Unction ©MCVT2017 20 February 2021
Nuclear Age alters lives.
Many thanks to FEC for invaluable assistance.
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100% fiction, adult content, b?, MM, inc, drugs, rom, history (1950s)
Unction
The fire is kindled, and shall not be put out till it consume the foundation of the earth.
This was the fear endowed kids of the fifties--super-heated obliteration. Every town across the nation blasted air raid sirens Fridays at noon--weekly reminder of uncertain futures. Magazines carried plans for bomb shelters. Survival manuals in every language sold by the millions.
Rough introduction to the Nuclear Age when all could be lost as quickly as Hiroshima. Anxious times; generalized neurosis spread. Realizing this, international agencies formed to monitor nuclear technology; "Atoms for Peace." Nuclear-generated power was realized.
...
Dwight and Mamie took to the White House in 1953, the same day a boy was born in the southern states. Birth certificate read Clifton Luther.
As Clif mastered his tricycle, nuclear arms proliferated accompanied by other, more recognizable threats. Flashy cars got faster, rock and roll displaced suggestive lyrics with sharpened sensuality. Alcohol use was openly promoted. Civil rights movements strengthened signaling greater unrest ahead.
An object named "Sputnik" brought hope to escape radiotoxicity. "We could live on the moon, another planet..." stewed in the minds of people as reactors developed cracks.
Life deviated radically from simple times of Clif's forebearers.
Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will by no means pass away.
Changes around Clif, the warnings and fears kept him unsettled. Pogo sticks, play-dough and hoops to swing around your middle weren't enough distraction. Backyard games gave way to baseball as he grew; Clif enjoyed play somewhat. His family's disregard of threats upset him. Why weren't they concerned about the A-bomb?
Overwhelmed with an unseen horror, adults had to ignore the gravity of the world situation. There were responsibilities--mortgage payments and school lunches had to be made. To Clif, the world seemed out of control with one end in sight.
Kids of the fifties were still saddled with the dictum, "Children should be seen, not heard." For this, the boy's expressive skills were slow; his worries dismissed.
He improvised; young Clif began to self-comfort with eternal truths, an easily available source of permanence. On bony knees by his bed, bible opened, Clif confessed his childish transgressions. Confession, acceptance, salvation. Done.
With time and practice, Cliff built a shelter for his young heart in the bosom of the savior. More than salvation, Clif found peace. Radiation--that word reminded him of the bright halo his savior wore in slick portraits of a man from centuries ago; icon of relief.
And as it happened, the boy's deep faith stifled his development. Difficulties in his life were met with prayer, pleadings for assistance from above. When difficulties didn't work out well, he was grateful his god was testing him, as the disciples were tried to become saints.
...
School bells blasted disaster drills. While classmates counted to sixty, holding fetal positions on the floor at the center wall, Clif wondered if their sheltering in rows made it easier to scoop their bodies for burial. Morbid image, yet so strong was his belief in eternal life, he asked his teacher if he could run outside to eagerly accept his incendiary death, his small soul rushing to paradise ahead of the others'.
"No." His teacher shook her head. Clif was a quiet child, somewhat creepy.
...
Social changes sneaked into every neighborhood like a slow, acid drip eroding formerly tolerant bonds of neighborliness. When a family spoke of installing a bomb shelter, they were asked what they would do if a friend or a neighbor were outside, crying to come in. To answer brought antipathy.
Tall cedar fences were installed to hide shelter construction. The advent of window air conditioners disrupted casual conversations once shared; clothes dryers eliminated news exchanged at the back fence. Familial units were separated like ice cubes in an aluminum tray with a broken release handle. Disconnection permeated family relations as well.
Such was Clif's childhood. A bizarre, shaky time and though it impacted everyone, the changes molded the boy into an unusual person. Black and white, good and bad were clearly defined by the law. Behind those words was a gray, shifting reality which would be ruthlessly exposed later.
Clif endured, religious tracts in hand.
...
Could have been lack of inertia fostered by a black and white television showing Cronkite's dour face reading of continual wars, Clif withdrew. He turned further away from his world, deeper into religiosity. Silently reveled in thoughts of heaven, aside the king of all. Throne lit brighter than neon signage, a male so beautiful he shamed the starlets of the era. A love greater than all was given the boy from a man glowing with righteousness.
Clif adopted celibacy as the hippies of the sixties planted their flag on the "free love" hill. How brazenly they eschewed divine love.
Needing no trappings of the time, Clif deliberately chose the style of a humble man--his uniform was a long-sleeved shirt rolled to his forearms and khaki slacks with brown loafers. Kept his dark waves long, cut simply around his hairline and pushed back though it never stayed.
The soul of the sluggard gets nothing, while the soul of the diligent is richly supplied.
Apathetic about much and strangely aloof, Clif began his incursion into adulthood. Secretly, he wanted to become a pastor yet his hopes were dashed when he was noticed by a captivating young woman.
Taking work in the booming field of vending machine repair--Clif enjoyed working alone in the bulky metal boxes filled with gears, wires and timers. To his surprise, the young woman brought him lunchtime treats. She began attending his church and took him home to meet her parents. In a spin, Clif almost lost his heavenly footing; carnality tempted at every turn. He prayed with one hand greased. Chased yet chaste, he considered going forth to multiply.
Per biblical instruction, Clif married the young woman after several weeks of feminine siege.
Clif was a bumbling lover, yet fruitfulness was mandatory. As his wife's belly grew, Clif was mystified, wondering how it must feel to be packed with a moving creature, wondered about the birth, relief of pressure and the pain of being opened for a child's slippery passage. Wonderment made him an attentive husband for six months.
Undisturbed about the arrival of an early child to a father virginal at marriage, Clif deemed himself the baby's savior of sorts. Several years later, a baby girl arrived.
Seven years later, "No more." His wife stated. Clif accepted his son named Martin--even in swaddling, the boy closely resembled his father.
As a father, Clif remained faithful to his beliefs as others called him a prude, old-fashioned and strict. He loved his family, enjoyed instructing his children in the ways of righteousness though his progeny seldom met expectations. As for husbandly duties, Clif found that reciting from the song of songs while his wife used a mechanical device sufficed.
On the job, Clif gained the attention of his supervisors. They asked him to join management--the young man was a hard worker, honest and courteous. He clumsily ascended the ranks of supervisor, manager then led the warehouse department with his conscientious nature.
...
When asked, Clif took deacon's duties in the church. Before the grand holiday season, he bowed out of his duties with the youth group reenacting the nativity. His abrupt departure signaled a nervous condition that worsened through the months. By the next year, he was on disability, taking medications and keeping house while his wife worked.
The next few years saw his oldest son enlisted in the military. His daughter began dating. She shacked up with a long-haired dope fiend. That left his youngest son Martin, who was finishing middle school.
Being the youngest, Martin was doted on, seldom disciplined. He was bright with a calm demeanor. Ever-curious, the boy delighted his father, even during their evening studies together.
This lad didn't want to read the religious texts, he wanted to hear about his father's childhood. Clif obliged, relating tales of his past, weaving a parable into his words as he brought out a small decanter and rubbed the boys forehead with chrism he made himself.
...
After a row on the school bus Martin came home stomping mad. "I hate girls. If she was a boy, I woulda knocked her head off."
"Whoa. What about turning the other cheek?" Clif asked his son. "What happened?"
"Fiona called me a chi-chi boy."
"Why would she do that?"
Martin didn't answer.
"Blessed are the peacemakers. Girls are god's perfect creation too. In fact, sometimes I wish I were a woman."
"Yuck."
"Women bring the blessing of babes. Sometimes I dream about your tiny body struggling through me to come into in my arms."
Though that statement took Martin aback for a few moments, "Girls cause trouble, like when Mom and you yell."
It was true. The couple argued nightly. Clif's wife enjoyed her job, she was dissatisfied with her life--she called Clif a flat tire, a drag, among other terms. Wasn't long before a divorce was in their future.
...
With the force of a nuclear blast, Clif's marriage was dissolved. Wife got the house and custody of Martin. Alone, adrift in this neon-splotched world of mini-skirted girls and bearded young men in bellbottomed dungarees; nothing seemed familiar. He found a room to rent.
Wandering the streets, Clif wondered why god had given then abruptly taken his family, his home. Three times a day, he anointed himself before intense spiritual studies. Mixture of myrrh and oil smelled of heaven. The faint, sharp aroma carried him back in to the safe, comforting arms of the savior of his youth. Temporary reassurance.
...
Martin called his father on Sunday evenings. Every call made Clif feel his beloved son was slipping further away from him and his very soul disconnected with earth. Loneliness gnawed on the man's spirit. Clif's internal landscape was as desolate as Nagasaki. He thought of ending his life, began eliminating all unnecessary items. Tearfully, he rummaged through boxes of photos and papers he'd salvaged and found an envelope containing certificates. Old shares of stock from the vending machine company which he and his wife overlooked.
Memories of his days working, his young family, became beasts reawakened by the find. Remembrances attacked him--more blood lost from his soul. He felt completely drained of vital fluids when he considered his disabling condition. Lips moved in earnest supplications until he fell asleep. No visions, no prophetic images; undisturbed sleep enwrapped him.
The next morning, he awoke with a changed perspective. "My losses aren't punishment, but divine redirection...." He took the stock certificates to the library. A helpful lady explained how to find the value of certificates, how to follow them in the newspaper's business section.
Clif had been blessed, not in great monetary abundance, but by the gift of hope.
...
He called Martin, "You're going to college this fall, do you need help with your tuition?"
"Got a scholarship, it's transportation that's a problem. Know anyone selling a used bug or a van?"
Clif prayed on the issue of transportation and bought a bungalow a mile from campus, found a bike and invited his son. "Not fancy, but clean." He tempted his son, "I'll get the blueberry toaster-tarts you like."
Hesitant to live with an hour of prayer after dinner and church services on the weekends, Martin declined.
"You'll have your privacy." Father suspected his son was noticing young women.
They signed a contract and finally Clif was no longer alone, but found he still lived a solitary life. Martin was seldom home; study groups and homework in the library filled his hours along with his search for love.
One empty day, Clif meandered to campus to find he could audit courses. Horticulture attracted him--the study of god's creations. Clif's mind easily absorbed Latin terms, life cycles, genetics, everything about plants--all made perfect sense to him. Their abode took on the appearance of a jungle before the end of the semester.
Martin studied accounting. He and his father bought a computer and the house was no longer a home but a verdant office for two comfortable men.
...
Happiness came to a halt: "Son, if you want to invite a date for dinner, I'll go to the library, they're open late. You're about to graduate, get a job, start a family. Go forth and multiply...."
"I won't marry." Through a quiet dinner, Martin admitted to his father that he was homosexual. Expecting a sermon, he was surprised that Clif only said that he'd pray for him. That was some relief for Martin, yet he was curious. "You're not upset? Mom blew a gasket."
"You're still my son, I still love you."
One would think this topic would bring about the oft-touted verses. The opposite happened, the two became closer, relations warmed and Martin brought friends to meet his father. Sharply-dressed young men talking about course work and school activities. It gladdened Clif that his son had friends. Friendship was something he'd never mastered.
Graduation came, Martin secured a position. Though he would leave his father's side, there was no sorrow as they dined, reminisced. Martin asked a question that stayed in his mind years. "We stopped going to church. I missed you while you were at the hospital. Why were you so sick?"
Tears came to Clif's eyes, "The spirit moved, revealing a truth. It disturbed
me to the point I... well, broke down after glimpsing the blackness in my soul."
Martin hugged his father, though he was confused by the explanation.
We went into the land to which you sent us, and it does flow with milk and honey!
With his botanical knowledge, Clif leased his small house to an instructor and bought a place on the outskirts of the city. Half an acre, small house and the reason the property attracted him was the greenhouse. Immediately he began growing the vegetables he particularly liked.
Martin often came and brought friends, his father wasn't disturbed that some of them consumed alcohol, he was delighted with their boisterousness, their verve. One of the young men called "Sugar" asked to lease a plot of soil to grow herbs. Clif agreed; he wasn't so unaware to misunderstand the type of crop.
Never prying, yet aware that the boys were queer didn't rile farmer Clif. He had mellowed over time with proximity to Martin and the abundant blessings of god's earth. More than anything else, he wanted his life to stay as it was.
...
A season passed and Clif paid the young men to come to build a large greenhouse. Within two months, the foundation was poured, structure installed and a large greenhouse stood empty. Again, Clif hired the young men to construct tables, install plumbing.
After selling a few more certificates, Clif was ready for production. Through his son's friends he met a local nurseryman who needed plants. Clif contracted to raise marginatas, monsteras, tropicals. Easy to grow, the showy plants transformed the empty greenhouse into a forest.
Months later, Clif called Martin, "Bring the guys on Saturday, we've got to make a delivery. I'll rent the truck...." He paused, "and go out for dinner, all of us. Celebrate my first sale."
Next day, Martin called. "The crew flew to the Keys, only me and Sugar this weekend."
Was it the increased oxygen levels that he breathed in the greenhouse? Life was more enjoyable than Clif imagined--heaven on earth. What made Clif's thoughts run so fluidly, as though someone had put an oil can at his ear and lubricated his acuity? Along with his mellowing, and with the ease his son brought, Clif experienced bliss he'd never known.
...
Martin, Sugar and Clif loaded the pots of plants carefully. Afterward, Clif headed to a popular café featuring "Hot and Home Cooked." Sugar said he'd rather dine at a place called Ripchord. In an elated mood, they went to the Ripchord--an establishment draped with rainbow banners. Clif got out, the two young men didn't.
Sugar pulled out a blunt, "We'll be in later, gotta get hungry first." He snickered, lit and took a drag. Clif almost turned away, but watched. Would Martin imbibe?
Martin imbibed; pinched the small cigarette between his thumb and index finger, "C'mere, Dad. Shotgun."
"Shotgun?" There were no firearms.
"I'll show you." Martin's face neared Sugar's while the boy blew a stream of smoke into Sugar's mouth, almost kissing him. A strange stirring drew Clif around the truck to his son. Pursing his lips, slightly open, Clif neared his son's face and inhaled the acrid smoke. Tasted awful, burned his tongue and throat.
"Hold it." Martin squeaked, watching his father's face, then signaled him to get ready for another blast. This time Clif inhaled the smoke deeply, held his breath as his hand came to his son's neck, he pulled him close. Their lips pressed together; a long exhale of smoke escaped from Clif's nostrils over their kiss.
Embarrassed by his display, Clif followed the boys into the café quietly. Discomfort was obvious until Sugar went to the bar for beer, "Tell him it's okay." Sugar winked.
Martin moved is chair close, "Dad, let's celebrate. We'll talk later." He kissed his father's cheek causing him to redden yet again.
"Order for me, I don't understand foreign food."
Lunch arrived, mood changed and all ate heartily from big platters of spicy, sizzling Mexican delights. Clif regained his composure over the guacamole, relaxed and enjoyed himself. Waitstaff was full of raucous puns and sly jokes. That silliness spurred joviality along with abundance of THC in the bloodstreams of the men; memorable meal.
...
Work completed, tools put away, Sugar went to tend his plants and left.
"I apologize for shaming you in front of Sugar." Contrition softened Clif's words, "Forgive me."
"Forgive you for a kiss? You're my father. I love you."
"That wasn't a fatherly kiss, or one of brotherhood. I lost control, and you were so close... No more shotguns for me."
Uncomfortable silence until Clif grabbed his father's hand, "We stink." He took his father to the bath.
...
Accompanying Martin in the shower made Clif uncomfortable. Yet so close to his naked son he had to look. Martin had a gorgeous body--lean, lightly muscled with a large V of dark hair from his nipples to his scrotum. Young, circumcised penis swung, then thickened; a beautiful creation.
Martin stepped close to his father, lathering him, "Did you know my friends think you're hot? Thanks for making them feel welcome." No more was said as Clif caressed his father's body.
Tempted, face-to-face with his spiritual weakness, he stood between his soul's damnation and, well--the threshold of eternal damnation neared.
The nudge he needed came.
Martin knelt. Glanced up at his father as he took the semi-rigid tool in his mouth, slid it over his warm tongue. Clif trembled, gasped for breath, tried to step away when he felt the rush of air from his son's nostrils caress the base of his rod. Caught by his son's arm at his thigh, he couldn't leave. Fingers tugged; each tug shot urges through Clif's chest; dry paste of communion wafer came to his tongue.
Martin didn't let go of the rigid shaft. Fingers sneaked toward Martin's tight hole, inched closer, pushed between his clinched buttocks until surrender. Gentle rubbing, easy entry, Martin hummed with giving his father a loving gift. Hard nodules were pressed; caressed.
Martin drew deeply sending his father's heart thumping wildly.
Clif's scrotum touched against the stubble of his son's chin. A rub-and-suck rhythm began. His channel emitted rushes of liquid. Hot lips squeezed around his rod, opened his slit, licked the sensitive underside of his head, pulling distantly on his seed. Head against the tile, Clif stood immobilized by sensations that intensified.
Father covered his face with his hands, stretched tautly between sensory release and the tenet of chastity. Automatically, Clif's brain began memorized supplication for strength. Warm water washed the lies in his prayers away.
A humping motion he had always thought disgusting, began unnoticed. Hips moved as hands grabbed his son's head, held him in place for heavy surges of semen. Unbelievable emptying left Cliff wholly relieved.
Martin was pushed away. His lips returned to kiss his father's groin, rub his face against the softening tool, fondle the source of himself.
His boy's kisses tasted of the seed that made him, introducing a sensation of their hearts merging.
...
Late evening slant of sunlight cast a golden tint across the bed as Martin flung the sheets back, "Will you love me?"
"Love him?" Fleshly reciprocity requested.
Challenged beliefs shook Clif. Early fantasies from his childhood roared inside his head, imaginings of a man who kissed and fondled Clif's young body--every part of it. He had imagined his heavenly father providing not only salvation, but physical affection he needed. Clif's young heart created, fell in love with a perfect spiritual being. Prayerfully, young Clif had begun with thick crayons, graduated to the grip from the bike handlebar, in extreme bliss he imagined eternal love penetrating painfully and with such strength to bring the ecstasy of rapture.
His childhood lover was created from partial truths and physical necessity. Didn't seem homosexual at the time. Now, his beloved son asked him to love him? Not only homosexual, but incestual.
The moment of his anguish as a deacon replayed: In the cloakroom off the foyer, Clif heard voices, glanced to see the pastor, pulling a young acolyte's bare buttocks to his naked groin. The boy wriggled, asking for more. Acolyte's hand grabbed his rod, jerking wildly while the pastor gyrated, sweated, rutting into the boy's rump. Clif's early fantasies were embodied in front of him--disgusted and fascinated.
Pastor and acolyte stayed joined till sated, then kissed, caressed the very way his savior had caressed him years ago.
...
"Dad, are you praying?"
Broken from his thoughts, he watched as his son kneel beside holding the small decanter of chrism from the nightstand. Pulling the stopper out, Martin held it to his nose.
"Love the smell." He poured a palmful of oil and applied it in one swipe to his father's groin, slippery and cool. Another palmful he brought to himself. "Always made me feel clean, strong.... Remember when you rubbed it on my forehead?"
"Unction." Clif thought, "Baptism--symbol of spiritual surrender... confession, acceptance and salvation." The familiar aroma of the oil, the warmth of touch and soft, golden light prompted ethereal metaphors to form; mysteries revealed.
Sanctified by his son's unction, Clif yielded without fear or hesitation, his soul to another altar of comfort.
Unction