Blissy's Song -- 17 (M/b, anal., rom.) by Feather Touch
Nothing should be inferred from use of media personalities.
Chapt. 17
"What is it about faces?" Steve Brady mused. He was mildly a fan of cable's Tech TV, probably more about computers than you ever wanted to know, but it beats Old Face With Red Glasses who bring us more about fat people than we ever want to know. On Tech TV as a thing called a Mitnik. So cheap, so sleazy, so vapid, so irredeemably without personality and character it was almost less than a garish impersonation impersonating a person. And the fact the Mitnik was there, in the first place. His claim to fame is a felony conviction as a hacker, six years in a penitentiary. In summary, a Mitnik didn't look any better than a Mitnik should.
Speaking of ugly and speaking of face, I think Maxine the Absolutely Holy of South Central self promotion just made my exceedingly restricted nigger list. Way, way back I mentioned my extensionist philosophy. What if the entire congress was made up of loud nigger ladies?
Breakfast Monday morning. Ten a.m. They hadn't gone nudist, nor even bohemian. However she might want to in her little girl soul, Cindy was not vamping for Pete. Jan was acting soft and friendly toward Gregg, attentive but not lingering. Everyone tried not to look at Marsha, swelling and bruising aside, softer, gentler and seemingly radiant unto herself. She grinned a little embarrassed at the half diversion of her family, while vastly understanding it.
In fact, the only problem child of the morning was turning out to be Bobby. Steve had ordered a Bobcat so they could begin excavating on their new lot, and the thought of driving it had the ten year old stirred up. It was a cinch to read his face. Of popular culture figures, Carson seemed to have the cheapest pan. He was followed by the Jew in Big Glasses in the beach flick with the bag of reefer, who is followed by Mr. Nerves on "Murphy Brown.." Travolta came next. Letterman was on the list. The outstanding single collection had to be the day players on the black and white Perry Mason episodes. Did they end up actors because they were too weird to have any other job? Frank Gorshen had made it big off of weird. Bruce Dern, ditto. And today? No more weird day players, they were often better than the stars, in LaSalle's case, always better than the star; no, it had gone on to the politicians. All the New York mayoralty candidates.
Yes, the bunnies belonged to history. Now they were more like wise old turtles, with a trace of the eagle that ran deep. His little truants. They'd covered themselves, but there was no time to waste in setting up their complex Flower in the Attic scheme. Soonest gone, soonest forgotten. Alice had purchased their new home in her sister's married name. The Bradys would be history, close to the black boots of the new national fad, but not too close.
Steve thought he had a project for Bobby, who would check the size of a Bobcat driver? Plus, their waste neighborhood was probably safe enough from official eyes or nosey noses for the kid to operate in safety on an ad hoc basis. Ah, but the plans of mice and men. It turned out Bobby had the agenda, so an hour was given over to the tyke.
"Are you happy?" Steve asked the boy.
"Making good progress," the youngster acknowledged.
"Did you and Cindy sleep together last night?" he queried.
"Down in the laundry room," the boy said.
"Is that going to work out?" Steve asked.
"It's like sleeping with a big, soft, friendly kitty. She makes me laugh."
"Great," Steve responded, "but keep in touch on it. You guys are awfully young to be together like an older couple. If it works, you're very lucky campers."
"I don't like the sneaking part," the boy said.
"Sneaking is pretty standard in kids," Steve responded, "but it shouldn't be much longer. Marsha is going to work on her mom, and that should free things up so we can move from secrecy to privacy."
"Fine with me," Bobby agreed.
Were Brady silences the best New thing of all? To just sit with his boy for ten minutes with not a thought in the world of having to say, or listen, to anything seemed pretty ultimate. Surly teens, well that was another story, but it was sure cool to just sit and not Word with a tyke.
Of course, nothing perfect lasts forever, nor can anything perfect be exceeded.
"Can I take a shower with you?" Bobby whispered. Now it's okay to say perfection cannot be exceeded.
Steve hardened like a spring. Grievance steward to the gland department. "Yes," he choked in answer, reddening like a kid.
"Get me naked, slowly, okay, Dad?" the boy said, pushing the tall athlete into an armchair and straddling his lap, staring with hot boy eyes.
As they began working on each other's buttons, Bobby asked about Marsha.
"I beat her up," Steve said. "The story about her getting caught between gang -- bangers at Seven Eleven isn't true.
"You did a super job," the boy lauded.
"It's definitely the kind of thing you want to do right, the first time," Steve pointed out.
"You probably saved her life in more ways than one," Bobby said. "I mean what was she going to be with all her personality? A waitress, a cocktail waitress, then no waitress, at all? Plus Pete is no one to joke around with, at all. Anybody tries to come between him and Kelly? call out Stephen King."
"We're all like that now," Steve said. "We are entering an age where threats have to be taken care off. You know, think globally but act locally."
"And Marsha was a global threat?" Bobby asked, having the grace to let a trace of mischief into the hot young orbs fixated on his tall, handsome father.
The books and magazines called it quality time. Bonding was also commonly used. Quality time equaled bonding, which, in turn, equaled what they called, in Jewish America, a relationship. Ha! Anglos didn't fit the boxes, and their chief had more money than all the Jews in the world. Cruddy little boxes. Shiva. Dietary law. Millstone mink hats, even in the tropics. Relationships. Rubbish. Steve was an okay guy, Bobby was an okay kid, they'd knock about together either more or less as time went on. Pretty much the story of happy people, wherever they might be found. That they are never found in Israel might give more astute readers, who don't automatically blame someone else, food for thought.
Food for Steve's thought was there for the picking. He started, like a cat, with the brain of the little white boy..
"They've written from Mars and Neptune to say if Marsha represents life, the Old Marsha, of course, they don't want any."
"Now she looks like she belongs on Venus," Bobby commented, his face delicious and soft.
"Do you know where you belong, Bobby?" Steve asked.
"Half way between the little blue one that says Cold and the red one that says Hot," the boy replied without thinking.
"I can think of something more exciting than that," Steve whispered.
"Not." replied the boy, now on his dad's last button.
Both males stripped, and Bobby held his hands high for his dad, leaning close. Steve started with the turtle-tiger face, ran his fingers down the child's jaws, his neck, and over his slim, eleven-year-old shoulders. Then he started again at the up-stretched elbows and fondled the youth across his inner arms and down the slim, bare chest, finally gripping Bobby gently, low on the boy's waist.
"Not, not, it's true," Steve said. "I'm just you're plain vanilla thirty five year old. Out there are older teens and guys in their young twenties. Plus, they're not related to you, which will make a difference when something happens."
"You're not exciting," Bobby shot back, "you're awesome."
"And you, Bobby, are inexperienced. At the most fantastic time of a young life. Experimenting. I don't want you -- any of you -- to miss a minute of it. There's damn little chance of any us getting much older, but if I'm wrong I don't want you lying in a bed somewhere, dying, late in the century, and weeping to yourself about all the things you missed."
"I don't know what the definition of impossible is," the boy retorted, "but I'd say you were pretty close to it."
"Was Marsha impossible?" Steve queried . It was unfair, and he knew it. The kid was a veritable pipsqueak. Dangerous governments motivated excessive behavior, and that was an imperative; but, even without doomsday out of the fiord, he would have worked on rallying his young troop.
Bobby did look taken aback. Seemed to be thinking at an accelerated rate.
"Jeeze, dad," the boy replied, mocking an Old-Brady whine, "you got me twice with that one. She was impossible, and it is impossible she is no longer impossible, but she is, or isn't, depending on how you cast the sentence."
"So it makes sense?" Steve asked.
"Hey, it's still September," the boy said. An entire mouthful.
It had been nice sitting with the boy, but it was nice getting naked with him, even more. They stripped, and Bobby remounted, bringing his big boner against his father's, feeling the bare, powerful chest against his smooth child's skin. As he cuddled and began masturbating Steve, he whispered, "What could be more exciting than this?"
"Picture it," Steve began, "you're in a cut-off tee, a pair of last year's shorts, too small, barefoot, carrying a pair of sandals. Hitching. A car goes by slows, speeds up a little, slows, and finally stops. You run up, as hitchhikers will, and open the door. Behind the wheel is a nineteen year old boy. Maybe bookish looking and even with a bad complexion. He looks scared, not nervous. Since you sense cool, you get in. You begin the conversation by saying you're not going anywhere, that you just got bored and hoped you could meet someone nice who was just riding around.
"Are you with me so far?" Steve questioned. He'd never told a story while being gently masturbated against the chest of a child.
"Isn't it super dangerous?" Bobby asked.
"It's super exciting, is what it is, but if you hike with your brain, not your thumb, there's just enough danger so you'll know you're a man, if you have the chops to do it, without enough to make you a fool. You know, like flying a kite in a thunderstorm or diving into a strange pond." Not likely in Los Angeles, but Bobby seemed to cotton on.
"Anyhow, as I started to say, the car is nice, you look in; the kid is scared. You're eleven and you're a freaking doll in an overcoat, never mind with a bare tummy and long legs rising up into short-shorts. Dig?"
"So, what happens?" Bobby dug.
"His name is Kevin. He's almost twenty. He spends most of his time either reading or working with computers. He has beautiful brown eyes, with long eyelashes. He's craggy, a little, slim, a little, and tall, a lot. He answers that it's his dad's car, and he's just driving around, too. You ask if it's okay to hang out. Very likely tell him he's attractive; maybe that you hope you look like him, when you grow up."
"What if he doesn't look like that?" Bobby asked.
"If you're hitching with your brains, you don't get in the car. You open the door, if you're not excited, just say you left your watch at you friends house, sorry, and shut the door. Note the car so you can give it a miss the next time around, even take a break, if you have too. Check the plate as you approach from the rear, see if it's local; dealer tag, too. Local is extremely unlikely to be trouble."
"How do I know any cars would stop?" Bobby asked.
"If five cars in a row ever pass you," Steve replied, "I'll be surprised. A boy in a cut off and short shorts is as likely to get a ride as the president."
Bobby giggled. His dad was masturbating him now, and so any levity was soon replaced by a gentle panting.
"So now you're riding around, talking about computers, you guys are so lucky to have them as a common ground -- all ages -- and you don't even know it. You have ten dollars in your pocket, and you invite the boy, Kevin, for a burger or some ice cream. That is, if you like him after a few minutes. If you don't, just say you have to make a phone call, and thank him, and head back out on the trail, or come home. But, if he's nice, and lots of guys are, treat him to a meal, then he'll know you're not a hustler, and, you know, things will develop along a line that may last more than five minutes.
"After you've eaten, and I'll bet you ten to one, Kevin pays, you go back to the car, again, having an option to politely break off if he's not the right type. You ask if you can take your shirt off. He's probably be beyond speaking very much, by this time, but will nod. Tell him, and this is just an idea, that once when you took your shirt off in a boy's car, the boy touched you. Ask him if a man or an older boy ever tried to touch him, when he was a kid. There's a good chance the older boy will make some attempt at telling you a story, but, if he doesn't, just point out that the boy was really gentle and didn't hurt you, at all.
"You can just ride without saying anything, then. Listen to the radio. Get more excited every second, you know, that kind of thing."
Bobby chuckled. His dad really knew how to tell a story.
"After awhile, you ask Kevin if he wants to hear what happened to you. Now this is the tricky part. You have to tell the truth. Phony stories are a turn off. So if he replies in the affirmative, and he obviously will, you tell him you were kidding about getting molested in a car, just to see if he wanted to talk about stuff like that, and that in truth you're getting molested by your brother and your dad. After that, only tell things that really happened, and don't exaggerate."
"Like I could," Bobby whispered, stroking the huge penis against his tender boy skin.
"Thanks," Steve whispered, "you're the son I always wanted.
"Ask him, again, if anything exciting has ever happened, or if he has a teacher or older friend he'd like to experiment with. By this time, you'll be looking for a private place. Most common place would be an outer parking spot at a mall, or parking garage. Griffith Park has plenty of hiking space, Kenny Hahn is prettier, or you can commune with the Long Ranger up at Will Rogers. Perhaps go to Kevin's house, if you really like him, and, definitely, guess..."
"Bring him here," Bobby responded after a couple of seconds."
"Well," Steve replied, "not here, but to the new place. It's so full of weird little rooms and crawl spaces you'll be best friends before you've shown him half of it.
"But that's only for special, you know, friends, right?" the kid asked.
"Bobby," Steve said, taking the boyish hand from him and looking into the youth's eyes, "that's the single problem facing us. Disease, rape and violence are possibilities, but the certainty is that you, all of you, are going to have to learn where to draw lines. Who's special. Who you bring home. How often. How many. There's food, there's tobacco, there's booze, gambling and drugs. There's love, there's sports cards, there are a number of things any one of us can become addicted to. It boils down to character. If you happened to take a long cruise on a ship, after a few days you'd find your group. It wouldn't be exclusive, but it would be a mainstay. If I didn't think you had the sense to deal, we wouldn't be doing this, and I wouldn't be suggesting you go hitching or sitting in the back row of theaters or loitering in the stalls at bowling alleys if I didn't think you would enjoy it, and not overindulge for all the tea in China."
"Or all the sperm in a whale," the boy commented. Ah, healthy lad. So much you could do in the world, with a healthy lad.
"When you've found a place, see if he likes to whisper. Just ask. Some guys love it, others think it's sicko. Generally you will find big brains on the former, and small brains on the latter, but cute is cute, so it doesn't always matter in the short run.
"At this point," Steve went on, "ask him to take his shirt off, if he hasn't already. Be mildly aggressive, going after his buttons. Do not rub him on his crotch or pull any hooker moves. Just tell him he's attractive to you, and you'd like to see him bare chested
"If you're parked somewhere even vaguely public, the act of getting an older teen or young man naked, in the bushes, or in a car, takes on a very carnal and exciting dimension. It literally adds a thrill a minute.
"What most mature males like to do with a boy is what we're doing. They like to ejaculate on the boy's body, especially his chest and face. This is cool, because what most young boys like is to watch a mature male climax. There's other stuff, like what Pete was doing with you on Saturday morning, also, oral things. But the biggest thrill is simply getting naked for the first time, and jerking off together, cumming on each other while you watch each other cum. And you try to overlap your climaxes, not cum together. Usually the adult will let go first, because it's twice as exciting to watch and share what happens when you're totally excited, and the man will want that for the boy. But, if you really like a partner, you might let yourself go first, as a special way to share."
"You mean like on his birthday, or something?" Bobby asked.
"More than once a year," Steve advised. "Maybe like once in every five or ten times you're together."
"But wouldn't that be like once a night?" Bobby quizzed, with his father searching his eyes for a healthy glow of mischief. On the other hand, he was a kid beauty. High hopes would not be out of place in his life. In the end, there was little doubt that the tyranny of the masses, peddled, such-a-deal, as democracy would claim him, but with vitality, and an early start, he should lead a full and productive life in spite of the calendar. Futureless, but satisfying and happy for all its brevity. Forever young. Absolutely charming. Totally sexy. Good kid. All-`round good kid.
Steve began cumming on Bobby. The boy grunted like a pig with a steak, covered his right palm with the hot athlete's first strong geyser of semen, and quickly fisted the throbbing, wet shaft so he could pump urgently. Steve shot four long ropes of sperm on Bobby's front, then pushed the boy gently, rising slightly in the armchair. Bobby got the massage instantly and zipped his little-boy feet under his dad's thighs, lying back so he war arched hard back over the man's knees. Steve wiped his palm quickly on the child's wet tummy, and found the swollen boy. Stroking gently for a few seconds, he changed his rhythm to hard and fast, which made Bobby start to spray like a hound dog.
Too weak to retrieve the child, Steve fell forward on top of him, and soon they were licking and kissing like bitches in heat. This led to a shower. Taking a shower together, one of their last in the relatively opulent Clinton Way bathroom, led to Bobby betaking of himself a Bic shaver and freezing his dad against the shower wall, using a single kid finger, so he could make his dude look as young as he seemed to feel, and certainly was beginning to act.
Steve couldn't resist the boy's activities, but did recognize a point of no return. Carol was bound to notice, and how was the world's non-kinkiest husband meant to explain showing up like a Little Timmy? Did they make, you know, a wig? Not the time, not the place for a fit of the giggles. Good thing the boy was rubbing soap around as he worked because the young hands stimulated a safer breed of thought. For a moment the young father fantasized a heaving deck and the slack-and-haul thunder of three spiring masts readying for a new tack and fresh fathoms. White water with a big blue slot. She pitched gallantly, foaming herself a hundred feet at a lunge. Stull pools leeward. Get thee, bubbles, astern. An end to the thunder. A hundred lines popping heavy mist as they hauled through the rudder scratching and clawing her to that patch of blue. Life to the bubbles. She was... she was... she was... sailing. Salty dog, bowsprit wild, horizon magic.
The Bobcat was a lesser beast. Was it groveling, plowing as it was deep in old L.A. dirt? Not with the shiny eleven year old at the levers. The machine seemed more a new dance partner. Sy Jinks sat with Steve on the veranda of the strange house and watched the boys work. The second male was his son, Cliff, fourteen. Bobby had fiddled with the controls of the little bulldozer long enough to irritate the handsome black teen, and had thus goaded him into riding along as an instructor. He would still jam something a bit awkwardly to throw things around a little, and it seemed young Cliff was beginning to twig to the ingenious ways of the cute little whitey. How ever NewBradyLand ended, it was getting off to a marvelous start.
"I think the boy's over his temper," Sy observed. "He's on the swim team and he wanted to go in for extra practice. It's teacher's convention, so no school. I've got three jobs, so if you could find him something for his lunch, I can make a day of it."
"He does seem happier than when he arrived," Steve noted.
"He was right, the team's great. I should have given in. Does Bobby swim?"
"Not at school," Steve said. Sy was two streets down, and a good person to start moving in with, so to speak. "Carol and I are going to homes school our gang. But look at him. If Cliff likes to swim, Bobby will, and I think it would be terrific."
"White folk," Sy commented, "I always say to the missus they're the problem solvers. Find a pool and you've got a coach." Steve didn't know exactly what his new friend meant, but if he'd known the quality of bitch after the young athlete he would have understood.
Sy roared off in his dump truck, trailer bouncing noisy life into the neighborhood for half a minute before being clouded out by the exhaust of the little dirt machine. If the boys were whistling while they worked, who knew? All Steve could see was a fleeting smile as the Bobcat spun about on its appointed rounds. Time to cook late lunch, or, an idea. How to win friends and influence people? Try this. Try giving the keys to a Jag to a fourteen year old, then sending your eleven year old along to tattle. The boys yipped and skipped, questioned everything. Steve assured them that Jewry had all available officers driving people absolutely fucking nuts at LAX. Not to worry. He added that he'd grown quite accustom to cold pizza in grad school. The boys didn't take his meaning, and returned inside an hour with piping hot pizza. He'd just have to try again. Kids. He showed Bobby a sly thumb. The boy give Cliff a quick look and went after his backpack. He hadn't found a pair of hitching shorts yet, but he did not let that deter him. He put on a short cut-off and wore his underpants.
"I was going to take a shower," he said as he entered the living room. "I can wear a towel or something, if you want." Cliff looked like he wanted alright, but towels? What for?
"It's cool," he stammered. "I want to take one, too, if it's okay?" This question was directed at Steve, with a look as hot and receptive as was possible under the circumstances. Good thing the Bobcat had headlights, and their tract was isolated.
Bobby eased himself into Cliff's lap, facing his father, jockeying back hard against the stunning African lad and bringing the fine black hands on his bare stomach. "Show me how to lower the bucket while backing up in a left turn," the boy said. "That's one we need to practice."
Coy? It was unimaginable, the moreso because Bobby could have been playing his little game dressed in a snowsuit and sitting on the lap of a football player. He was as lost in the sequence of levers as only an eleven year old can be. Cliff was lost, too. Steve couldn't have been found by Sherlock's bloodhounds.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" Bobby whispered after a few minutes of his child's play.
"No," the boy said. "Something went wrong with the machine about the time I was born. Black girls are all hard-mouthed junk. I never heard my parents say the f-word once, not once, in my life, and I don't know a girl that doesn't say it like big old Shaq was driving her right down through a haystack. It's no world for a black boy."
"The Jews have been meticulous in their destruction of all schools and family media," Steve said. "Your sisters have not been singled out."
"Then they've helped me out," Cliff said. "I wouldn't want to go around half interested."
Good point.
Bobby brought the slim fingers lower toward the band of his underpants. His penis bulged hard off to his left. Cliff, unable to help himself, had his face in the back of the slim kid neck, his eyes shut, his mouth yawning and slack with lust.
"Cindy's pretty nice," Bobby whispered. "She's my kid step-sis. Only eight, but she's real smart and lively. Pretty, too. "
Cliff's eyes seem to say something about Why take chances, and he let himself be led to the first blue stripe. Steve knew he couldn't have seen Bobby's massiveness but felt the teen was probably using his imagination, full blast.
"Did you ever get molested?" Bobby whispered.
"No," Cliff whispered back, "but I did it to a boy, once."
"Did you like it?" the little white boy asked.
"I really liked him," Cliff whispered. "It was totally interesting, I have to admit."
Cliff had opened his eyes and was staring over Bobby's shoulder, gauging Steve. The only question that seemed to lurk in the friendly response had to do with why the teen was overdressed.
"How old was he," Bobby whispered.
"Old enough to ask a lot of embarrassing questions," Cliff commented with a giggle into the back of Bobby's cute little head.
"Must have been eleven," Bobby said. "That's the age when curiosity overcomes being scared about stuff."
"He was from Maine; never seen a real African before," Cliff said. "He had these huge eyes, and they worked like you wouldn't believe. Plus, the peepers were just for openers. We were on a cruise ship, in the pool, and he decided piggy backing would be lots and lots and lots of fun. He underestimated."
"He was using it as an excuse to ask questions, right?" Bobby queried.
"You could say that," Cliff replied, grinning softly over the shoulder of his kiddo.
"I'm not psychic," Bobby explained, "it's just what I would have done. "I would have started with lying about something so you'd let me hang on, then I would tell you a lie about what I let my gym teacher do to me after school, you know, to find out how you'd react, then I'd tell you the truth about my family, which would have been impossible until the weekend, because I didn't really have a family, just a collection of Brady-Box role players."
"I'd say things are looking up," Cliff commented.
"I've been so up, it looks like down to me," Bobby said.
"Dad says white folk may suck at jumping, but they can think fast and sharp. Mick was the same. Cute, fast brain."
"Was he getting molested before he met you?" Bobby asked.
"After school. They had a little library. A biker who'd spent ten years on cargo ships started it. Mick liked him and started hanging out after school. Charles, he was the librarian, had pictures of his little friend in Norway, and Mick got interested, so Charles finally showed him some mature pictures."
"Did he tell you all the details?" Bobby asked.
"Shoe on the other foot, I guess," Cliff explained. "First he was asking question, then I was."
The massive pizza was done and Steve went out to the car where there was a couple of bottles of burgundy stashed in the trunk.
"Your dad is awesome," Cliff said, the moment the door closed.
"Little do you know," the youngster giggled back.
"If we do stuff, will he come upstairs?" Cliff asked.
"Only if you really want him to," Bobby said. "He wants me to go hitching, so, you know, its okay if you want it to be private."
"On the ship," Cliff said, "we could hear a girl getting molested in the next stateroom. That's what got Mitch and me off on the right foot. And I guess off all our feet."
"Giving up feet for inches," Bobby quipped. "I'm not sure I'd want to play that game."
"I guess," Cliff responded, with a wink at Steve, "it would depend on the score."
"Point taken" giggled back the little whitey.
"Who was molesting the girl?" Bobby refocused.
"Her sixteen year old brother. Becky was nine. She wanted Raven, her brother, to get on top of her, `Tiger Style' she called it. I could guess what that meant, but Mick knew."
"Could you see anything?" Bobby asked.
"It was a Plunkett ship," Cliff explained. "The only place it didn't have holes was in the hull."
"So you could look?" Bobby exclaimed. "That's like where Pete went. He said don't even think `awesome' because it wouldn't do any good."
"The ship was the Yes,' Cliff acknowledged, "as in, Yes, We Have No Piranhas.'"
"Sure," Bobby rejoined. "It goes with `Tame Animal Farm.' Always thinking, those people."
"So their guests don't have to," Cliff replied. One day he would grow up and write brochures.
Steve entered with the wine. It was delicious and fit perfectly on top of the pizza. It was fun drinking alcapela with the boys. Big thirst, bursting vine, drink no wine before its time. Present place, present company? It became a heady kaleidoscope of art over appetite and beauty over the beast. They didn't play mincing games or After you, my dear Alfonso. Just toasted quietly and drank happily of numerous heady bitchin' brews.
"If you're dad can come late for the Bobcat," Steven said to Cliff, "we could go up and take a nap. Don't want any drunken masters of earthmovers, no matter how small."
"We can leave it overnight, Mr. Brady," Cliff replied.
"Yeah," Bobby peeped, "and Cliff can stay to keep an eye on it. We can work `till midnight. Call Mom, okay Dad?"
And so a nice long nap was arranged. They searched for a suitable room. The place once must have been a cat house for cats, Steve mused. It was like the moronic Winchester house, vastly scaled down. Ladders, trap-doors, cubicles; Spartan pine flooring in one room, in the next a remnant of Persian rug. Dozens of mirrors, superior recessed lighting with rheostats in every room, cubby, or semi-private ledge. A rat would get a boner exploring this place, Bobby thought to himself. It was a weird, mysterious house, more fun than a palace, especially with one's pants off. And shirt. And shoes and socks.
Carelessly, or it could have been the wine, they kept running over each other and bumping against one another. Cliff used his color to hide and spring. Bobby took his underpants off, and used tender corporal heat as a lure to the others. Steve was of a mind-set to let the boys make up the games and just carry the baby oil. Architect, right? By definition, a planner. But being in the right place at the right time also counted. After some little separation, and a sudden burst of silence, Steve caught a flicker of light at the end of a dark crawlway. He crawled, glad of the carpeting thoughtfully laid where such activities were necessary. Well, surprise, surprise. Cliff was flat on his back, twin candles at his head, his hands behind his neck. Bobby was kneeling between the swimmer's chorded legs, hands on the teen's waist, pulling down his underpants. His eyes glowed as he noted his dad's presence and pulled the briefs down and off. Steve skinned out of his own shorts at the sight of what Bobby was doing, then the young father and his beautiful boy knelt side by side and stared at the ebony stripling with the huge, thick boner.
To warm things up, Steve maneuvered Bobby in front of him. The boy raised his arms and arched to his father's touch. Cliff's big penis engorged and distended at the sight of the boy being openly molested and masturbated by the handsome man. Gently, they lay on top of Cliff, Bobby staring long and deep into the glowing eyes before him. Clean chin, high cheekbones, dazzling skin in wicked reverse. Powerful chest, still boyish, slim waist, long legs with just a hint of down on the calves. Black was beautiful, but Cliff was ridiculous and hee felt as good as he looked against Bobby's sparrow chest and up along his tender kid tummy where the big teenage penis burned against him, long, thick and hot.
Steve used the baby oil on both the young males, and guiding Bobby by the youth's slim waist with his crooked left arm he used his right hand to couple the lovers. "Very gently," he whispered as he eased the panting Bobby onto the thick, long cock. Cliff remained rigid, sweating and panting. Steve wanted to hear more of what he and his little friend Mick had seen, but the extra stimulation of whispered voyeurism, especially of activities between a sixteen-year-old boy mounted tiger style on his ardent nine-year-old sister might have been, well, not exactly anticlimactic. Bobby was different.
"Did Raven sperm in Becky," he whispered.
"He didn't want to get her pregnant, so he make it go on her back. Plus, I think he knew somebody was watching. You know, like he was showing off."
Bobby was silenced when Cliff's powerful, throbbing penis reached the boy's prostate. His pretty used of wit and language dropped with a whoof to the feral grunting of animals in a bush. Steve slowly brought the youngster upright to a squatting position, and help the child surge the big boner deep inside himself. Cliff was sweating, panting and lolling his head from side to side, trying to thrust gently into the beautiful young boy held by the chest by the handsome young man. He wanted to cum all over both of them, but instead he just came, hard, fast and repeatedly. Bobby shook with each of the seizures deep inside him, jaw slack, eyes unfocused, hair lank with sweat. As he started spilling his hot, thin seed over the arching male underneath him, Steve found a way between the copulating young males, and in a second the tip of his penis was free and he began spurting fast ropes of cum along side those of the boy. For long moments the shaking grunts of their huddled bodies left them all but mute, after which they collapsed in a glowing heap.
"Dad," Bobby whispered, "guess who's coming for dinner?"
Once again we assemble for a harangue typical of the writer.
The Jew in the Chair, with Canadian prime minister. Gives impression of being a loud and stupid man. The four-one-one on Canada is that the Chinese in its cities had to tunnel underground to keep from being beaten on the street; the treatment of orphans sent from England to Canada is simply the most mindless brutality in the record of human existence, plus the place just kinda sucks. It is a mean, miserable neighbor and the best thing that could happen would be for it to tear itself to pieces over frogification and at least give us a laugh.
Four flags for just $19.95, and, for the first five hundred callers, this brightly colored patriotic lapel pin, absolutely free as our gift to you. Each flag is carefully crafted of a color-rich durable material, stain resistant and easy to clean. May be displayed in all weather from your car, on your bike, or buy several sets, and use them around the entire house.
At first the ad seemed offensive, then kind of amazing, and finally downright degrading. Look at it through royal eyes. Tacky plastic overpriced flags. Garish, like Seinfeld's giant Jew face. Then, wait, let's think about this. So fast to market? Concept workthrough, ads, maybe a little fab somewhere that could actually make some product. All in two weeks plus four days. It might be an odd little sign of life. The degrading part? Well, it would appear to be the first entrepreneurial venture pulled off without the blessing of Lower Manhattan. Not possible. On the other hand, it may be that we come to find out that the twin towers and other properties were essentially a log jam; that everything flows along more sensible and efficient patterns, without them. Ah, the never-moreso mysterious future. What a great time to be the most fabulous writer of all time. Here's to the red white and blue, plastic and shiny and new. Mine's bigger than your, like Hugh Heffner's whores, and that shows my stripes through and through. Any questions?
Writing a book like this, especially publishing chapters on a frequent bases, is probably the world's best Alzheimers test. At this point in time I'm nurturing doubts as to Mr. Brady's first name. I keep hearing Shelly Long saying, "Now, Mike," but that could have been from Cheers, except the boss is Sam. Then where did I get Steve? An associated problem is inconsistencies which are a by-product of not having a story editor, and of writing at such length it is prohibitively time consuming to "go back and check."
"Powerless" -- film title. A jetliner ditches successfully in mid Pacific. Conflict is based on the passengers, who are relatively few in number, and have everything they need in the downed craft, not wanting to be rescued.
The old general from Maine. He made a brief appearance some months ago. Kindly, soft spoken, low-key; loved by colonel and corporal, alike. He was less loved at the end of the war because most of his roses were KIA.
Today's numbers: Seventy-six percent chance of world-wide implosion by 2004, with resultant return to unpredictable age, likely dark with struggle pockets. Twelve percent that there will be no significant change, one way or the other, as with Y2K. Spot of bother, muddle through, to cast it in English. Twelve percent that the twin-towers episode will amount to some sort of economic catharsis; that it will inspire the best and restrain the worst. The only overall variable would be success with activities against congress. That would lower the doomsday number from seventy-six to seventy percent. Add five percent in this direction for the executive branch, and maybe even more for the judiciary It should be noted that the seventy-six percent probability is not related to the activities of September. Paradoxically, there is also a fifty perecent of none of the above. For example, we could be weeks from a collapse. Hit by an asteroid. Smothered by a volcano. Respond dramatically to a wizard king. Earthquake in Japan. Be lost to the latest generation of consoles. I suppose it will still be none of the above, but at least I tried.
Related factors to survival are the "Alabama," the ICC and space medicine. But let's start by once again mentioning Iridium. All those doctorates, all those consultants, all those surveys, all that analysis. All as wrong as a dog trying to hump an ox. The "Alabama" did a mush-mouth ambush cruise and made the Yankee merchants howl. It is said by maritime historians that the merchant marine never recovered, and, as the son of a merchant master, I agree. Mercifully the land of magnolias and tender slave flesh has never recovered at I have personally stood eye to eye with ridge runners who went all gut sick at my first utterance of beautiful Damn Yankee English. The ICC was utopianism put on rails and by the fifties had pretty well done in the iron horse. Space medicine? Longevity during weightlessness is a terrific problem that will take billions to solve. How ironic to say that to admit defeat would be un-American. After all, in spite of the vast documentation related to inefficacy of chemo, we not only still peddle it, we peddle pills so gramps can go upstairs and get his camera, on national television. No future in either of these, but we do them because it's, you know.
All this is a long way of saying if you want to die, fuck with whitey. And don't feel sorry that we're going to shuffle off to Buffalo, too. We built a sizzling, dazzling world, a billion trillion times better than all other tribes, combined. We each have lived the lifetime of a Chinese emperor in each year of our existence. Life as a berry picker, stone compiler or mud puppy is not really an item for us, so you'll go to your Jewry for they have Solomon, wise enough to lead the dead.
"Depends" for the eyes. I need little spikes like this in order to warrant a change in name. I've never liked Feather Touch -- sounds wishy -washy, which I'm not, except when it comes to writing for free or possibly selling millions of books, but, hey, anybody would under those circumstances. As my illustrious ancestor said, A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of a little mind. No, I need a bolder handle; need to earn it, then anoint myself with it. So far my favorite is "Blackheart the Clown." What do you think?
cowards and marmadukes
Tiny paradox. Afghanistan wants its king back and he wants to go. You don't have a king, and he doesn't want to go.
I've been hoping not to have to spell Giuliani. He wants more time in office. Is this man not capable of disability or death? Should he not have teams in place which will function just fine, without him? Roosevelt's commitment to the constitution, the nation, and its people can be measured by the fact that Harry Truman was never included in squat. Roosevelt was for Roosevelt, and taught the Kennedys. I'm a different breed of cat. My outline is on these pages. Any upper middle management denizen of GE could probably implement and execute better than I could. It's the plan, not the man, and the god thing is for entertainment purposes, only. Sorry.
Does anyone work with satellites? The problem is probably related to a footprint. Dangriga is on the tip, tip edge of one, so The History Channel and A&E are often blocked with a 002 (Ch. 171 and others, Satellite 119, Transponder 16). What I, or we, need you to do is gyrate the satellite maybe an eighth of an inch to the south. Please do not do this if it would deny coverage to any far northern neighbors. We in the tropics need cable far less than those in the artic because half of what is shown on the system is pretty much what we see out the window.
The subways seem to be working so far. The relentless smoke and steam rising from the wreckage bear out my earlier comments on the massive heat generated by compression of all the energy needed to build the towers, or at least much of it, compressed in both time and space. I don't see how the prognosis can be good. That part of Manhattan is as flat as a pancake, and six feet above sea level. If they remove the rubble, there is every chance the dams around the foundation will be breached, and flooding will spread through the subways and basements much like it did in Chicago in 1998. The holes should be filled with concrete to ground level; as much of the wreckage as possible should be saved to rust over time. Any other way risks further calamity, and untold millions in wasted time, treasure and effort. One idea might be to rebuild in Central Park. Not all of it, but maybe a third or a half. New Yorkers are going to have to get out of the "Cats" mentality, or be marginalized, probably Jew dragging gentile on his bleak road to absolutely nowhere (the Jew's road, that is; we had a humdinger before they scuttled their big faces down to Roosevelt's big face.).
Andrew, my second eldest, brought a bootleg copy of Encarta. Everything here is bootleg. The excellent cable, software, music cassettes. The paradox is that if these various products were made available at regular prices, not one soul in several hundred would be able to purchase them, which would make it useless to import them. Bootleg distribution does lead to sales. It is entirely forgivable in a third world which provides popular products and low prices, without getting vaguely right in the process. (I've lived on my street for seven years and Santa has given it seven obvious misses.) For myself, I rationalize that I work for free, myself, and that I use about one percent of the engineering that went into my choice of software. Also, I've spent at least twenty-five thousand dollars on computers in the last eighteen years. I repeat this to emphasis the fact that laws are like skeletons. Firm and flexible at the same time.
The laws should have been bent for Napster, because fifty million people liked it, and music has always been widely available at no direct cost. Ilian Gonzales should have been kept in this country out of respect for the woman who gave her life to bring him here. The challenges we face define absolute. Absolute adherence to the lines written by legislators, most decades out of date, will define absolute disaster. And never forget, the constitution, itself, and particularly the bill of rights, are the product of anarchists selling liberty so they could get away with crimes. All the prose surrounding the documents? Read me, moron, I turn the stuff out by the yard. All it takes is a knack and a pencil.
I once applied for a job at Olgyve and Mather. Sent a sample ad which reminded high school and college age people that in their future they will almost surely have to take polygraph tests, and be asked if they have ever stolen anything. The ad agency didn't respond, which is why I'm writing fiction for adoring fans. Talk about win, win, win. As the greatest living artist and artist of all time, I feel any real co-tribalist should be thrilled to death his product is loved and try to arrange his practical affairs so neither he nor his kith and kin starve. Period. I use as an example the actor who played McFly, senior. Possibly the greatest single tour de force in the history of the stage. Wanted a million to play it again. No. No. And Steve McQueen, who left "Butch Cassidy" over billing status with Paul Newman. They both put the weird in Holly, disgrace themselves, and lose their audience, their immortality, and presumably everything but what the mush-mouths call pride. Southern Pride, Peasant Pride. What's the difference? It's all they've got.
Anyhow, my theory is any artist who is good will be compensated, and any compensation over a comfortable basic norm cannot but interfere with his ability to focus and produce. It takes real intellectual firepower to pull this off, and the character issue is more germane than anything to do with gift. I met my wife at art school. She was more gifted than I, and I realized she would do far better in her early years than I would. After about four years in Santa Fe, she went all House, ditched her art, and dumped me for a lawyer. (Tom Cruise. How would you like to be dumped for a lawyer named Tom Cruise?) Probably a great artist lost to the world. I stuck it. And here I am. Ta-da. Pass my little pink house and you are passing the studio of the artist who stuck it. Simply showed up. (And yes, her final kiss had that soft sucking to it, plainly telling me what she was going to do to Tom Cruise's penis. (Never did it with me.)) Anyway, her new man undoubtedly made a fortune off the Los Alamos fires, so somewhere there is likely a splendid house, full of budding attorneys, and a few cute sketches.
Two weeks and one day for FBI to post pix of Arabs. When McVeigh was captured, the only photos released were incidental footage of him walking out a door. Shouldn't, under the circumstances, he have been photographed, not only as captured, but with typical wigs, beards and mustaches? Shouldn't a voice sample have been played? This could easily have prevented a second incident, had one been intended, and, if it was all a mistake, just compel the justice department to clarify in a distinct manner. The pictures of the high flyers have been in federal hands for ten days or more. They should have been released as soon as possible. Mistakes can be retracted and compensated, a hard thing to pull off with corpses.
Provengeance. Prophylactic vengeance. Call it a condom with quills. A procupine. I won't bore you with the reason I mentioned these. Assume for yourselves.
It appears Jesse Jackson may not speak a word, nor move an Afghan inch. If he holds fast, I owe the man an apology. Now if we could just get rid of Jordan, once and for all; if Magic would lose the phony grin. Writers dream, too, you know. Sometimes those dreams are small. For example, Frontline (PBS) is doing a series on American Porn. This is my rookie year. What are my chances?
Posted by Thomas@btl.net
xxx