Tales from the Birchfield farm

Hiram on the prowl

Note to Readers: My story which precedes this – introducing Hiram and his father, Randy-James & their special circumstances – is found separately from this series: HIRAM & RANDY JAMES.

His first months living with his Dad at The Birchfield Farm had the boy, now-thirteen, antsy with adolescent curiosity, less naive than at first. Birthdays, of which there had been three – his Dad’s, Mama’s, and his own – had been wild fun, loaded with innuendo. Skits planned by drama coach Mike Manleigh and performed with silly hilarity had brought laughter both properly appropriate and of “specialized” inappropriateness. Odd combinations of Trainers and Providers parodied each celebrant differently, performing specially-written playlets tailored to emphasize individual quirks. Stories in themselves.

For his Dad’s party, “Big” Ben Arrowsmith acted as Randy-James McLeod (a fact proclaimed by his pinned-on name tag in block caps, his last name misspelled ‘McLout’). Small-bodied Cosmo, in a much-padded, hairy ape costume (an X on the costume’s prominent, sloping brow), was cast as the Farm’s riotously uncontrollable CEO, Mr. Ecks – in a mishmash of the silent King Kong and original Mighty Joe Young. Miniature gorilla-like snarls and growls and unintelligible orders with gesticulations and jumpings up and down – from which cowered the Farm’s hapless personnel supervisor – reached its climax when, switching roles and pretending to be the towering Empire State Building, super-tall Ben was clambered over and up, jungle-style, by the screeching monkey, precipitating the collapse of the two onto the floor in a heap (perfectly timed: a major crashing sound supplied by Mike’s A/V team). The pile continued to jumble with low- and high-pitched noises of its own.

Through the deafening applause, Hiram, sitting in the front row, distinctly heard Cosmo squeak, “Ouch! I’m not qualified for that much, yet!” Hiram wondered just wh….

Mama’s birthday was celebrated by a spoof about her driving her favorite Farm van for grocery shopping in one of the nearby towns. “Mama” was portrayed by slender Ting in a drastically scaled-down version of her blousy house dress and kitchen apron, a mussed wig worn slightly off-center, outlandish makeup with over-rouged cheeks and glossy lipstick the color of heirloom tomatoes, and sporting large onion rings as earrings, holding an unattached steering wheel (car sounds in the background) and talking to herself as she drove.

From the curtain’s opening on the improbable set-up, Mama (the real one) had begun to jiggle, a hand to her mouth, her unmascara-ed eyes wide. When “she” started to complain about “that-a ungrateful crew” which “she,” eyes-upward, “had-a feed all-a by-a myself” – enunciated in Ting’s carefully coached mixture of pseudo-Chinese and fake-Italian – the real Mama’s jiggling had reached her ample stomach. From behind, someone patted her back. Worsened her mirth, of course.

Then came remarks about Javier Bardeleben wanting Swedish meatballs to go with Mama’s proprietary pork-flavored Cuban rice-and-beans (“He’s-a nuts!”), about Félix always asking for “daze-es-car-gos” with “too-a much damn stinky garlic” (Once, as everybody knew, he had told Mama, who asked, that he disliked snails.), Clyff (the cheerful albino who adored chocolate) begging for strawberry ice cream to match his eyes (“Like-a he needs-a more pink!”), and on and on – personality by personality – until she missed something unseen on the imagined road and swerved (to exactly-timed screaming tires, supplied by the A/V team), then recovered, loose wig further askew, head wobbling, with a scathing take on “that-a priss, Samantha (the crew, except Hiram, knew she meant Sammie) fussing about “my diet-a messing up her-a menstrual cycle – like-a she’s-a not cold as a dead girl’s pussy.”

During the ovation’s whistles and uproarious Bronx cheers for Ting’s monologue and portrayal, Hiram dropped off his chair helpless with laughter. Uncle Uldis picked him up and sat him on the real Mama’s lap where he fell back heaving for air, his head caught by one of her plump arms. When she declared, poking his ribs, “Why we look-a like-a some Pietà – only he ain’t naked,” another sensation broke out.

When he recovered, being ever-conscious about his growing body, Hiram needed to ask his Dad what that was all about.

*

Randy-James found amusement in showing his boy Michelangelo’s early Pietà.

“You mean Mama thought I looked like Jesus?”

“No, it was the way you were sort of thrown across her lap by Uldis and your head plopped on her right arm. Don’t you see?”

“Actually, I don’t know what I looked like, Dad. I couldn’t see me!”

*

When Hiram’s time in the calendar rolled around, his stomach was doing flip-flops of its own in anticipation of the surprise ahead. Earlier, he had asked his Dad, “Will they make fun of me?” Assured not, he wanted to know, “Will everybody come?”

“Son, why don’t you wait and see?”

“’Cause I haven’t had a birthday party since I was little. You know, before Mom got into drugs ’n’…nasty sex.”

“Well, you’ll have fun and get some presents.”

“Presents? You didn’t and Mama didn’t!”

“Actually, we did. But they weren’t wrapped up. Mine was the promise of a grant from Mr. Wilderforce’s foundation for something you’ll know about when the time’s right. And Mama – remember? – she got to stay in bed all day. All the guys made all the regular food for all our meals and Blaine, Vas, and Uldis cooked her absolute favorites – Eggs Benedict – for breakfast (which Sammie, dressed like a maid, served her) and for lunch, a starter of artichokes and eggplant with pecorino cheese, followed by a bowl of pasta e fagioli, a main course of ossobuccowith white quinoa, and a tiny scoop of strawberry ice cream (which Clyff served her).” His recitation of the details had Randy-James out of breath, then chuckling.

Strawberry ice cream – Hiram connected that to Ting’s reference in the play. Sam being like a girl – he got why Mama had called him ‘Samantha.’ Hiram was wising up. The egg and the Italian dishes eluded his knowledge, although the idea of eggplant together with artichokes appalled his still-forming teenage taste buds. “But, Dad, what did she do in bed all day? I mean, why would anybody want to do that?”

Amused, Randy-James replied, “Mama’s very sentimental about certain old movies we have in our files. Films we made ourselves. She wanted to see a lot of them over again, so Charles and Vas made up the playlist for her and posted the films to her private channel.”

“A private channel on her TV?” Hiram’s mouth hung open.

“It’s one of the perks of her job with us. Now, you freshen up and put on your best gray slacks and your white long-sleeve shirt and run my razor over your peach fuzz – so you’ll look like a proud young man. Watch TV or do something until I send for you at four o’clock. And stay put. I mean it. Do…not…set…a toe outside our quarters.” Randy-James scrunched his face severely, “Because if you do….”

“You’ll give me a birthday spank early?”

*

Multi-colored crepe paper swirls festooned the Bunkhouse cafeteria. A banner in bright blue proclaimed FROM TWEEN TO TEEN – OUR HIRAM!

Balloons – there were helium-filled balloons in bright, rainbow shades on long strings held by all ten Trainers, seated in a row of chairs to one side of an aisle. Opposite were all nine Providers, seated, facing the men. Peoples’ expressions were smug.

Mama, who had brought Hiram in, nudged him with, “Start with your Father. He’ll lead off our SWAT team. Plop over his lap, take a swat, he’ll give you a balloon. You run as quick as you can over to the other side, get a kiss, leave the balloon there and run for your next swat. Start when I ring my bell and don’t stop until all the balloons are transferred – because-a (She switched to her Italian accent) we can’t-a light-a the candles until you do.”

Ding!

Hiram, free of inhibitions, broke away as fast as he could, threw himself over Randy-James’ lap, got his first swat, grabbed the red balloon and hurried to Cosmo, who lightly kissed his cheek while everybody began rhythmic clapping – Hi-ram, Hi-ram, Hi-ram….

He made it to Blaine, took another good natured hit and delivered the orange balloon to Ting, who kissed his other cheek.

Mike whapped him readily and pretended to withhold his yellow balloon until Hiram blurted, “That’s against the rules!” Lon kissed his brow on the left.

Charles gave him a tap and a light-green balloon which got Hiram a kiss on his brow’s right side from Wade, who seemed to be having a very good time.

Ben said he wanted a kiss before anything else. “Not now,” Hiram thought to say. “Gimme my swat and that balloon. You gotta!” Ben popped him a hard one. Hiran snatched the dark-green balloon and was kissed mid-brow by Ahmed, who almost didn’t catch the string when it was released quickly as Hiram ran toward Vas.

On Vas’ lap, Hiram felt a big hand squeeze his bottom. “Hey, that’s not fair!”

“Just testing,” Vas laughed and delivered a good one – and his aqua balloon. Clyff kissed Hiram’s chin.

Javier’s swat was only a tap, his sky-blue balloon a reward, which Konstantine received with a neatly puckered kiss to Hiram’s nose. “Birthday-boy blushes!” the Russian chortled.

Uldis held him down with a hand on his waist while holding his other hand up threateningly and waiting.

“Do it! Do it! I ain’t got all day, y’know!” Hiram yelled.

Hir-ram, Hi-ram, Hi-ram the chant began again.

Wham! His butt took it well, if with a declared, “Ouch!”

Sam was careful to take the purple balloon first, then to turn his head just so to kiss Hiram right on his mouth. One second later, Hiram announced with aplomb to the entire room, “I can taste it. He’s been into the icing!”

Syd delivered both the obligatory wallop and his black balloon with the encouraging words, “You’re almost there.” For fun, he snuck in a second smack as Hiram stood.

In his dash toward Félix, Hiram’s mind flashed with the question, Where’s he gonna kiss me? Félix made a surprise move. He put up his palms to stop the birthday boy – so suddenly that Hiram’s brakes toppled him over the handsome black’s lap. His butt got the kiss!

Lusty applause.

Leaving the balloon behind but, running, now prominently erect, across to Belamy – which got him a loud, “Go stud!” from someone – Hiram landed solidly on the muscular man’s bulging thighs, thrust his butt up, and ordered, “Go for it! I can take it!” The knuckles of Belamy’s strong hand found Hiram’s crack through the gray wool pants and agitated the area to squeals of feeling. “That’s it, you’ve won my white balloon. Now take it to Mama so we can have our party.”

Merriment topped merriment as Hiram held the balloon not by its string but directly in front of his crotch as he went to Mama. She beamed at his approach, “Are you hiding something, young man? – from this Mama?” She leaned to whisper, “Don’t pop that thing. Hold it up and squeeze between my legs while I hug you. They won’t know, but…when you squirt…come on, silly…let it go.”

Head awash with the whole mad show, Hiram gave in to Mama’s crushing, thrusting, rocking hug, his dick fitting all the cloth folds between their flesh and rushing to climax. Mama’s eyes, trained on by all, dilated over a burgeoning smile as the white balloon, freed, rose to bounce against the ceiling. Hiram’s butt danced briefly.

The strains of HAP-PY-BIRTH-DAY-TO-YOU were taken up – atonally – while Mama calmed Hiram and turned him around to see everyone gathering as his Dad wheeled forward a stainless steel kitchen cart bearing a huge, rectangular sheet cake. White icing overall, edges outlined by violet shell-piping (“Grape-flavored,” Mama pointed), sides swagged by little oranges on green vines (“Orange flavor there, mint for the vines.”), the flat top studded by maraschino cherries, five along one edge, five in parallel along the other, three crossing the center in a row at right angles. An “H” with a two-and-a-half-inch spiral-form birthday candle standing from its every cherry, like many little erections.

Hiram’s eyes bulged. He swallowed hard – madly excited – trying to think of something to say. Mama rescued him with a coaxing finger in Félix’ direction. Félix tried to look serious but a funny-faced glance from Belamy made him snicker as he drew a paper from his pocket.

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat. “A verse composed for this special occasion by authors who needed but little persuasion.”

You were a little squirt

Who wore a stretchy shirt

And just a trifle introvert

And ever so slightly, well, inert.

But Cosmo, Ting, and Wade

Helped you make your grade.

Now you’re among us

Like a fresh-grown fungus,

Growing up fast.

Leaving your past.

Older, bolder,

Broader of shoulder.

We know you’re no slacker.

With your fine tallywhacker.

You beat it

And defeat it

Squirt by squirt.

Growing up fast.

Leaving your past.

Hiram, your bum

Has defeated my chum,

So resilient

It’s brilliant.

A challenge to all

Here in our hall,

With no real ache,

It got you, former squirt…your!…cake!

Whoops and cheers shook the room. Mama, burning match in hand, bent to the thirteen quarter-inch wicks. As they sprang to life, she said, reverting to type, “Now-a, the deal is-a, you gotta make a wish and-a blow ’em all out with-a one breath.”

Sure of himself, what with the swimming lessons he had had from Blaine, Hiram made a wish and sucked in a chest-bursting heap of air, then pursed his lips – just when a wicked thought compelled Ting to exclaim, “I bet this is his first blow job.”

Instead of a disaster, Hiram’s mouth clenched so tightly that the sudden gust he aimed over the candles not only blew out their flames but flattened two of the closest, tilted a third, and caused some droplets of wax to land on his startled Dad.

Hiram looked up slowly, eyes squinting. No one moved. His thirteen-year-old face assumed an attitude of severity made slightly less so by his right eyebrow rising high. “It was my first,” he said in as manful a tone as he could. “Was yours this good?”

The ensuing racket was the loudest ever known on The Birchfield Farm. Ting was booed by guys trying to cover their hysterics while the rest, the majority, shouted and stomped their feet on the floor. Mama kissed Hiram’s head. Randy-James congratulated his son with a handshake dangerously close to the cake.

Hiram cautioned, “Watch it, Dad.”

During the din, Syd told Belamy, “Clearly, it doesn’t pay to fuck with our Hiram.” All Hiram heard were the words, “…pay to fuck…our Hiram.”

Emboldened by his own smartness, Hiram snapped with a cracking voice, “Of course not, I’m illegal!”

Mama gave up and sat, bent double. Randy-James handed Hiram the knife and showed him how to cut squares. Dutifully, the teen did so, removing the candles and, in the process, eating the cherries off the ends of twelve. “Mmm, these are good.”

Randy-James reached for the last, a question mark on his face.

“No you don’t, Dad,” Hiram spouted. He popped it in his maraschino-red mouth, “Nobody’s getting my cherry.”

*

After cake and ice cream came presents – presents the boy never expected. All wrapped in white and tied with baby blue ribbon, they consisted of a ripped DVD copy of the documentary Chef Flynn, about a teenage chef (from Mama, who said, “You’re so good in my kitchen, you might have a future in cooking.”), a sparkling white Speedo exactly like his Dad’s (from Mike: “When you’re ready, Ahmed aims to take a picture of you on the diving board just like the one you took of Randy-James – then we’ll have a great pair to hang in the new gallery.”), a knockout pair of Nike basketball sneakers with Velcro straps (from Clyff, Syd, Blaine, and Vas: “We don’t want you spraining your ankles now that you’re getting better at physical activity,” Syd grinned, others nodding agreement, Nurse Blaine particularly.), a puzzling ensemble of a Baum electric toothbrush, a spool of dental floss, and a tube of Crest (from Wade and Charles, who watched Hiram struggle to hide his disappointment, then handed over a box of dark chocolate almond bark from See’s: “Your sweet tooth’s in for a treat! – but take care of it.”), and the occasion’s jaw-dropper, a Nikon Coolpix digital camera with accouterments (its card signed in blue and black at all angles by Ben, Ahmed, Javier, Lon, Uldis, Belamy, Konstantin, Félix, and Sammie (whose “i” had no dot, but a swiftly drawn little heart – in DayGlo pink).

Amid his pile of white and blue refuse (“I’m-a calling it-a Hiram’s Mount Trash-a-more,” Mama chortled.), the birthday boy sputtered thanks, embarrassed by the riches. To feel this good about himself and where he was, and with whom, registered as the happiest day of his young life.

*

A short time later, Hiram became aware that his odd times in between shared work amid the crops, kitchen duties in various groupings, meals with everyone, and classes via his allotted screen in the computer room were less surveilled than before. The freedom appealed to his developing plucky nature.

Never without his Nikon, Hiram went exploring, an eye to photographing subjects which might win him more approbation. Wooded areas – trees, bushes, undergrowth, wild flowers, and weeds – captured his attention for dozens of pictures. An occasional bird. Bugs, too. All innocent.

Innocent as well, his efforts at photographing architectural details – the Farmhouse and the Bunkhouse. What gives? I can get all around the Farmhouse but not behind the Bunkhouse. It’s walled-off, way high, and got those damn prickly things planted everywhere. He would ask his Dad what that was all about.

The Town Square interested him.

Those different facades. Mike’s photography students had learned about facades and eaves, porches, doorways and window frames, awnings….

He found examples of most by scouting City Hall, Earl’s Diner,the one-engine Firehouse, The Hotel Shellman, the Police Station, Poole’s Gymnasium, the offices for a doctor and a dentist. City Hall, of course, was always open for access to the computer room, for movie showings downstairs.

The others?

Closed, he discovered. Locked. What are these places really for? Weekends? When guys come and stay. But why? They never seem to go around – anywhere.

After all, he had spotted cars driving into the parking lot and Javier or somebody else dressed as a policeman meeting them. Something’s going on and I want to know what it is.

Hiram intended ask his Dad.

Shooting through the windows of these structures, he took views of shadowy emptiness to his young heart’s content. Even with his springy, new Nikes, walking behind the buildings in his search for more details proved next to impossible. Dense plantings hid more fences – as tall as the Bunkhouse’s.

Damn!

One building he had been told not to visit, the Barn, loomed in his mind. “It’s dangerous,” his Dad had said, “because of all the stuff we keep in there, so you keep out.” Hiram had promised, but that was months ago. The tractor was just outside and he knew all the implements for farming, the weed killers, and the fertilizers were inside.

It couldn’t do any harm to see the place – and whether it has a wall or something behind.

The curvy path through the Farm’s well-planted park with its long-ago-discovered recirculating creek (turned on for special occasions, otherwise still, like a skinny pond) took him toward the Barn. Brick-red with a picturesque hayloft open to the elements, it would make a great subject – which none of the others had photographed.

Although he had not seen a soul, Hiram heard voices coming from inside. He crouched to get shots of the tractor from below where the shadows were great. People were talking. For sure. Not about farming. Instinctively, he sensed that – whatever it was – he was not meant to be there. Curiosity, however, took over. The recently-minted thirteen-year-old stayed low to creep around to the side where no one might see him.

Can’t hear a thing. Maybe in the back.

As Hiram soon found out, the back of the Barn stood wide open. By staying in the bushes, he sidled to a point where he could squat quietly and look straight at what was happening. It was a bit much to take in, but he could not pry away his eyes. What he could do: focus his Nikon and begin to take pictures.

*

Lon. How could he do that? That many times! Mike and Uncle Vas in charge, running things, giving directions. Ahmed moving the boom microphone. Belamy going in for close-ups with that hand-held! Wade moving lights around. Wade! Uncle Uldis and Lon in those threadbare coveralls – and out of them over and over! Sammie with towels drying them off. Handing them water and snacks and condoms and that white-and-blue tube of stuff. That oil can. Everybody in such a good mood – like it was normal to do those things in piles of hay. On some bales of it. On a ladder going up to the loft.

Sneaking away without a sound, Hiram’s thoughts drifted toward the unthinkable: This whole place – not just my Dad – is gay. They don’t want me to know. Well, I do. Now. And I’ve got proof.

He fumed.

*

Initially, his stomach had soured. He felt some of the panic from being frightened and threatened by his Mom’s last druggie boyfriend, the one who wanted his hands and his mouth on his horrible, big, stinky penis. The difference was that Lon showed no fear until “Action” was called. Uncle Uldis, never mean in real life, acted mean when he was supposed to.

Is this one of their ‘plays’ being filmed? Not like those birthday party things….

The realization that this was something else – way wild – forced him to settle uneasily, to watch with a different attitude, eventually to process and begrudgingly accept that they were enjoying the teamwork involved. Hiram, whose knees suffered after a while, stretched out on his belly, aimed his camera, swallowed hard, and felt himself getting aroused against the leafy ground.

He almost missed Lon’s first licks of Uldis’ hand-supported cock, his own hurting from contact between the tightness of out-grown pants and the ground’s hard surface. Friction increased in a way he could not prevent while Uldis used his hands to guide Lon’s mouth over the bulbous tip.

“Come on, Caleb,” Uldis spoke in a voice that meant business. “You want your job here for the Summer, don’t you?… That’s better. Further…. Use your tongue more. Like that, but don’t let your teeth scrape. Not bad, boy. Take a little more. I don’t want to have to make you. Do it because you want this job. Aaahh….”

Hiram held his new camera from the dirt with one hand while he jammed his other to the affected area. The cloth-trapped, painful angle of his erection, teen-rigid, had to be eased. Had to. But contact of palm to prick felt so good that the desire to pleasure himself nearly kept him from quickly aiming and clicking away at Lon’s face receiving a slap when he started to gag.

“Swallow, damn you. Swallow!” bullied Uldis, flexing his hips and slapping poor Lon – or Caleb – again. “If you can’t do this for me, what’s going to happen when Farmer Butcher wants you?”

An awful gagging stopped the scene. “Cut,” Mike bellowed. “What happened?”

Lon was choking. Sammie ran over to attend with a washcloth. Nurse Blaine came from inside the barn to check, “Let me see, Lon.”

“I’ll be okay. Just need some time.” He looked from Blaine to Mike to Uldis, who knelt with a comforting arm on Lon’s shoulder. “Your angle was wrong. Didn’t you know that?”

“I’m so sorry.”

Mike indicated, “That blanket, Sammie. Bring it over. Fold it a few times for Lon’s knees. Should put him in a better position.”

“The way we practiced, you know,” Lon said, “I can fake gagging that’s really good. Only point straight down in my throat and let me do my thing.”

Remonstrated, Uldis promised, saying, “I’m sorry. You felt so great and I was concentrating on my lines when I should have been paying more attention to you.” He kissed Lon and touched his cheek.

“Positions, guys. Lon, you kneel on the blanket so we can check Uldis’ angle. Yeah, that looks good. Lon, test it for yourself. There it goes. Comfy? Okay, let’s have another take. Close-ups from both sides. Belamy, ready? Wade, would you leave the boom where it is and take the other hand-held, you know, over there. No, back further so you won’t be in Belamy’s shot. Are they in silhouette, so you’ll get the cock pushing Lon’s throat open? All right. All ready? Action!”

“Come on, Caleb,” Uldis began….

Hiram, struck with disbelief, saw the scene play out perfectly, according to what he had heard discussed. Uldis became the mean farmer’s assistant. Lon took him by stages, making noises that would have curdled Hiram’s stomach. Now – Ohmygod! – they stimulated more wriggles in his undershorts. How many times Uldis actually came and how many he my have acted went beyond Hiram’s ability to reckon.

Re-takes at closer ranges obscured Hiram’s view. “It’s a wrap. Thank you both for excellent work,” Mike announced. Vas disappeared inside the Barn, saying, “I’ll get Syd.” Uldis relaxed out of sight while Lon surrendered to Wade’s towels.

Uncle Syd?

Hiram’s frequent partner in the fields walked from within. He sported old, well-worn coveralls with no shirt underneath. His beefy torso, brawny looking with denim straps over its shoulders, took on significance it normally did not have.

“Found one that’s just right,” he said, handing a fresh-picked, immature ear of corn, silk intact, to Lon, who looked it over and smiled. “Still warm from the sun. Cut it right at the stalk,” points made by Syd in an undertone, did not reach the young Peeping Tom’s ears.

A huddle of crew and cast broke up. Mike’s directorial call, “Take One!” for new action brought the young, would-be farm hand looking furtively for a hiding place on a pile of loose-strewn hay off in a corner. The lower part of Lon’s body protruded from dark shadow into direct sunlight, hips and legs covered by his garment. His feet, bare. Hands just visible, trying hurriedly to shuck the barely-kerneled ear of baby corn – as Syd, Farmer Butcher, approached, a pitch fork in his hand. He stopped, shaded his brow, craned his neck, and stormed forward.

“You stole that from me, you little shit, didn’t you?” his voice threatened.

Legs and feet drew out of sight. Perhaps two seconds passed before Lon, as Caleb, was dragged from the corner by his blond hair. He sprawled in the dirt.

“I was….”

“You wuz what?” Sharp-toned anger was in that question.

“Your assistant said I….”

He was cut off by, “You’re blaming your thievin’ ways on him? Why I ought….”

“Oh Mr. Butcher, just let me explain.”

Pitchfork aside and hands in his pockets, Butcher swayed back and forth, waiting.

“Your assistant….”

“Lemme get this right, you talkin’ ’bout Zeb?”

“Uh-huh. Zeb told me I was too tight and had to get loosened up for you.”

“When wuz that?”

“When he was cornholing me.”

“And whut about that?” he pointed. “It ain’t yours to use.”

Subsequent dialogue about stretching segued into the inevitable. Both players had to be repositioned for the cameras to capture up close Butcher’s stripping and anointing the stripped cob (with oil from a can) before he pressed it into Caleb’s bottom.

Sounds from the boy chilled Hiram.

One of the farmer’s lines pinged into the voyeur differently: “Yeah, your hole’s getting corn now fer sure.”

Hiram began to understand why he was grasping both the idea and at himself. When the cob’s stem was seized and the ear’s rows of kernels prodded into his groaning friend, Hiram could no longer afford to ignore his erection, his burning balls, and urgent need to ejaculate. Forgetting his camera, he sent both hands down to cushion his out-of-control, thrusting pelvis. Fingers and palms collected the messy result of his most copious orgasm yet. Left stupefied, he slumped face forward into the leaves and dirt. Recovery cost him knowledge of what happened between the corncob fuck and the crew’s being moved inside the Barn.

Only footprints remained.

What if they’re gone and heading back? Got to get out of here!

Anxiety caused panic – an instant’s worth. Reason jumped into play.

Don’t go to the bunkhouse, dumbass, go to City Hall where they can’t be heading.

Through the woods the long way, Hiram darted with his precious Nikon and what it contained.

City Hall! I can clean up there and sit at my computer before anyone….

*

Grateful not to have kitchen duty until after supper, Hiram eyed with increased curiosity the people he thought he knew as friends, while everyone gathered for the evening meal. Certainly, he easily avoided contact with Lon and Mike, who sat across the room. Uncles Vas, Syd, and Belamy were closer but engaged with Ward and Charles. That was a relief. He was so mixed up and angry. Or embarrassed. However, Uncle Uldis sat his tray directly across from Hiram just as his Dad sat beside.

Uncle Uldis – Zeb! – I can’t let on.

“Hi,” he managed, stuffing a forkful of baked ham and whipped potatoes into his mouth.

“Did you have a good afternoon?” Randy-James asked.

“Mmmm,” Hiram nodded and chewed as long as he could, certain that Uldis’ silence had meaning.

Randy-James turned to the Latvian-American, who had not started his salad, “How about you?”

Handsome, usually-cool Uldis warmed, “I was in a great film class with Lon and Syd.”

Ohmygod…ohmygod!Hiram came close to choking.

“I heard. Mike said everything went well. Stayed on schedule, which is good. Tomorrow?”

As if they were talking about nothing remarkable, they continued while Hiram continued to eat, even his steamed broccoli, all ears.

“There’s some work to do with Lon and the others – you know, to be spliced in when the edits are made.”

Headed their way, Hiram noticed, was Ting, the Farm’s peppy Chinese-American. He arrived after speaking a few words with Lon, tray laden with the same selections as Hiram’s. “Aha, like minds and all that,” he smiled. Is it as good as it looks?”

“Yep” – Hiram’s effort to be casual.

Ting picked up knife and fork, asking, “So, what did you do this afternoon?” He began to eat.

“Took a lot of photos.” Hiram tacked on, “In the woods.”

“Can we see?”

Hiram’s subterfuge was to take a long drink of his iced tea while he thought to say, “I have to crop a lot.”

“Oh, did you download them a little while ago? Your screen was on, I saw.”

His son seemed to shrink, Randy-James noticed. What’s he been up to?

“You were in City Hall? When?”

Hiram managed the truth. “Now. I mean, a little while ago. Just for a minute. I’d left something on my shelf.”

“Don’t worry, I closed it down,” Ting said as he also drank some tea.

*

Fretful, Hiram lacked the know-how to cope with conflict. Guilt about witnessing what he shouldn’t have and about having been turned on by it. Confusion over his discovery that sex had a side unlike what his Mom and her string of boyfriends did because of drugs and liquor. Only, sex at the Barn was violent, but not really. Smugness that he had his pictures. Fright that his Dad might not like it one bit, because it must be a secret at the Farm. He could not tell his Dad. Could he talk it over with Blaine? Ask his advice? No, Blaine was part of it.

Heartbeat elevated, adrenalin flowing, Hiram tried to muster some confidence but failed.

I won’t tell anybody.

*

In the days that followed, people noted attitude and behavior on the kid’s part that they attributed to the withdrawn nature of his age-level. He tended not to ask for assistance in the computer room with math or history or geography or English. Offers of help from Wade, Syd, and Clyff often were turned down, “Thanks, I can do it.” Ting, at the console next to Hiram, got the same response, even chillier.

Cosmo was having none of it. As everyone’s favorite and youngest-looking Provider, he had seen enough of Hiram’s poutiness. “What’s bugging you?”

Without so much as a glance up, Hiram mumbled, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Uncommonly direct, Cosmo stood, took Hiram by the hand, and steered him faster than he could think out of City Hall and – almost dragging him, scrambling not to fall – settled him on the bench in the park beside the still waters of the un-operating artificial creek.

“Catch your breath.”

Hiram glared.

“You look bummed out about something. Have you told your Dad?”

“No.”

“Then it’s serious. Who’ve you talked to about it?”

The water captured Hiram’s downcast reflection, “Nobody.”

“Okay. Let’s take this slowly. Just nod. Did someone lie to you? Okay. Did you tell a lie? Okay, then – are you pregnant?”

Caught off guard completely, Hiram snickered, “No.”

“Ah, it can speak.” Cosmo delivered a hug and kissed Hiram’s hair, but did not let go. “Tell me, or you’ll eat yourself up with worry, and maybe make a big mistake.”

No effort to pull away. Good sign. He wants to talk. Sure needs to.

Cosmo’s puppy dog eyes opened wide with an idea. “Here, draw your knees up like this and rest your chin on them. It’s what I do when I need to say something important to Blaine or somebody.”

“I won’t tell him. He’s part of it.”

“Am I part of it?”

“No, you weren’t there.”

“Then it was some kind of an event, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Hiram turned to whisper in Cosmo’s ear, “I saw a lot of people doing gay stuff.”

The dam broke.

*

Although he looked young as or younger than Hiram, Cosmo was older and comparatively – no, vastly – more experienced in matters of sexuality and decision-making. The descriptions that tumbled from the boy’s quivering lips were warning signs. Red alerts – that major trouble not could, but would come from the big boss, Mr. Ecks (or simply “X”). Bad enough that Hiram had stumbled across the filmmakers. That he had dozens of photographs documenting his discovery was one threat. A dire one.

Another, that he now suspected the entire place was for gays – and that, like his Dad, he might be one because he had reacted sexually. His slight frame trembled against Cosmo when admitting that, chest heaving in frustration. He was devastated. Cosmo’s quiet sympathy allowed for calm enough that Hiram could listen.

“I’m going to speak to you now, Hiram, like a man. You’re a young man, remember. We celebrated that, huh?” He repositioned the nodding boy’s feet to the grass. “And you’re growing up faster physically than your head can cope with, especially because…” – he tried to remember a phrase from counseling sessions of his own – “…because of accumulated, contradictory emotions.”

“You know,” he avoided interruption, “we don’t pry into anyone’s past here. Nobody does. Focus is on today and what we’ll do with it and the next and the projects that are coming. Some days are regular, others real busy – and, to plan ahead, we look forward. Your Dad’s a whiz at that, so we’ve got to bring him in on this.”

“Oh shit. He’ll be so mad, he’ll kill me.”

“No, he won’t. He loves you. And everyone on the Farm loves you, too.” After a second thought, “Well, not everyone loves you but we all like you basically and we wanted to give you and your Dad a chance. That’s why we voted to have you here.”

“You voted?” His voice rose incredulously.

Cosmo cupped his mouth, “Had to or X wouldn’t have agreed to let you live here.”

Hiram’s eyes welled. “Can I do anything now or will he throw me out?”

“Wait. Tell me, did you prowl anywhere else? Take any more pictures you shouldn’t have?”

Cosmo noticed Hiram freeze and lose color. Then, as if fighting with himself, Hiram turned red in the face. He began to huff. A small slap to his cheek from Cosmo shocked him.

“Get a grip, Hiram. Man-up!”

Hesitant yet ridden with guilt (that Cosmo intuited), Hiram confided to snooping in Nurse Rockwell’s office when its door was unlocked and in the two-bed infirmary, where he “saw all sorts of equipment and shelves full of things that look like, you know, dicks. And there’s a chair in there with a hole in the seat you could put your face through.”

Cosmo blinked. “Where else?”

Hands over his head as if expecting a blow, Hiram confessed to being “in the back room at the gym – ’n’ I guess you know what’s in there.” He waited. Unsolicited, he added, “I didn’t have my Nikon when I was there…” – his voice grew timorous – “…or in the infirmary.”

In one quick pivot, Cosmo confronted Hiram and, out of thin air, said, “I have an idea.”

*

Trainer Randy-James McLeod and Nurse Blaine Rockwell walked together discussing in earnest the mystery of Hiram’s unexplained behavior shift, Randy-James recounting his efforts to get Hiram to talk at night as they used to. “He’s sullen. Wants to go to his room, so I’ve been letting him. Hardly watches any TV.”

Nurse Rockwell was about to hazard some guesses when, coming their way, Hiram, arm-in-arm with Cosmo, waved and, in a shaky voice cried out, “Dad. I have to talk to you.”

“Me, too,” Cosmo echoed, but positively exultant.

*

The conference over, a sagging Dad and his still-wary son retired to the living room between their respective bedrooms. Randy-James sank slowly to the big, brown sofa and pointed directly next to him.

Hiram remained standing, “You’re gonna spank me, aren’t you?

“If I did, what would be the reason?” He indicated the closest cushion.

“I’ve been bad?”

“You’re being bad right now by not obeying me. Sit.” Every syllable in a monotone Hiram had never heard from his Dad before. Ominous.

“On second thought, put your head on my lap, so I can make sure you’re paying attention. Like that. This hand’s on your butt,” he squeezed, “in case you’re not.”

On full alert, one Hiram David McLeod.

“I won’t punish you for being your age, or for being curious.”

Hiram relaxed, no longer feeling lost. Dad’s hand’s not bad.

“But you must be dealt with for behaving meanly, with stupid selfishness. That’s dishonest. You threatened our trust. Worse, you thought about creating chaos here, in the home we’ve provided for you. ‘Evidence’ you called your pictures. Evidence of what, that you were excluded from something you’re not mature enough to understand?”

A single swat, the hardest he had ever received in his short life, stung the boy’s backside. His Dad’s hand came back to rest on the target. Patted.

“When you should have come to me, your…own…Father, you didn’t – and you didn’t every day since you were at the Barn. Hiram, you can’t shut down every time something goes wrong or you make a dumb mistake. And you must never shut out the people who care for you. That’s unmanly. You were on the verge of making a laughing stock out of what everyone on this Farm did to welcome you into your entry into teenhood, or don’t you remember our birthday party?”

Expecting a barrage, Hiram’s stomach churned the way his mind did. He wished the spank would come. It would help. He deserved it. The hand remained in contact with his petrified butt.

“Worse, far worse – you showed contempt for our way of life. A good way of life that you know nothing about! I warned you when we first talked about my being gay that your Mom’s was a perverted view. Sonia was sick, Hiram, abnormally sick – in her head and self-destructive and so were her so-called boyfriends. She neglected you. She put you in harm’s way by exposing you to those guys, the very guys that were such cowards that they ran away – disappeared – when she died. Remember that?”

The jolt of that blow to his butt shook Hiram’s entire body.

Don’t cry. Be strong. Take it. From him. He’s my Dad. He loves me.

“Are you listening?”

Hiram’s silent nod unwittingly rubbed against Randy-James’ crotch.

“Has a soul on this Farm even asked if you wanted any kind of sex with him? Has Mama?”

Hiram jolted on his own, fairly shouting, “No!” Then, voice about to break, “What do you want from me, Dad?” He looked up, face showing distress.

Out of the blue came, “Where’s your new bathing suit? Have you ever so much as tried it on?”

“No. It’s in my room.” His voice was crushed. He made an effort to explain, “I haven’t been swimming.”

“Bring it here. And your old one.”

Produced and held up by fingers and thumbs, the pure-white spandex article, its hand-written tag dangling, contrasted with the much-used black one.

“Cut that thing off,” he flipped the tag. “And cut this one up.” The baggy black suit. “Throw it in the trash.”

Hiram hurried. Dad’s in a real strange mood. In his room, he worked the scissors nervously, almost nicking a finger.

Before his Dad again, confused, Hiram handed over the new suit and followed the quietly spoken, surprise order to remove his clothes. He wants to see me naked. Checking me out? I’ll show him. ‘Man-up,’ Cosmo said. Dammit, I will.

“Okay, son. Put it on.”

He admired his son’s body as Hiram struggled.

“It’s too small.”

“No. You’ll see. You liked the way mine looked on me, didn’t you? You said so – about the picture you took of me on the diving board. The material stretches. I’ll help. Turn around. You pull from the front. I’ll pull from the back. That’s the way. Over your knobby knees. All right, stop right there. Look down inside the waist. See those openings? One’s for your penis. Slip it in. If you’re erect, it helps.”

“Dad!”

“Fact of life. Your scrotum gets swaddled in the other. Can you do it or do you need help there?”

“Dad! What do you want from me?”

“Cooperation.”

Hiram’s elbow moved jerkily then smoothed out. Eventually, he said, “There.”

My balls – it’s like a hand’s holding them.

“Okay, now pull.”

The suit was wrestled as high as it would go, compressing Hiram’s buttocks into a single, curved mound. He protested, “It’s too tight back there.”

“No, it’s not. Needs a final adjustment. Sweegee your hands down inside the back and pull your cheeks apart. I’ll adjust the center seam. It’s kind of wide for a reason.”

Hiram thought he might come when his Dad’s fingers pressed the seam deeply between, and pushed something round against his hole. Whatever it was, its touch there made him painfully hard in front. Glad it’s pointing up or it would hurt like Hell.Before he could think, he was being taken to his Dad’s full-length mirror.

“Look at yourself. Like what you see? Close your mouth, raise your arms as if you were going to take a dive, and breathe deeply. Look, Hiram. Look!”

Chest expanded, every slight muscle in sight, his tummy taut, his burgeoning sex looking bigger than it actually was, Hiram could see just how much he resembled his Dad.

Dad must’ve looked like this when he was thirteen. Hot!

“Your appearance is nothing to be ashamed of, only your behavior. Go back to the living room.”

Head down, not for the first time that day, the youngster admired what he could see – while walking barefoot with uncommon awareness of the seam separating his butt so distinctly. I’m really going to get it now. Wearing this? He flexed his legs. That thing feels really funny where it is.

Moved sexually by the appearance from behind of his son’s careful stride, Randy-James moved uncomfortably to the sofa, pushed his own responding penis down, and closed his legs before the boy turned around. He patted his lap.

“Dad, if you’re there, I’ll have to lie flat. I can’t bend over.”

“It’s where I want you – for this.” He raised his right hand as if making a pledge.

Hiram fell headlong across the lap, catching his upper body with his hands before letting it sink into the soft leather. One of his legs, the right, slipped off, slightly widening the spread of his backside.

“That’s fine,” he heard. “This” – meaning the hand that now roamed – “will help you remember the lesson I’m teaching.” A finger outlined the upper and lower edges of the swim suit. “This supports everything where it needs to be.”

It did. Every impact had no place to go but directly in. Back there was no springiness as in the trial-run spank after the Film Festival. Hiram’s breaths whistled through his teeth at the spanking’s carefully paced regularity. When the flat palm was cupped and applied precisely, with maximum force, to the crucial center, the ‘round thing’ inside his new suit battered his most private spot. Wanting to cry out, he abruptly recognized tingly forces gathering within his tightly held balls and cock. Nervous perspiration and pre-seminal fluids coated the suit’s clingy material, added torment, and heightened his impending crisis.

Hiram’s unintentional but definite thrusts into his lap space were all that Randy-James needed to ramp up the pace and force imminent galvanic response. His hand rained down. Agonizing pleasure overcame Hiram. He jettisoned his all and became limp as the spank slowed to something like a massage of his thighs. Lightheaded with astonishment, he hazarded to ask, “Is it over?” – then lay still.

“This part is. Can you reach my cell? On the side table.”

Daring not to lift his head, Hiram felt for and found it, wondering who his Dad intended to call, and why.

“Hi. It’s late but, if you are free, there’s a favor I need from you for Hiram…. That’s great. Come to our place and take him for a swim…. I know, but he’s sweaty and worn out…. Yes, wearing his birthday swim suit…. He needs the exercise and will talk with you now about what’s been going on…. So helpful of you. Five minutes, then.”

*

Tired-eyed Blaine, clearly unsettled, a towel over one shoulder and wearing his own less stylish, but well-fitted bathing trunks, glanced to take in the situation at a glance. All he needed was the look in his friend’s eyes and the look – thoroughly abashed – on Hiram’s to extend a hand and say, “Let’s head over to the pool. I have the key. We’ll get you refreshed.” On the way out, he looked back at his friend mouthing a you’ll-owe-me-for-this.

*

In his damp suit but otherwise wiped down and very much chastened, Hiram said good-night to Blaine with a hug and walked confidently to face his Dad. Blaine stayed near the door, a hand on its knob.

“Feel better? You’ve cooled down?”

“Yes, sir.” Hiram blushed enough for all three of them, quite self-conscious.

“Did my son meet your expectations?” he looked to Blaine.

“He did and then some. We have reached some new understandings.”

“My – I should say – our gratitude. See you at breakfast.”

Uneasily, the remaining two stood there. “Your room,” Randy-James canted his head.

“There’s a trick to getting out of that. You reverse what we did before. Run your hands down behind inside and push until your cheeks are free. Do it so I can see. That’s it. No further. In front, reach inside and free your penis, then work your scrotum out of its pouch. Yes.”

Hiram bent nakedly to step out, excitement springing his inches almost vertically. It throbbed with his heartbeat.

“The first time I saw that, it was about three inches. Now it’s about four, isn’t it?”

“Dad!”

“Just statistics, Hiram. You don’t use two fingers and your thumb any more to masturbate, do you? You should use your whole hand.”

Hiram’s eyes stilled at the thought.

“Get it?” his Dad asked, mimicking the motions to and fro. “It’s more effective at relieving your need. Why do you think the bathing suit kept you like that? – because you aren’t used to the overall stimulus. Put that in the washer every time you wear it so no chlorine remains in the fabric, and take a shower yourself. Masturbate the way I told you with a hand full of soap. Then come back here.”

“You gonna spank me again?”

“No, we’re gonna, as you say…” – Randy-James inhaled deeply – “…have that talk responsible dads such as I, in the position that I have, ought to have with their inquisitive, cock-hard, bratty sons, about a grown-up subject.”

“The birds and the bees?” Hiram’s face assumed innocence before frowning seriously. “I know about that.”

“I’m not talking about reproduction, Hiram, but about what you don’t understand: gay sex.”

*

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