the Svalbergs’ phone number.
Once the call had been completed, Beth informed us that I had permission to stay, but that I had to be home no later than 9 pm: Tomorrow was a school day, after all. That meant I had to leave by about 8:25 pm. Thanks to the fact that Eric and I had already walked from my apartment to his house earlier that same day, I already knew how long it would take to walk back home. Also, I knew that 35 minutes should provide a sufficient buffer, without being longer than would be reasonably needed. My mother was never so strict that being 5 minutes late would be any sort of issue: I was not a “problem child.”
So Eric and I sat down in the living room, and watched the same news programs that Eric’s father (Liam) happened to be watching. Not that we had much choice regarding what to watch.
Dinner consisted of rib-eye steaks, mashed potatoes, gravy, a salad, and red wine (Merlot.) Desert was the last of the chocolate cake that Eric and I had wolfed down on Friday afternoon. After dinner, Eric and I retreated back to his basement bedroom, where I began to get a better assessment of his math knowledge, so that I could begin to fix the deficits in his math education.
Then and now, the topic of the way math was (mis)taught in public schools was one of my pet peeves, but it’s probably not yours, so I’ll say no more about it. I’ll just add that I had a similar view of the way English, and grammar, were commonly taught, and leave it at that…unless you really wanted to know all bout context-sensitive grammars, polysynthetic languages, the distinctions between phones, phonemes and allophones, and those between morphemes and word forms—and just for fun, all about Russian verb conjugations?
Didn’t think so. My high-school English teachers didn’t want to hear about such things, either.
After thanking the Svalbergs for their hospitality, I excused myself, and left for home just before 8:25 pm. I arrived back at my (mother’s) apartment at about 8:55-ish. It was cold at night in late February, so I had just naturally walked faster than Eric and I had, earlier that afternoon, going the other way.
My mother immediately wanted a “blow by blow” account of my evening at the Svalbergs’. I tried to bore her by telling her all about my pedagogical exploits with Eric and his math issues (which is what really interested me—other than matters that I was not going to discuss with my mother!), but she was having none of that: I had to try to reproduce the conversations I had had with Eric’s parents, describe what had been served for dinner, and also describe the architecture and furnishings of Eric’s house (none of which held much interest for me; the same would have been true of my father.) Modernly, the appropriate comment on that would be to post the “We are not the same” meme.
After my mother went to bed, I retired to my room. Finally, I had time to myself, so that I could process the events of the day—and of course, my focus was primarily on the fact that I had lost my anal virginity. Secondarily, I was processing the fact that I had thoroughly enjoyed it, and wanted to do it again. Thirdly, I was mulling over the fact that Eric had told me the truth about what it would be like: That I would “LOVE” it. Understatement much, Eric?
I masturbated myself to sleep, thinking about all of that, and mentally reliving the experience.
But it was now 7:30 on Monday morning, which meant that my alarm was going off. Or was it the other way around? Whichever way you want to look at it, it wouldn’t change the fact that I had to get up, empty my bladder, shower, get dressed, get breakfast (my standard breakfast for when I prepared it myself: Grape Nuts cereal,) and then walk to school. Before I headed out, I wrote my mom a note, letting her know that I would be going to Eric’s house after school, and might not be home till late. She usually slept in on Mondays and Tuesdays—those days were effectively her “weekends.”
While I was walking to school, it dawned on me that this would be the first school day following the events of the past Friday. Would the news of what had happened in the boy’s dressing room/showers, just before lunch on the previous Friday, be a significant topic? Would anyone know that Eric—the star of the show in the boy’s dressing/room showers on that fateful day—had made friends with me? Would it even be safe for our friendship to become known? At least anytime soon? Had anyone noticed the fact that Eric and I had walked away from school together that afternoon, after school had gotten out?
Those were the questions that were consuming my attention as I walked onto the high school campus, and headed to my first class of the morning—which was pre-calculus. No one gave me any funny looks, that I could see. I heard no discussions that seemed to involve the events of the past Friday. I also realized that the only class that Eric and I had in common was 3-rd period PE. And that was where any problems or issues would be the most likely to spring up.
I also experienced no issues going to, nor while attending, my second period class—which was AP Physics. Heading from there to the boy’s locker room at the gym, I also detected no issues. With a heavy feeling in my stomach, I went to my locker and proceeded to change into my PE uniform. Still nothing worthy of note: No one looked at me funny. No one said anything to me at all—which was absolutely normal.
I caught sight of Eric at his locker, doing what I was doing: Getting changed into his gym clothes. He glanced at me briefly, but gave no sign of recognition. That actually made me feel better: It meant that he, too, had figured out how we both would have to play this, at least for now.
The rest of the school day continued in the same vein: No one singled me out; no one said anything to me that wasn’t strictly necessary for, or related to, the academic situation; I overheard no conversations that seemed remotely related to either me and/or Eric. Eric and I did see each other during lunch in the school cafeteria, but we both played it cool by studiously ignoring each other. That bolstered my confidence that he had independently realized that we had to pretend that we didn’t know each other. Even so, I kicked myself for not having had the foresight to raise that issue with him the previous day. I excused my lapse by noting that I—and also he—had been rather preoccupied and focused on other things. <smirk>
It wasn’t until I was leaving my final (sixth period) class (French,) that I panicked: Eric and I had made no explicit arrangements to meet up after school. My first thought was that I should just go to the same place where we had met after school last Friday. But I instantly vetoed that: Being seen with Eric anywhere near the school was a very bad idea—this soon after the events of the previous Friday, at least.
I stood stock still, and gave the problem my full attention. I soon decided that the solution was actually obvious: Just head to Eric’s house on foot, on my own—but initially use an alternate path. I happened to know the streets in the area well enough to do that, no map (or GPS—a concept that didn’t exist at the time) required. So that’s what I did.
It worked: Eric was already home, waiting for me. My alternate route added about 5 minutes to the travel time—not that I knew that just then, but I figured that out a few days later, once I timed my alternate route using my watch. After Eric opened the door in response to my having rung the doorbell, he motioned me inside, and then immediately embraced me in a tight hug. “I had began to worry that I’d have to call you on the phone,” he said.
“We both figured out—independently—that we should not be seen together at school”, I replied. “But we hadn’t planned when or where to meet up after school, so the obvious solution was for me to just walk to your house using an alternate route. So that’s what I did,” I said.
“Obvious to you, maybe. But I sort of freaked out after my last class, not knowing how to fix things, other than to go home and then call your home, thinking that maybe you’d also just go there, since I saw no sign of you while I was walking home”, he confessed.
“Well, no harm done. We won’t make that mistake again”, I assured him. “I’ll just do what I did today after school from now on, and head to your house after school, using a different route”, I added. His response to that was to grab my head and kiss me rather enthusiastically. I decided that I really liked it when he did that.
“So, what’s the plan for this afternoon?”, I asked.
“The usual: We try to push your boundaries to where John has never gone before”, obviously misquoting the Star Trek slogan—which had already become ultra-famous, even then. Hearing that, I thought to myself: “So he must like Star Trek. Maybe that means he’s a sci-fi buff like me. I’ll have to ask him about that.”
But what I said in reply was, “Perhaps you could be more specific?”
“I think it’s time to find out whether you have a gag reflex, and if so, how severe it is”, he said.
“Aw, gee. I kind of wanted a repeat of what we did yesterday”, I pouted.
“I knew you would, Babe. But doing that at my place is not a great idea. We should either do that on the weekends, when we have to meet up at your place, or else we should do it at your place on some day after school, while your mother’s at work,” he replied. That meant the thought we’d have to wait until at least Wednesday—but that was a side issue.
“Why is that?”, I asked.
“Using my mother’s enema bottle would be too risky: Doing a proper cleaning before you use it, cleaning you out, and then cleaning it properly again, and also showering, both before and afterwards, would take too much time. And not doing an enema would very probably create a mess that would be too hard to hide from my mother,” he explained.
“OK. That makes sense”, I conceded. He obviously had had to deal with this issue before.
With that, he turned toward the stairs that led down to his basement bedroom, and said, “Come, Babe. The sooner we get started on this, the sooner we can graduate you to the next grade level. You do want to graduate, right?”, he said with a grin.
I guessed that I did. But that didn’t mean that I wasn’t apprehensive, given what I recalled of what he had said about “face fucking” and “deep throating” last Saturday. Nevertheless, I followed him into his basement bedroom. He closed and locked the door, once we had both entered.
“Do you want the good news first, or the bad news?”, he asked.
“The good news first, I guess,” I replied.
“You can keep your clothes on for this”, he said. “Although, if you do, you will need to use a towel as a sort of bib”, he added.
I chuckled. “I hope the bad news will also be something I can laugh about,” I said.
“That depends on whether or not you have a gag reflex, and on how bad it is”, he said. “And that’s what we’re gonna be finding out.”
“What will be the difference between my having a gag reflex and not having one?”, I asked.
“Even if you have a gag reflex, it may or may not be a severe case” he replied. “Having a severe case is unlikely”, he added, but then continued:
“I haven’t, like, kept detailed statistics on my ’students’ (he ‘air-quoted’ that word,) but roughly about a third of them had no gag reflex. The rest did have one, but the severity was all over the place. Best case, they’d just gag a bit. Worst case, they’d gag, choke and vomit—a lot, in some cases. But in every case, all those symptoms would go away in a few days, a week at most—but only if the person would let me face fuck them repeatedly, every day. Gag reflexes will go away, if you work at it.
Oh, I guess I should add: Everyone responds to being face fucked by getting watery eyes, and drooling.”
“Does it hurt?”, I asked.
“No,” he said. “There may be some discomfort—but it’s pretty minor, once the gag reflex symptoms are gone. That jaw soreness you experienced on Saturday would be worse—that’s actual pain. But that happens whether or not there’s any deep throating. And you’ve already tolerated that.
Anyway, the point is, most of the gag reflex symptoms will gradually decrease to essentially nothing, over time, if the gag reflex is repeatedly triggered. That’s the result of what’s called ‘desensitization’”, he added. [I found out later that that was his inner psychology nerd speaking.]
“So…if I’m lucky, I’ll just drool, and have watery eyes?”, i asked.
“That would be the best case”, he said. “And eventually, those would be the only effects”, he added.
“And if I’m very unlucky…”, I left the question unfinished.
“Then you’ll gag, choke, and vomit, in addition to drooling, and having your eyes water”, he stated.
“Sounds fun”, I said sarcastically.
“It won’t be, at first—unless you’re lucky.”
“Then why do people even want to give it a try?”, I asked.
“Many don’t. I’m one who doesn’t! But those who do, in my experience, seem to have several motivations:
It may be that they like the feeling of submission, of being dominated. I’m pretty sure that that will be one reason you’ll like it.
Or, it may be that they have a ‘big dick’ fetish, and that’s one way they can entertain it. I’m very sure that that will apply to you.
Or, it may be that they like the fact that they’re giving extreme pleasure to someone they love, or whom they respect, or whom they think deserves it. They may see it as giving someone the most intimate kiss that it’s possible to give—that’s what one guy told me, anyway. Don’t know, but I hope that you’ll have that as a reason, too.”
He looked at me with an expression that seemed hopeful, and then continued:
“It’s much more of a psychological pleasure, more than it is a physical one. Think of it as like the pleasure you got from having my dick in your mouth, from sucking on it, only more intense than that.
Sure, it’s not for everyone. But from what I’ve observed, you’re a prime candidate for someone who will think it’s totally worth any discomfort. Isn’t that what you now think of having your ass fucked?”, he asked.
Self-reflecting on that, I had to admit that he was very probably right—yet again. I looked into my own heart, and based on what I saw there, I decided that my feelings for Eric were such that I wanted to do this for him. So I said, “OK. I’m willing to try to make a go of it. What’s the next step?”
“First thing is to get you a towel that you can use as a bib. Don’t want to get drool all over your clothes”, he said. He went into his basement bathroom, fetched a towel, and threw it at me. I caught it, and put it around my neck, so that it covered my front.
“Like this?”, I asked.
“That should do”, he answered. “Now, position yourself on my bed, just like you did on your own bed last Saturday: On your back, with your feet at the head of the bed”, he replied. So that’s what I did: I lay on my back on his bed, with my feat at the head of the bed, and my head at the foot of it. I had to adjust my towel-bib, after having laid down.
“Should I scoot down, so that my head is hanging off of the foot of the bed?”, I asked.
“Not this time”, he said. “But doing it that way will be a good idea, later”, he noted. “Just open your mouth wide when I’m ready to start. And above all else, RELAX!”’ Relaxing’ on command is like trying to not think of a pink elephant, I thought to myself.
He took off his pants and boxer briefs, got onto the bed on his knees, facing the head of the bed—so that he was looking towards my feet—and then placed the head of his dick on my lips, and said “Open sesame.”
I opened my mouth extra wide. He inserted his dick into my mouth, reminded me to be mindful of my teeth (“Oh, right!”, I thought to myself,) and then told me that he was going to start by just doing what he had done on Saturday: Fuck my mouth, without any attempt to fuck my throat. Now, of course, I was “experienced” at having him fuck my mouth (well, more than I had been the previous Thursday, at least,) so this was just additional practice. The only difference is that I now knew how to play my part, and that I liked doing it.
He fucked my mouth for a few minutes, and then withdrew. The mouth fucking didn’t last long enough to make my jaw sore.
He then placed the index finger of his right hand into my mouth, placed it against the entrance to my throat (which I knew was called the ‘pharynx,’ thanks to my advanced self-study in linguistics,) and then proceeded to massage my pharynx with his finger. I gagged, my eyes began to water, and I could tell that I was producing saliva—which I realized is what drool is made of.
He kept doing that for a few minutes, but then he tried pushing his finger down my throat. My gagging got worse, as did the watering of my eyes, and the volume of saliva (drool) that my mouth and/or throat were producing. He kept that up for a minute or so, and then said, “Looks like you do have a gag reflex, but it’s relatively mild.”
He took his finger out of my mouth, but then inserted his dick, and said: “I’m about to start fucking your throat—but not very deep, this time. When you feel my dick start to try to go into your throat, try to swallow—and do that every time I down stroke.”
When I felt him trying to force his dick into my throat, I did as he had requested, and tried to swallow. His dick immediately broke past my pharynx into my esophagus—not terribly far, but far enough that I could no longer breathe. He then immediately withdrew his dick from my mouth entirely.
“How do you feel?”, he asked. “Is your stomach upset? Do you feel like you might need to vomit?”
After a few seconds to take stock of myself, I said, “No. Not yet, at least.”
“That’s a good sign”, he replied. “I’m going to keep doing what I just did for a while, to start desensitizing your gag reflex. But I’ll gradually stay lodged in your throat just a tad longer, each time. Oh—and don’t forget to swallow when I down stroke”, he added.
And so that’s what he did. I followed his instructions. After about ten minutes, I noticed that I wasn’t gagging quite as much. I also realized that I wasn’t choking, that I felt no need to vomit, but that my eyes were definitely watering, and that I was definitely drooling.
That’s when he stopped what he had been doing, told me that he was now going to start fucking my face, and that he would also be going deeper and deeper into my throat—but very gradually—and that he would only stay lodged in my throat very briefly after each downstroke. He reminded me, again, to swallow on the down strokes. I nodded my head in acknowledgement.
He started doing what he had said he would. My gagging got worse, at first; but no other symptoms arose, and my gagging gradually subsided—but didn’t go away completely. After about 10 minutes (a ballpark estimate—no pun intended,) he was face fucking me balls deep, and my jaw had begun to ache.
Was I enjoying it physically? No, not at all. As I had been told, it was uncomfortable. And my jaw hurt. But I could tell that—other than my poor jaw—the discomfort was very gradually becoming less and less. So, again, he had been telling me the truth. That helped me stay committed to toughing it out, to get to the promised land, to “graduate,” to use his metaphor.
Then, he stopped thrusting, but stayed lodged balls-deep in my throat; I estimated he stayed that way for about 30 seconds. Then he pulled out, and said, “Now I’m going to go balls-deep on each downstroke, but hold that position for about as long as I just did, then pull out for about 10 seconds to give you a chance to breathe, and then repeat the procedure. I’ll keep doing that for a while”, he said.
Then he added: “And by the way, you’re doing great! Most of my ’students’ who’ve had a gag reflex have taken longer than you have to get to this point.”
“OK. Good to know”, I replied. I was mostly focused on getting through this ‘training’ / ‘breaking in’ procedure, and not so much on whatever enjoyment I might have been getting out of it. Based on what he’d told me, and now also based on what I had been experiencing, I figured it was too soon to pay much attention to whether or not I even liked this, let alone how much. That would be an issue for another day. Had I had the mental bandwidth to consider the matter, though, I would have realized that the mere fact I was willing to take that position, to have that attitude, was a good sign.
Knowing in advance what to expect definitely helped: It greatly reduced my fears, and stopped me from seeing myself as a victim of non-consensual, unwanted actions; it also bolstered trust, and gave me a roadmap through the swamp that reduced panic and provided hope for a desirable outcome.
Eric just continued to fuck my face as he had been: Balls-deep downstroke, 30-second hold, upstroke to a full withdrawal, and then a 10-second hold. Wash. rinse, repeat. I think he must have kept that up for about 20 to 30 minutes, total, before he finally came—which he did while lodged balls-deep in my throat. After having emptied his load, he completely withdrew.
“You OK, Babe?”, he asked—with obvious concern.
“I’m alive. I think”, I replied. “But my jaw is absolutely aching, and I wouldn’t recommend doing that for fun”, I replied.
“This first time was never supposed to be for fun, John”, he replied. “It was the equivalent of doing pushups for the first time, because your drill instructor knew it was what you needed.”
I laughed, weakly. “Drill instructor Eric, is it?” I joked. He grinned in response.
After he got off the bed, he said, “Well, the good news is that that’s enough for today. The bad news is that tomorrow is another day. And you’re an absolute mess! Snot running from your nose, drool dripping from your mouth, you look like you’ve been crying inconsolably. We need to get you cleaned up before my parents come home. So get up, get to the bathroom, and let me help you look like a normal person again.”
When I got to the bathroom, he took my towel-bib off of me, and then I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw what he had been talking about. Wow.
“It actually turns me on to see you like that, Johnny Boy”, he told me. I didn’t reply. I wasn’t exactly in the mood.
He took charge of cleaning me up. When that task was done, he took hold of me, kissed me passionately, and then told me, “Don’t worry, Johnny Boy: Daddy’s gonna take really good care of you. Can you smile for me?”
I actually did smile for him: His cuteness got to me.
“Let me tell you a secret”, he said. “There’s another major reason I’m attracted to you. It’s not just your amazing ass, nor your fetish for big dicks, nor your sexual submissiveness, and appreciation of being sexually dominated, no—there’s yet one more thing: It’s the fact you’re so damn smart. That’s super sexy to me”, he said.
He got down on one knee in front of me, aimed his puppy-dog eyes at me, and said, “I want to take possession of you, John. I can’t marry you, but I can do that. Will you accept my offer? I….love you.”
I just stared at him—shocked, speechless…but also deeply touched. Seeing the anxious, hopeful but also apprehensive look on his face, I reached down, took his hand, guided him to stand up, and then started to hug him. We just stood there like that, hugging each other, for quite some time.
Finally, he started to kiss me—quite passionately. I just melted into him. This closeness, this affection, this intimacy, were what I had always been wanting from someone like Eric, but had never had the self-confidence, nor the courage, to try to get it.
When he had finally gotten his fill of kissing me, he stepped back, and put his briefs and pants back on. Then he announced:
“Babe, there’s something I want to show you. It’s the birthday present I got a few weeks ago, from my parents.”
“Birthday present? So what, you’re 18 now?”, I asked.
“Yes. And you?”, he asked me.
“I turned 18 on January 11th,” I told him.
“Cool!”, he replied. Then he said, “Come. I’ll show you”, and walked towards the bedroom door. After unlocking the door, he led me upstairs, and then to a door I hadn’t seen the other side of yet. He opened it, and beckoned me to follow him into what appeared to be a two-car garage. On the far side, where there would normally have been a space to park one car, was exercise equipment—a personal gym, in other words.
“That’s my birthday present”, he said, pointing to the exercise equipment. “I haven’t had the motivation to use it yet; I’ve been depressed over the fact that my previous fuckboy left town”, he told me. “But now…well, now I’m over it. You’ve rocked my world. For you, I have all the motivation I need to get jacked—all for you. And I want you to do the same, for the both of us”, he announced.
“Were you also in love with the guy who moved away?” I asked.
“Hell NO!”, he answered. “That guy was as dumb as a bag of rocks, and didn’t have a nice personality. Not at all. That’s partly why he was sexually frustrated enough to want me to fuck him, I think. It certainly wasn’t because he had any self-confidence issue regarding his body: He had a face that was neither handsome nor ugly. But, on the other hand, he was in good shape, buff, and had a dick that was on the large size of average. So I was just taking advantage of the fact he was always being rejected—mostly due to his personality, lack of intellect, and the fact that he wasn’t good looking enough to overcome his other flaws”, he explained.
“Oh... I see”, I said. “Sounds like you didn’t even see him as much of a friend, just as an outlet for your sexual desires,” I added.
“Pretty much”, he agreed. “But even so, losing him as my fuckboy was still a big deal to me”, he explained. “I have a strong sex drive.”
After a bit of introspection, I decided I would do what he wanted. I had nothing against it, other than the fact I had always valued intellectual pursuits over physical ones, so I had always prioritized satisfying my intellectual curiosity, or intellectual challenges, over exercise and/or over other physical activities. But thanks to Eric, I was re-evaluating my priorities.
“Well then, it seems we’re both going to be getting buff”, I told him. He gave me a big smile, and a hug. “But perhaps we should start on your homework—to make your parents happy?”, I suggested. He frowned, but said, “Yeah, you’re right.” And so we retreated back to his bedroom. He then fetched his Algebra 2 textbook, and we got started on his math homework.
When his mother got home later, I was in the middle of teaching Eric the algebraic operator notation I had invented: It made knowing, and understanding, the algebraic expression equivalence transformations—embodied in the associative, commutative and distributive properties—so crystal clear, that even a cave dude could understand and apply them—correctly. Maybe I should publish a paper explaining my notation at some point?
I got invited to dinner again. I accepted. While we were waiting for dinner to be prepared and served, Liam—Eric’s father—queried Eric about whether he was finding my tutoring helpful. Eric answered that by asserting that, thanks to me, he was finally understanding what algebra was all about. With that answer, Liam looked both pleased—and thoughtful. I got the impression that Liam was about to start a deeper dive into that, but then the Svalbergs’ phone rang: The call was for Liam; he took the call in another room. He stayed on the call until dinner was served.
Soon after dinner, I excused myself, and headed home. Tomorrow was another school day.
